He stands up and crosses his arms over his chest. ‘We’ve talked about this, Marlowe. You know you’re on your last strike here.’

I widen my eyes in disbelief and hold the phone tighter against my body, hoping Tabs can’t hear any of this. ‘Tabby’s heart didn’t get the last strike memo, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch, but this is actual life or death. You know that.’

He flinches slightly at the D word but recovers his inner arsehole pretty quickly. ‘That’s unfortunate, but I’m not running a charity here.’

I can’t help a small scoff, because the Royal Academy of Arts, for whom I’m a strategist, is literally a registered charity.

He picks up what I’m putting down. ‘You know what I mean. I have a business to run. If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back. Got it?’

‘Jesus Christ, Dean,’ someone says behind me. I point the index finger of my free hand at him. My body started pumping adrenaline out as soon as Miss Lewis called me, and now it has me in a dangerous haze of laser focus. If this prick thinks his ultimatum will slow me down for a single second in my singular mission to get my daughter to A&E and meet her there, then he is fucking deluded.

Yes, I take the piss in terms of scarpering every time I get an emergency call from the school, but I’m also that employee feverishly answering emails from a plastic chair in the bowels of our local hospital at 2 am, and he bloody well knows it.

‘That you think you’re giving me a choice here tells me everything I need to know,’ I spit out. I don’t spare him or his threat a second glance. In this second, I’m not the usual eager-to-please employee who is horribly aware of how crucial this salary is. I’m a mama bear harnessing the full power of every maternal instinct I’ve honed over eight years of managing a child with a congenital heart defect, and woe betide anyone who tries to get in my way.

With what I hope is some devastating side-eye, I sweep towards the exit and unplug my phone from my boob. ‘Have you got to the office yet?’

‘Yeah,’ Tabs pants.

‘Excellent. Great.’ Adrenaline is a dangerous drug. I’m not panicked—I’m invincible. I’ve got this. ‘Put me onto Mrs Hopkins.’

Mrs Hopkins, the receptionist, is first-aid trained and a huge fan of Tabs.

‘She’s here,’ Tabby tells me faintly.

‘Mrs Hopkins?’ I sprint, unseeing, through the stunning foyer of Burlington House, where the Royal Academy is housed, and emerge out into the spectacular courtyard. ‘Do you have the oximeter?’

‘Yup.’ Her confident tone is music to my ears. ‘Hold tight, Miss Winters.’