“Whatever it is, Megan, you don’t bring it to work with you.”

I’m hurt. She doesn’t seem to care and immediately changes the subject to what we are going to do for Green Units. My cheeks burn at the thought that she will call a friend later and they will laugh about how I went to work with my underwear on show.

Companies who are about to go to the wall tend to work pretty long hours and so my weeks can often be exhausting. But Mr. Seleucus Montgomery Patricio Titcomb—his real name, I have seen the Companies House registration—with his holiday home in the Languedoc believes in “work/life balance” and sending the office home at fifteen minutes past four. With hours of evening stretching before me, I am thinking of taking a walk along the riverbank when Fi’s shadow looms over my desk. “You. Me. Wine.” It’s a command, not a request.

I hurry to pack up my things and we find a bar about five minutes’ walk away. We have barely sat down before she’s shaking her hair from its tight bun and undoing three buttons on her blouse. “Jesus, thank God today is over!” A glass of white wine materializes at her elbow and she drinks it eagerly. “That guy is a pig. Did you hear him earlier? But I thought all of your people were good at maths.” She screeches a poor imitation of his accent. “Jesus. ‘My people.’” She mimes finger quotes around the statement. “For fuck’s sake, like there’s some magical numbers gene embedded with a knowledge of how to use chopsticks.”

“You’re shit with chopsticks.”

“Touché.” Fi’s mum was adopted from Malaysia by a family whose own roots were in Nigeria. Fi’s dad comes from a long line of Welsh sheep farmers. She makes a mean lamb suya with jollof rice that will blow your socks off.

“You didn’t quite deserve what I said earlier.” This is the closest I will get to an apology from Fi.

“To be fair, you were right.”

“Of course. But I should have said it more softly. You OK?”

Funny how people ask that. Like it would ever be all right for you to scream, no, no I’m not OK, I’m very far from OK and I feel like I’m drowning and I don’t know how to stop it all. Instead you must say, “Of course. Just tired. You know.” So that way they can launch into a monologue about how tired they are and what exhausting things they’ve had to endure and how you would have no idea about their struggles—even if they tell you them constantly. In this case, it’s the escape route I want. I don’t want to talk about my feelings. I’m worried that the more I talk the more I’ll give away. I let Fi go on about herself instead and I sip the cool, crisp Sauvignon Blanc as her words wash over me.

She breaks off in mid-sentence and jabs her head toward the door. “Ooh… hottie alert.”