If an employee offered an idea she liked, she would pause for a second, process it and then, seconds later, parrot it back to them as though she herself had come up with it. And she never said please, thank you or sorry. Despite hiring each and every member of The Flowdown’s staff, she could not – or rather, would not – remember a single one of her employees’ names. When she wanted you she would stare at you, call you by whichever name came to her, and expect you to twig that it was you who she required. Often, she’d also click her fingers.

The worst moment of the week was on Friday morning, when Felicia presided over a meeting that was billed as an ‘informal catch-up’, but was in fact an opportunity for Felicia to list the things that were making her unhappy, which were usually numerous and highly personal. Yesterday had been particularly gruelling. Felicia had already taken her seat at the top of the long, bleached wooden table when the others arrived. She was wearing an unseasonal black cape dress that made her look even more like a witch than usual. Eventually, she spoke crisply into the hush.

‘Houston, we have a problem.’

The women and their single male co-worker, Martin, all stared at her, uncertain whether or not to breathe. One of the interns, who had been standing up at the back of the room, slid quietly to the floor.

‘Girls’ – Felicia always referred to them collectively as girls – ‘tomorrow afternoon is the Live Well Festival. The Flowdown has its very own stand.’ She announced this grandly. Ellen failed to see how taking a small, fold-up table at a free event inside a London department store was an honour, but she had long ago accepted that she and Felicia rarely saw eye to eye on anything.

Felicia continued, imperiously. ‘This is a big deal for the brand, and’ – she inhaled, sitting up straighter in her chair – ‘for me personally, as a businesswoman.’ She paused to cast a glance around the room, one eyebrow raised. ‘And yet, as of this morning, not a single one of you has volunteered to join me at The Flowdown’s stand this weekend.’ She stopped speaking, allowing the immensity of this wrong to sink in. Her face was set in a bitter scowl.

In response, there was a sticky silence during which most people looked at the table, willing this section of their lives to be over. The only sound was Felicia drumming her talons on the long table.

‘Well?’ she demanded, sharply, after a few moments.

On cue, Ellen’s phone, which was sitting face up on the table, lit up. She leaned forward slightly in her chair in order to read the WhatsApp message. She knew it would be Kayleigh.

felicia hun i’d rather volunteer to have a cervical smear broadcast on live television than spend my sat afternoon with you