And then my face.

‘What the fuck.’

‘Wait. Look. Here we go.’

The image is moving. It’s a shaky, blurry video shot in this very room of me dancing around, taking off my clothes, showing my cock, wanking, spreading my arse, fingering myself, and sucking someone else’s cock. I say ‘someone else’ but of course I mean Stuart, who shot this little masterpiece on his phone when we were, as they say, courting.

It lasts about two minutes and I end up with a faceful. I remember Stuart saying that it would keep him warm on the nights we weren’t together.

‘So I’m guessing that you didn’t post this yourself,’ says Jonathan.

I’m so upset that I don’t know what to say. I pace around the room and swear. Jonathan watches me with an idiot grin on his face.

‘I’ve got to get it off there. Suppose someone sees it.’

‘Judging by the number of comments,’ he says, scrolling down the page, ‘plenty of people have already.’ He reads a few out. ‘“Wow dude you are so hot. Hey nice one buddy fucking hot facial. Nice arse mate. I just came watching u u r wicked man. This is your boss Robert u r sacked.”’

‘Don’t even fucking joke about it, you bastard.’ I push him out of the chair and start stabbing at the mouse. ‘How can I get rid of this?’ I’m in a panic, I can’t read the words on the screen, all I can see is the image of me sucking Stuart’s cock.

‘Well, you can report it, I suppose,’ says Jonathan, ‘but it does seem a shame. I mean, this could be the start of a whole new career for you.’

‘I don’t want a new career, thank you very much!’

‘I’m just trying to be helpful,’ he says, putting on his coat to leave, ‘because after tomorrow, you might need one.’

I don’t sleep, and get into the office absurdly early, as if somehow just by being there I can stop anyone from switching on their computer. I’m sure that Xtube and other such sites are blocked to us mere mortals on the office floor, but what about the managers? I’ve already been warned once about inappropriate internet postings. This will get me fired for sure.

I know that Stuart did it, and I send him a dozen furious texts, to which he does not reply.

Simon gets in early every day, so for a while we’re the only two in the office. He’s got his usual cup of takeaway coffee and he’s whistling a merry tune, which stops the second he sees me.

‘Blimey, you’re early,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t wait to see me, I suppose.’

I must be looking as bad as I feel.

‘My God, Robert, are you on drugs?’

‘No, I’m not on fucking drugs! Christ! What the fuck are you talking about?’ I know that it’s wrong to take it out on him, but there’s nobody else here.

He stiffens. I don’t think he likes the swearing. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do, you know where to find me.’ He sighs, picks up his coffee and turns to go.