‘Seriously, boss, we’re two women who share an office. If we can’t be open about self-pleasure here, where can we be? We need to abolish the stigma surrounding female masturbation. The silence around it has gone on long enough. I take my vibrator everywhere with me, just in case.’

‘Just in case of what?’

‘Just in case I need it. You know when you become so consumed with the need to come that you have to duck into the nearest room and bring yourself off just to get through the rest of your day?’

I do know that feeling. I feel it almost every day. The difference between me and Risky is that I have attached so much of my sexuality to my husband that I forget I have the power to satisfy myself sometimes. Rather than tell my assistant that, though, I try to bring the focus back to our job.

‘OK, anyway, we should do some work.’

‘Not before we nail this photo. Phone up, channel your inner Princess Diana – is that a better reference for you, she was big in the Eighties, right?’ I nod and do as she says. It might make me feel old, but I know exactly what she means in terms of the bashful but slightly suggestive look Diana would probably have given her phone, should they have existed when she was alive. ‘Now drop your head more to the left. Give a little smile, like you’re thinking naughty thoughts, and take the photo.’

I do it. And have to admit, the photo is really nice.

‘Wow, I look hot,’ I say. Risky rushes over to look. When she sees it she makes all sorts of ‘Look at you, you saucy minx’ type comments, before snatching the phone from me.

‘OK, we need a filter. And a slight tone change. Let me just … and … yup … that’s it … Oh my God, look at it in black and white.’ She hands it back to me. I really do look amazing in black and white.

‘Cor, thanks, Risky. I look so hot even I’d masturbate to that pic.’

‘Yes boss!!!’

I send it immediately to Michael. After a minute or so, a speech bubble pops up and I am excited to read his response.

Nice. Hey, can you grab some milk on the way home? We are out.

3

Ruby

After the wax disaster, Bonnie and I made an emergency detour to Boots to get some nappies and I sorted her out in a horrible cafe toilet about four streets from the salon. Far enough so that I didn’t have to worry about Maron or the receptionist popping in to get their lunch.

I get Bonnie a slice of chocolate cake the size of her head and tell her to eat it. She doesn’t need much persuading.