Risky goes into the kitchen and returns with my electric breast pump. She is wearing an Eighties crop top today and high-waisted jeans. She is tall, slim, and loves neon. She’s not pretty, exactly. She has quite a big nose and her hair is damaged from over-dyeing. Her skin isn’t great, which is why she hangs off every recommendation Lauren and her filtered face make. Risky is attractive in her own magical way. Her style, quirks and personality are gorgeous. I quite like millennials, I’ve decided. I think maybe they will make the world a better place. Risky is certainly going to try.

She plugs in the pump, screws the bottles into place and gets it ready while I take off my top and bra – one of the benefits of being the boss at an all-female workplace. Before I was lactating, I’d often get to my desk in the morning and take my bra off right away. Heaven. I put on the weird elastic bra thingy I got that holds the bottles in place, so that I can pump whilst being hands free and getting on with work. Hardly any point in coming to the office at all, if I have to spend up to three hours of the day holding breast milk bottles into place.

‘I feel so hot right now,’ I laugh. Half naked at my desk. My tummy rolls hanging over my trouser waistband, my big boobs being sucked on by plastic funnels.

‘You’re amazing. A powerhouse. Nailing motherhood and running a business, it’s very inspiring,’ Risky says. She’s endlessly searching for role models to guide her, despite always reminding everyone of her independence. She is in a constant state of anticipation, waiting for someone she admires to say the thing that lifts her through her day. Some days, apparently, it’s me. Risky fantasises about a perfect future full of love and success, she believes in romance and is a true woman’s woman. ‘I’m from a generation of women who were born feminists,’ she likes to tell me. ‘Your generation had to learn to be.’ I often have to remind her that I am only thirty-six. She talks about her thirties like an event that will happen so far in the future, it is impossible to imagine.

‘Let me know when you’re done, I’ll get the milk in the fridge right away,’ she says, heading back to her desk. Just before she reaches it, she turns back and says, ‘It’s so great, you know. For you to have a husband who takes care of the baby while you go to work. I hope I find someone like that one day. I think both parents should make sacrifices for their children. That’s what we believe.’

‘We?’ I ask, unsure.

‘Feminists. Women, like us, who are in control of their lives. I’m going to talk about it on my podcast tonight.’