I don’t ask what it’s a shot of. I don’t even sniff it. Instead I knock it back then reach for the glass of white wine that Daisy pushes towards me. I can barely taste it for the strong aftertaste of aniseed from the shot.

“You okay, darling?”

I shake my head and take another sip of wine.

“Geoff the Arsehole giving you shit again?”

“Yeah.”

“So quit.”

“If only it were that easy.”

“Of course it’s that bloody easy, Emma.” Daisy runs both hands through her blonde hair then flicks it over her shoulders so it cascades down her back. “You print out a resignation letter, you give it to him and then you leave, middle-finger salute optional.”

A man holding two pints knocks the side of my chair with his hip. Lager slops out of the glasses and soaks my left shoulder.

“Sorry,” I say automatically. The man ignores me and continues onwards, his mates in his sights.

Daisy rolls her eyes.

“Don’t.”

“What?” She gives me an innocent look.

“Don’t give me shit for apologising, and don’t go after him.”

“As if I would.”

“You would.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to stand up for you. Want me to have a word with your boss for you, too? Because I would, you know.”

Her mobile phone, on the table in front of her, bleeps and she jabs it with a bitten-down fingernail. Daisy’s eyeliner is deftly applied, her blonde hair straightened and shiny, but her cuticles are ragged, her red nail varnish chipped and flaking. Her nails are the one chink in her perfectly polished armour. She catches me looking and clenches her fingers into fists, burying them in her lap.

“He’s a bully, Emma, pure and simple. He’s been criticising you and making you feel shit since the day you started.”

“I know, but there’s a rumour he’s going to take over the Manchester office.”

“You’ve been saying that for three years.”

“I can’t just leave.”

“Why? Because of your mum? Jesus Christ, Emma, you need to grow a pair. You’re twenty-five years old. You only get one life; do what you want. Fuck your mum.”

“Daisy!”

“What?” She tops up her glass and knocks it back. From the glazed look in her eyes, I suspect that this bottle of wine isn’t her first of the night. “Someone’s got to say it and it might as well be me. You need to stop caring about her opinion and do what you want. It’s getting boring, your obsession with what your bloody family thinks. You’ve been on about it since uni and—”

“Sorry I’ve bored you. I thought we were supposed to be friends.” I reach for my bag and stand up, but Daisy reaches across the table and grabs my wrist.

“Don’t be like that. And stop bloody apologising. Sit down, Emma.”