‘Yeah OK,’ I say, with my cigarette hanging out of my mouth, writing down my email address on a scrap of paper, balancing it on my knee.

‘Thank you so much. Meeting you has made my day.’ She pauses and tilts her head to look at me. ‘You know, some people, like my friends who read your writing, often say you are quite unlikeable. But I like you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, I think it’s really inspiring. That you put yourself out there. And that you don’t care about the reaction.’

‘Right. Thanks … I think!’ I say. I didn’t know I was unlikeable. Back-handed compliments really mess with my head.

.dot magazine launched just under two years ago; a new feminist-focused online magazine for younger women that was the brainchild of the founder of a big tech giant in America to try and fill the gaping void left by so many mainstream glossy magazines suddenly going bust. Every viral story that puts .dot more firmly on the map gets more mentions and click-throughs. And for every big story I write I seem to get another promotion, which sort of feels addictive.

I can get away with murder these days – but only because I’ve worked really hard to climb the ladder at .dot over the years. I’ve lost count of the number of days I’ve walked in with unwashed hair, latte in hand, forty-five minutes late. Gill, the editor-in-chief, is normally out of the office and as I am the second most senior to Gill, no one would ever say anything to me about my lateness. I almost wish someone would, to be honest. I’m doing well at work, getting to the point where I’ll soon be more than happy with my pay cheque, and it often seems like the only part of my life that I’m sailing through with some element of ease. I think I am in that rare and temporary point in life where I am an ‘old young person’ and a ‘young old person’. I’m bang in the middle: young enough to be cool, old enough to have some experience of how shit life can be. I know I won’t be this age for ever, but right now it’s working out for me – career-wise, anyway. Now all I have to do is figure out how to freeze time.

I walk into the office, the freshly hoovered soft carpet beneath my Converse trainers. Someone has tidied all the papers on my desk into a neat pile. Everyone in the open-plan office notices me walk in and immediately looks more preoccupied with their work. This still weirds me out. I feel so out of control in my personal life, and yet, in this office people are somehow intimidated by me. Having any sort of influence or power at work is still a huge novelty. I pause. What is that music blasting through the speakers? I have it, it’s R. Kelly’s ‘Ignition’.

I walk over to Judy, a junior subeditor who is wiggling in her seat and bopping her head to the music.