“We will be in touch,” assured Barbara, shaking my hand

Oli backed up her sentiment with an unconvincing nod.

And that was it.

I couldn’t believe it.

Why had my interview been brutally cut short like that?

I took a gulp of iced water as I sat inside a café, not far from the Goddess offices. The cubes clanked against the side of my glass. It didn’t seem like half an hour ago since I’d been summarily dismissed from my interview. My head was still spinning!

That poor receptionist looked like she was going to be physically sick at the prospect of having to tell Athena Mayhew some bad news. She looked like she wished she was anywhere else but there.

I tilted my head back against the quilted chair and stared up at the café’s polished mahogany beams and fancy light installation suspended from the ceiling. After my interview fiasco, I felt deflated and irritated. I hadn’t wanted to return home straight away, so I’d sought out a cute little café to have some lunch – not that I was very hungry.

I leant my elbows on the circular polished wood table while I absently scrolled through my phone. Should I ask to have the interview rescheduled? Be bolshy about it? It was a reasonable request, surely?

The waitress set down my lunch in front of me and vanished.

I proceeded to poke at my toasted panini with a fork as the lunchtime office workers buzzed past the window. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps someone was trying to tell me something.

A chilly unease ran through me. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to continue working as a journalist. I took a mournful bite of the panini with its melted Gruyere cheese. Miles used to say he didn’t think I had it in me to be a successful journalist; that I wasn’t ambitious or ruthless enough.

I cringed at the thought of it; of him holding me at arm’s length and speaking to me in that condescending murmur of his. He would often say I was too nice.

I remember relaying his comments to Mum after we split up. “Now you listen to me,” she had warned, hugging me close. “You’re a terrific reporter with a conscience. You care and want to help people. You’re everything he isn’t.”

My mouth morphed into a watery smile at the memory.

“You don’t have to be a selfish knobhead to succeed,” Dad had seethed, as he joined in our conversation. “Jesus! He makes it sound like being nice is a criminal offence!”

I took another pensive bite of my lunch. I had to forget about Miles Andrews and concentrate on me. He had been relegated to my past. My thoughts stumbled over one another. Perhaps I should give the magazine a ring and ask if I could have my interview rearranged? Miles wouldn’t have just rolled over.