‘Teas and coffees are on the side,’ said the man and then he moved on to the person behind her – a man in wire-framed glasses. In fact, there were a lot of men here in this condensed space. Men milled around the coffee area, some talking in small groups, pontificating about . . . what? Shares? How much money they were making? The intricacies of restaurant-food distribution? More men were seated in the chairs laid out in rows, all facing a raised podium. Many were on their phones; some were reading sheets of paper. She had a sudden panic, as if she hadn’t done her school homework. Was she supposed to have read up on something? She’d looked through the documents they’d sent with the invitation but none of it seemed to require any sort of response.

Kate went to get a cup of tea, ignoring the odd curious glance that came her way, and then looked for somewhere to sit. The top table was beginning to fill with what she presumed to be the directors, and so she quickly grabbed a chair. Unfortunately, the aisle ones were taken so she side-stepped past some knees to go about four spaces in, halfway back from the podium. She sat and listened, feeling alien in her new outfit. She had no idea what people – shareholders – wore to AGMs. Neither had the seventeen-year-old sales girl, but she’d seen a reality TV show where members of the public, usually young ones with over-inflated views of their ability, outdid each other for a position with a tycoon with a catchphrase. She was of the opinion Kate should wear a suit.

‘It shows you mean business, gives you a sort of armour.’

Kate had looked at herself in the mirror. She could do with that, but wasn’t convinced a blue pencil skirt and jacket with shoulder pads would provide it. And then the girl was tying a leopard-print scarf around her neck. Kate coughed.

‘Sorry, was that too tight?’ She slackened it, but the scarf was a step too far for Kate. She’d ended up buying the suit and a pair of shoes and had forced herself to apply a bit of make-up.

Now, she stuck the empty teacup under her chair and clutched the bag she’d bought in the charity shop for two pounds fifty to her stomach, trying to quell the butterflies that were somersaulting inside her, and listened to the man (another one!) who was speaking.

He was positioned in the middle of the group that had gathered and had stood to address the room. Gregory Hollander he was called, and he was the Chairman of Fresh Foods plc. He had tight brown curls peppered with grey and wore an expensive-looking suit. He cracked a couple of jokes in his opening speech and Kate wondered how long it had taken to write them, how prepared he was, and how he would react when she voiced her very unexpected request. It would be a while off, she realized, looking at the agenda, as there were presentations, voting and approval of accounts to get through first. It was incredibly dull and, in fact, one man fell asleep an hour in, his chin tucked into his chest, his arms folded.