Speaking of which, next Friday is my July payday, and then we’ll be out of here.

It’s really, really happening.

Today, Brendan is working from home and I’m going to base myself from there, too. Things between us may have reverted to normal after his little hissy fit over jury duty, but that insight into his personality definitely firmed up my resolve not to trust him with anything that’s going on in my life. As Athena said, he’s a man-child. A gorgeous, successful, filthy-rich man-child who’s spoilt rotten. He hasn’t earned the privilege of gaining the confidence of the grown-ups.

I’ve got to say, I’m a little nervous about being all alone with him, in a residential setting and without the buffer of our colleagues a few metres away. Still, I’m curious to see his pad. Elaine told me it was indecently palatial but a little on the Kardashian side, which made me laugh.

I cycle the six miles from my flat to Brendan’s penthouse in the fancy complex surrounding the restored Battersea Power Station. The final part of the ride, along the south bank of the Thames, is stunning. I take my time, not wanting to arrive a sweaty mess, although Brendan has—quite pervily, I think—demanded that I stay in my cycling gear all day.

He really likes my cycling gear. So much so that he ordered me a new blush-pink outfit from Alo the other day. I’m wearing it now, and I’m convinced it makes me look naked from a distance.

Maybe that was his point.

I cycle up to the covered drop-off area outside his building, where a burly doorman stands, dressed in a black top hat and tails.

‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

‘Hi,’ I say a little breathlessly. ‘I’m here to see Brendan Sullivan? I’m his assistant,’ I add hastily.

‘Ms Winters? Welcome. We’ll park your bicycle securely.’ He clicks his fingers and one of his minions appears, right on cue.

‘Oh. Thank you!’ I dismount, and off the minion trundles, wheeling my crusty old bike. I cringe inwardly as the clicky wheel does its thing every time it revolves past a certain point. It’s the chain; I know it’s the chain. I just need to find the time and money to get it sorted.

As if he’s a mind reader, the doorman frowns in the bike’s direction and clicks his fingers again. ‘Paul.’

The minion halts and looks back at us.

‘Would you like us to have that clicking attended to while you’re with us today, Ms Winters?’

‘Oh, no, I—’ I begin, but he cuts me off.