As Megan, I would never have dreamed of it. But as Leah, maybe I could go on a second date. Kiss this gorgeous man without fear. See what it was like to live freely, just for a few hours at least.

Chapter Six

Last week, I managed to get away with not being physically in the office as Megan, fielding emails from Leah’s living room and juggling my workload around as I tried to figure this whole mess out. But today is Monday and I have a meeting that I can’t avoid, and so I need to spend the day at one of my clients’ fancy office with its smoked-glass facade and glamourous receptionist just off Leadenhall Street.

My normal route to visit Green Units is a train to Waterloo and then “The Drain” to City with all the other commuters coming in from Surrey and Hampshire. Instead, today I take the Northern line all the way to Monument, my heart in my mouth as I pray I don’t bump into anyone I know. I have rehearsed my lie a hundred times: “Oh, I was just staying with a friend up near Camden,” I would say if anyone asked why I was on this route.

Shit! I didn’t bring an overnight bag with me, just my smart leather shoulder bag that just about fits my laptop and daily essentials. I squeeze it tighter to me, eyes raking the faces of my fellow passengers, scanning for any sign they know I’m not where I should be.

I keep my head down as I join the crowd of bodies pressing against each other as they attempt to exit the tube station. There are a few people wearing those white face masks; some more cases of that coronavirus had been reported in Italy over the weekend and obviously some people are being a little overcautious. Although I envy their anonymity as I’m swept out into the street.

I take the most direct route to the Green Units office, even though it means grabbing coffee from Pret instead of the fancier place on Lime Street, desperate to disappear into the relative calm of the extortionately expensive space the company is still insisting on renting. I’ve been working with Green Units for a few months, trying to help them turn round their business after a particularly disastrous PR incident involving some kind of carbon credit scam. I won’t bore you with the details, but trying to solve climate change with capitalism was never going to end well. The managing director is paranoid the company is about to fold. “Our houses are on the line,” he told me in hushed tones a few weeks ago. “The one in Devon and the one in the Languedoc. Can you even imagine?”

When I was thirteen, I remember plucking mold from the edge of the last slice of bread so my mum wouldn’t cry. I struggle with sympathy for those who don’t realize their privilege, especially this guy in the four-grand suit, his manicured fingers holding a Mont Blanc pen as he lamented having to make do with renting a holiday home instead of owning it. Oh, the humanity!