I have specialized my career into business turnarounds, offering hope to companies on the brink of failure by helping them with creative solutions for change. That is just a fancy way of saying that I run workshops where ideas get thrown about and I try to put some sense around them. I have none of the answers, although I’m exceptionally good at getting other people to come up with their own.

But today my thoughts are constantly slipping away from work, my mind bouncing between terror at being caught out and the image of her face just before I closed that freezer.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Hardcastle?” Fi’s eyes are flashing and her voice is like daggers.

Fi is one of those people you work with who becomes a friend, even though you probably wouldn’t ever socialize if you met in different circumstances. She is tall and slim, brash and no-nonsense. She takes zero shit from anyone, and I hold her in equal parts of terror and respect. We often tag-team with clients; she will frighten them into submission so they realize just how serious their company’s predicament is, then I will swoop in with my Post-it notes and icebreaking exercises.

We are in a meeting room, away from the eyes and ears of the remaining company staff who have tried to find every opportunity to talk to us in whispers about the potential viability of the company and their seemingly perilous prospects.

I know I’m not up to par—I mean who would be in my situation?—but I’m concerned that someone else has noticed. What if they can see the guilt on my face?

“You have to get a fucking grip. These guys are personal friends of Martin and his wife.”

Martin is our boss James’s boss. A slightly overweight man who spends about three days a month in the office and the rest on the golf course, in a buggy rather than walking, from the look of him. For a man with no idea, he still likes to make all the decisions about assignments, promotions and, particularly, new hires. It is important—actually make that imperative—that we impress him.

“I just have a lot on.” My words sound defensive in my ears.

“Like the rest of us don’t?” She jabs her pen at the space between us.

“That’s not what I—”

“Look. I like you, Megan. We make a good team. But I need you to bring your A game to this, OK? I need you on point, on side, and on-fucking-brand at the very least.” Her eyes are lingering on the blouse I am wearing under my suit jacket. “I mean, when have we ever worn white lace under cream silk? Jesus.”

You can see a hint of my bra through the silk blouse. When I pulled it from the back of Leah’s closet—the tags were still attached, so I knew she hadn’t worn it before—I thought it looked suitably professional with a hint of femininity. It looked like something I would have bought, and I didn’t have anything of my own at Leah’s that was good enough for a “Leadenhall day.”