‘Bea, you don’t need to pay me back. I was happy to help.’ His smile eventually reaches his eyes. ‘So let me know whenever you need another pair of hands.’

He turns to go, and suddenly, although I told him to leave, I wish he was staying.

‘Peter, I really do owe you one. If you ever want to cash it in.’

CHAPTER 25

Penny once told me that she admired how I always brought my whole self to work. If I’m in a bad mood, I show it. If I can’t be bothered to wear office clothes, I don’t. If I want to buy at least one oat-milk latte a day, I will.

And so it feels totally OK to put in a maximum of 20 per cent effort the day after the independent art fair. I have other more important things on my mind, like new ideas for cards, finding and eating all the food I can to replenish my energy reserves, and dissecting the dream I had last night.

As dreams go, it started innocently enough, but then it ramped up quite quickly. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a sex dream, and I’m not too sure how I feel about it, but as with every dream, some details were kinda hazy and some were not. On the hazy side were things like the location – I’m not too confident where my dream was taking place. Part of me thinks it was in a beach hut because I remember seeing a large umbrella and possibly a walking dolphin, but I could be wrong about that. But on the decidedly not hazy side were things like the person. My co-star was Peter. I remember being just as shocked about this revelation in my dream as I am in real life.

And what was even more shocking was that he was good. As in, eyebrows-up good.

There was one particular moment when he came up behind me and—

Nope. I need to stop thinking about Dream Peter. I can’t risk confusing him with Real Peter. Imagine if I jump his bones next time I see him.

My thoughts are interrupted by a squawk.

Penny walks towards me and I ask her, simply with a raise of the brow, what is going on.

‘Someone has Joan’s mug.’

I double-check my mug – I am safe. My mug is one of the mass-produced, off-white versions.

As my reverie has already been disturbed, I head for the loo. Not meaning to be dramatic, but I have become approximately 95 per cent snot overnight. And because I’m a keen advocate of office etiquette, snot-snorting is only acceptable in the closed confines of the loo.

It’s cruel, I know, but there’s a part of me that’s excited to see what Joan is going to do to the person who has her mug. There’s not much by way of entertainment here for me, though I’m sure it’ll traumatize the assistants. Come to think of it, I’d better add it to the agenda for our next session – what if one of them gets PTSD on my watch?