When I arrive at work, I switch on my computer, click efficiently to a new document, and start typing my piece on pensions. Perhaps if I work really hard, it’s occurred to me, Philip will give me a raise. I’ll stay late every night and impress him with my dedication to the job, and he’ll realize that I’m considerably undervalued. Perhaps he’ll even make me associate editor, or something.

“These days,” I type briskly, “none of us can rely on the government to take care of us in our old age. Therefore pension planning should be done as early as possible, ideally as soon as you are earning an income.”

“Morning, Clare,” says Philip, coming into the office in his overcoat. “Morning, Rebecca.”

Hah! Now is the time to impress him.

“Morning, Philip,” I say, in a friendly-yet-professional manner. Then, instead of leaning back in my chair and asking him how his weekend was, I turn back to my computer and start typing again. In fact, I’m typing so fast that the screen is filled with lots of splodgy typos. It has to be said, I’m not the best typist in the world. But who cares? I look very businesslike, that’s the point.

“The bwst ootion is oftwn yoor compaamy occupatinoa Ischeme, bt if tehis is not posibsle, a wide vareiety of peronanlas penion lans is on ther markte, ranign from . . .” I break off, reach for a pension brochure, and flip quickly through it, as though scanning for some crucial piece of information.

“Good weekend, Rebecca?” says Philip.

“Fine, thanks,” I say, glancing up from the brochure as though surprised to be interrupted while I’m at work.

“I was round your neck of the woods on Saturday,” he says. “The Fulham Road. Trendy Fulham.”

“Right,” I say absently.

“It’s the place to be, these days, isn’t it? My wife was reading an article about it. Full of It-girls, all living on trust funds.”

“I suppose so,” I say vaguely.

“That’s what we’ll have to call you,” he says, and gives a little guffaw. “The office It-girl.”

“Right,” I say, and smile at him. After all, he’s the boss. He can call me whatever he—

Hang on a minute. Philip hasn’t got the idea that I’m rich, has he? He doesn’t think I’ve got a trust fund or something ridiculous, does he?

“Rebecca,” says Clare, looking up from her telephone. “I’ve got a call for you. Someone called Tarquin.”

Philip gives a little grin, as though to say “What else?” and ambles off to his desk. I stare after him in frustration. This is all wrong. If Philip thinks I’ve got some kind of private income, he’ll never give me a raise.

But what on earth could have given him that idea?

“Becky,” says Clare meaningfully, gesturing to my ringing phone.

“Oh,” I say. “Yes, OK.” I pick up the receiver, and say, “Hi. Rebecca Bloomwood here.”