‘I’ve got to take this,’ I said, throwing Mum a supportive smile before run-walking back out to the foyer. ‘Hello? Ted?’

‘Snazz wants Beezer Go-Go as his guest on the first episode of the pod,’ he announced, as though there was something I could do about this at almost seven p.m. on a Thursday evening.

‘Right, OK,’ I replied, wandering over to the noticeboard. Lots of people trying to sell second-hand Ikea furniture at this tennis club.

‘It’s only a couple of weeks away, Ros. Can you get him?’

‘Yes, absolutely I can.’

The Ros reflected back at me in the sliding glass door of the noticeboard did not look as certain as I sounded. Possibly because she had no idea who Beezer Go-Go was.

‘He’s going to want first-class flights and I’m sure there’ll be a fee,’ Ted said, audibly exhaling with stress. ‘He’s only getting two companion flights though.’

‘Only two,’ I clucked, pressing my fingers into the skin around my eyes and lifting it up and back. Did I always look this tired or had I aged considerably in the last forty-eight hours?

‘And they’re business, not first-class,’ he warned. ‘I can be flexible with the budget for this episode if he’ll do it, what Snazz wants …’

‘Snazz gets,’ I finished for him, wondering where all this money was coming from. My salary was reasonable but it was not in any way, shape or form generous. It was days like this that I was furious I’d wasted all the time reading books and learning when I could have been playing computer games and practising talking shit into my phone camera for hours on end.

‘I’m kind of in the middle of something,’ I said, glancing over my shoulder to see my mum hanging by the doorway of the event space while a man in a rugby shirt climbed on top of an orange plastic chair to poke a fluorescent light with a snooker cue. ‘Can we pick this up tomorrow?’

Ted tutted and muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out but sounded a lot like my twenty-six-year-old boss was suggesting that I, his thirty-two-year-old employee, was an entitled little millennial.

‘Fine, tomorrow,’ he replied and immediately ended the call.

‘And I don’t know if you’re thinking about a band or a DJ but we’ve got connections with both,’ the man in the rugby shirt said as I walked back into the events space. ‘My friend Keith does a brilliant disco, gets everyone boogying on the dance floor, does Keith. But if you’re looking for live music, we had a Welsh turn on at the Valentine’s dance, fantastic fella. His band performs modern covers in the style of Elvis, they’re called The Wonder of Huw.’

‘Ros,’ Mum said, speaking in the voice of a strangled cat. ‘Didn’t you say you wanted to do the music?’