‘Actually,’ I say, ‘sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s just that something really bad has happened and I don’t know …’ I’m on the verge of tears, and I have to stop and breathe for a second. ‘I don’t know …’ My voice goes up an octave, like a teenager’s. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ I’m really crying now. Simon carefully puts his coffee down, and puts an arm round my shoulders.

‘What is it? God, what’s the matter?’ People will be arriving in a minute, and I’ve got snot running out of my nose. ‘You’d better come into my office. We won’t be disturbed in there.’

I tell him the whole sorry story, and he confirms that, should they so wish, anyone with the word ‘manager’ in their job title can watch me sticking my fingers up my arsehole all day long.

It’s up on his screen – the still image of my face, smiling and sleepy-eyed, high as a kite on whatever it was, heedless and crazy with lust. The image judders into life, and Simon hits the pause button.

‘What the fuck am I going to do, Simon? What the fuck …’

‘Just leave it with me,’ he says, patting me awkwardly on the back. People are starting to turn up to work. ‘Don’t worry about a thing.’ He hands me a little plastic pack of tissues from his ridiculously tidy top drawer, and I blow my nose. My eyes must be as red as tomatoes.

I spend the rest of the morning hunched over my computer, not daring to look right or left, not wanting anyone to catch sight of my face in case it reminds them of something that they might just have seen on screen …

Every time the phone rings or an email pings into my inbox, I jump. Is this it? The sack? The end of everything? Shame, disgrace, loss of income, repossession, moving back home, everyone knowing, nobody talking …

Ping! Jump. Heart fluttering, stomach knotting.

It’s from Simon.

‘Mission accomplished,’ it says. ‘The bunny is dead. You may now buy me lunch. Simon aka The Hacker.’ Then, a little lower down: ‘PS You deserve an Oscar.’

My face is flaming, my eyes are watering, but the griping nausea has turned to butterflies and I write ‘Lunch? B******s. I’m taking you out for dinner. Tomorrow night. Thank you. Robert xxx.’ I hit the send button with a flourish, cackle madly and spin in my chair. My co-workers look up, shrug, look down.

Jonathan calls me in the afternoon.

‘I’ve got to see you tomorrow night. It’s an emergency.’

‘I can’t,’ I say, ‘I’m busy’ Jonathan has cried wolf so many times that, despite the fact that he almost killed himself, I take his emergencies with a large shovelful of salt.

‘Busy? You’re never busy. What’s up? Something good on the telly?’ He starts laughing uproariously, then suddenly stops. ‘This is important.’

‘I’m afraid it will have to wait.’ I’m not going to stand Simon up after what he’s done for me.