‘It turned out fine.’ It had been, perhaps, half a step from becoming an unstoppable meltdown that rendered my career an uninhabitable fallout zone. But the photography was not at fault.

I really didn’t care to have that piece – and the multiplying failures in the magazine’s treatment of its freelancers – brought up again. And I had a fearful premonition as to how this morning was going to go. Alan, I suspected, was going to get on with Pierce a lot better than me. I would be left on one side, stammering, watching them form an easy, down-to-earth rapport. I had too much at stake, I was just too impressed by Pierce, almost star-struck. Alan would not be so hindered, and would chat freely, drop impressive names, and they’d find they had friends in common; I’d be left going oh-please-sign-my-books-Mr-Pierce and where-do-you-get-your-ideas-from. I wasn’t too worried about appearing drunk – I am an expert at concealing it. If anything the problem was that I was not drunk enough, that I would freeze up, that my hands would shake, that I’d be visibly, palpably ill-at-ease. Not even that: visibly ill, lacking, empty. Perhaps Pierce would be cool, offer me a glass of wine, a bottle of something from the fridge? Those bottles were always tiny compared to a good, solid, weighty can, but it would be something. But it was futile to hope, we’d be there at 11 a.m., no one offers their guests booze at 11 a.m.

Fuck Alan and his relaxed, class-transcending bonhomie. He would ruin the whole morning.

A recorded announcement played.

‘Did you hear that?’ I said. ‘Inspector Sands.’

‘I wasn’t listening,’ Alan said. ‘What did they say?’

‘“Inspector Sands to the operations room”,’ I said. ‘It’s code. It means there’s a fire alarm that needs to be checked out.’

‘And this Sands guy’ll do it?’

‘No. There is no Sands. It’s just a code. When there might be a fire somewhere but they don’t know and they don’t want to cause any panic.’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

‘That’s the point, it’s a very bland, boring, routine message, people tune it out, don’t know what it means.’

‘You know what it means,’ Alan said. ‘Can’t be that secret.’

‘Seriously, though, can you smell burning?’