It was a graduate traineeship originally, hard won. Dad’s a property lawyer with a big practice, and I’d worked for him in my year off, and then in all the university holidays, so I’d had the kind of practical experience that sparkled alongside my first-class degree. Mum and Dad were thrilled when I’d got it – I think they even had ludicrous fantasies of me being prime minister – and the first couple of years were great. I moved between departments, soaking up knowledge and smugly reflecting on how much more ‘important’ my work was than the friends who were selling their souls as city traders or fledgling PRs. While they were writing press releases about new waxing treatments or swotting up on the Yen, I was learning about urban regeneration and social care.

But then, somehow, I stalled. I stopped staying late: it was far more fun to stay out with those friends I’d sneered at, with their fat salaries and their glamorous party invites, and then sneak into the office stinking of the night before. I took my eye off the ball, missed the promotions and the pay rises that the eager beavers I came in with were all too happy to hoover up. Soon the friends with the glamorous invites started staying in with boyfriends or, with alarming speed, fiancés. Now I was a mid-level government drone in the housing department – it felt like a job for life in the worst possible sense.

‘Are you really better?’ said Julia as I slid into my chair. She was a couple of years younger than me but you’d never know it: she and Hillary Clinton must’ve signed a pact to take joint responsibility for keeping trouser suits relevant. She was wearing a navy one that day, a crisp silk shirt peeking out beneath it, her neat blonde bob jutting forward over her strong jawline as she swiveled towards me, eyes bright with concern. Julia was horribly good.

‘Think so,’ I said, ostentatiously powering up my ancient government issue computer as if I couldn’t bear to waste another moment. ‘Thanks for asking.’

‘Of course.’ She kept her swivel chair angled in my direction. ‘Fred had appendicitis when we were at Oxford.’ Julia never said university, like a normal person might. ‘It was a complete miracle he didn’t miss his finals.’

Her gaze didn’t leave my face – a cold trickle of unease ran down my spine. Was she testing me? I should have forensically studied the symptoms, worked out how my mystery illness diverged from the real thing and confused the doctors. A wave of shame washed over me, but I refused to engage with it. I had work to do here.

‘Poor him,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Typical Fred, though! He’d never miss an exam, would he?’