Julia beamed. Masterful swerve – she couldn’t resist such a golden opening to talk about the world’s most perfect husband. I’d only met him a couple of times, while chinking a glass of soupy white wine with his at some lame work function, but she bought the casual intimacy hook, line and sinker. I scanned my 216 emails as she described his emergency admission, turning and cocking my head enough times to convince her I was listening. It took a good three minutes before we reached his triumphant limp into the exam hall, ready to ace it. At least now I’d have a few bits of medical colour to add to my own story.

‘Anyway, sorry, I’ll let you get on,’ she said, finally petering out.

‘Don’t apologize, I really appreciate that you give a shit,’ I said, realizing as I said it that I actually did, and immediately hating myself for the lies I’d been scattering so easily since I entered the building. ‘I loved that picture of Hobo at the dog park on Instagram by the way.’

Hobo was their Pit Bull, a rescue with a gruesome snarl and his own social media paw print, @homeofhobo. Judging by the number of photos they posted, any future human offspring would likely crash the internet.

‘He’s so adorable, isn’t he?’ she said, her face lighting back up. ‘I never regret giving our little guy a home.’

I started to subtly swivel my chair – this line of conversation could run and run. ‘Ugh, so many emails!’

Julia gave a sympathetic yelp and turned back to her monitor. Duncan’s dishevelled head was bent over his desk too, the low hum of phones and earnest policy conversations a monotone lullaby. I felt deflated, the sugar high of surviving their questions crashing to nothing. Was this it? Was life back to normal? Was this actually what I was meant to want?

I started to plough through the emails – some of the research about the impact of rising suburban commuting costs had started to come in, ready to be woven into my report. It mattered – and yet… It was too soon for coffee, so instead I opened up a browser window, my eyes darting left to check that Julia’s gaze was trained on her own machine. A couple of quick keystrokes later, and I had landed on Amber’s homepage.