Jerome arrived early, as he always did. I was sitting at my table when I heard the sound of the lift doors open on the floor below, followed by the hollow-sounding clunk, clunk, clunk of the steel stairs as he ran up the short flight to my landing. I’m not a hugger so we shook hands before I invited him in. I was so hooked on the lingering smell of greasy wool that permeated my loft that I tended to be surprised and disappointed when visitors didn’t pause and inhale the air before taking off their shoes. When Jerome gave no indication of having noticed the warm, animal scent – at least, he didn’t mention it – I felt vaguely let down and held it against him.

He had brought me a packet of oolong and as I made the tea he leant against the counter, toying with a bowl of walnuts, taking them out one by one and arranging them in a long row, like ants seeking sugar.

‘How’s life?’ he asked.

He was too well mannered to come straight out and ask if I was having money troubles or, alternatively, had found a job, but that was what he meant.

‘Still getting to grips with the changes,’ I replied.

It was still early days but I’d emailed a couple of departments, putting it out that I was available for work. Apart from making good use of my academic qualifications, I was also happy to do the work that most academics found confusing: dealing with university administration, collating material for courses, updating student information, contributing to policy, committees, data entry, spreadsheets – anything that required a password and greater computer knowhow than everyday word processing skills. I slowly realised, however, that the more I emphasised how practical I was, the more my academic credentials appeared to suffer. The fact that I knew more about Southern women novelists, or, for that matter, women’s personal narratives and life-writing than most other lecturers at the university, counted for little. It was as if I were no longer regarded as a scholar and teacher with an established publishing history but as a middle-aged secretary, someone capable of emptying the dishwasher and keeping track of Tupperware lids.

‘It’s so hard,’ said Jerome.

I nodded.

‘And I feel bad about what happened. I wish I could do more.’

‘Well, let me know if anything comes up. I’m okay for the moment. I have holiday pay and my redundancy cheque.’

I could see that Jerome wanted to ask how much I’d been paid out but I didn’t feel like talking about it so I steered him towards the table where my vial of The Awakening stood. ‘I want you to smell this and then look at the four options and their perfume notes on the sheet of paper and tell me which novel it’s based on.’

‘What is it?’

‘A blend of essential oils. I made it myself.’