Different story for when I actually face the mirror though. In addition to the old, smudged make-up look, I have a hickey. At least, I think it’s a hickey. It appears to be more like a tiger stripe running down the left side of my neck. When on earth did that happen? How on earth did that happen?

Looking at my phone, I see that I also got a text from Peter at about ten thirty last night. I feel a bit uncomfortable reading it; Colin and Peter shouldn’t mix.

Looking forward to Saturday! We will need Post-its – do you have some?

Do I have Post-its? Ha.

Sorry for the tardy reply. But yes – of course I have Post-its.

Actually, I don’t, but the stationery cupboard at work does. I restocked them just the other day.

I did send it quite late, and I know how you love to be in bed by 9 (granny). Shall we say 10? At yours?

If only he knew what I had actually been up to last night.

I feel even more uncomfortable. The thought of Peter knowing what I was up to last night fills me with a feeling similar to, but not exactly like, shame. I can’t help but think that if he knew, he would be disappointed in me. And I don’t want him to be disappointed in me.

So he must not know. It’s my business anyway, right?

Perfect. x

I am unreasonably warm in a turtle-neck. I had to dig it out from the back of the drawer, but it does at least hide the hickey.

I’ve got my head down in some soul-destroying admin, when Emily once again appears at my desk.

‘Bea.’

She’s whispering, so I whisper too. ‘Yes?’

Her eyes are super eager, and as I look at her, I can see other eager eyes trying not to look in our direction. It’s a little unnerving.

‘A few of us were wondering if you would help us. There are a couple of areas we’re still confused about, about how things work and what we should, well, actually be doing, and seeing as how you were such a help to me, I thought you might be happy to help the others too. Simple things like how to run a search on the database, what all the different teams do and how they feed into each other, key timings, who the big dogs are so we can try to look professional in front of them, all that kind of information.’

I drum my fingers on my desk. The admin I’m doing is extremely boring, and I’m at risk of falling asleep. I can’t believe they don’t even know how to run a search. But as much as I would love to help, this sounds suspiciously like more work; work outside of my job description.

I stop drumming. It dawns on me, rather depressingly, that the work inside my job description regularly makes me seek refuge in the stationery cupboard, whereas I actually quite liked helping Emily.