I did catch the name of the company that was the other half of the ground-breaking tenant management joint venture. Bunk Innovation, of course.

I did not quite make it. Most went into the shining black bowl of Zebedee’s lobby toilet, but some went on the rim, and on the toilet floor, and on the cuff of my jacket and shirt, and on my hand and wrist, which had been clamped over my mouth. I knelt on the hard tiles, panting, looking at the liquid mess I had made. The door behind me was unlocked, there had been no time, but was braced closed by one of my feet. I watched the glints made by the toilet’s gem-hard LED lights on the black ceramic of the bowl and the oily black tiles, breathing hard, then stood. At the sink, I washed out my mouth and splashed water on my face. I rinsed the vomit from my cuffs and rubbed handsoap into them, then rinsed that. It was a fancy brand of soap, called Abattoir, and quite perfumed, but a better smell than the alternative.

My face was a discouraging sight in the mirror, but no surprise. Sweat and splashed water had made my hair cling to my brow and temples. The bruises and scrapes around my eye resembled exotic mould breaking through the faded wallpaper of my skin. The suit, wrinkled by rain and exertion, did nothing to make my overall appearance more salubrious or respectable – a candidate for embalmment, not a new job. Would I be able to find a new job, if the magazine gave me the push tomorrow? Perhaps I would be able to negotiate resignation or redundancy rather than dismissal, although redundancy seemed unlikely. Redundancy would be winning the lottery, in the overall span of possibilities, and no way would they want to spend money on me. It seemed utopian. Could I imagine myself pursuing other jobs, getting interviews, convincing employers? No, I could not. As soon as I was home all day, the Need would start to swell, pushing out everything else. It would devour the redundancy pay-out. Even if I did somehow get another job, I would never keep it. It was too late.

More people came into the toilet: three men in sharp suits, two of them conducting a loud conversation. The presentation had come to an end. The newcomers eyed me suspiciously and I wondered if there was any lingering odour. I gave them what I hoped was a dangerous look, and exited.

Duty remained. I might be able to get De Chauncey in conversation and claw a few printable quotes out of him. But where was he? The clipboard sentinels regarded me with obvious distaste but let me pass, despite my cadaverous complexion and damp clothes. They must have suspected what happened, having seen me leave in such a hurry. My sinuses burned – creeping acid at the back of the throat, or the smell of smoke? I kept my head down and pushed towards the bar. With the presentation over, the attendees had moved to that end of the room and were mingling excitedly. They all appeared terrifically satisfied with what they had just seen. The screens around the room had switched to looping promotional video. Near the door, two of the tight-skirted PRs were setting out rows of gift bags printed with the words ‘You Live … You Love … You YOLO’.