He slumped backwards in his chair while I desperately scrabbled around for something – anything – to make things better. It was completely impossible to tell if radical honesty or radical dishonesty was the best route out of this.

‘I’ve had some very serious problems with my family over the break…’

Duncan looked baffled.

‘What, with your parents?’

God, I sounded so juvenile. That was still what ‘family’ meant to me – it was almost as if some part of me was still that thirteen-year-old girl, sobbing in Starbucks on the Uxbridge Road in my navy uniform, skirt shortened above regulation length with a sneaky row of safety pins. I had to keep breaking free of them. I couldn’t afford to lose this job.

‘My mother’s got some mental health issues that we’ve been grappling with.’ It felt true as I said it. The problem was he’d been on the receiving end of Mum’s silken authority so recently. I had to keep going now. ‘It all came to a head last night. I was up until God knows when dealing with it, and – I know it’s no excuse, but I wanted to be honest. I will do better.’ My voice was cracking now. I had so little left that I could lose. ‘I promise you that.’

Duncan stared into space for a long minute before his gaze came back to rest on me.

‘I’m sorry things have been difficult, I really am. But all of us have personal stresses to deal with. I’m not going to take drastic steps, but I am registering today as a formal warning. HR will be in touch to confirm it in writing. I have to warn you that if we reach this point again, your role here will become untenable. I hope for both of our sakes it has the desired effect.’

‘Thank you, Duncan,’ I stammered, pushing my chair back abruptly and getting to my feet on shaking legs. I backed out of his office as fast as those wobbling splints could carry me.

The day was a con merchant – the sky cobalt blue and bright, the wind so vicious it could slice a layer off your skin. It was lunchtime, so I could finally risk leaving my desk without setting Duncan off again. Formal warning. The words kept reverberating through me, impossible to quiet.

I’d supposedly gone in search of a sandwich, but really I’d gone in search of Amber. The Westminster streets were peppered with grumpy workers on their first day back, resenting the fact they’d swapped their midday pyjamas for uncomfortable suits. I battled my way through them towards Pret, trying to compose my opening gambit. I can’t come tomorrow? Please can I come tomorrow? I’m so desperate that I have to come tomorrow, but even that kind sucker at Barclaycard has given up on me?