‘Right.’ I plaster a smile in place and heave myself to my feet. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and sort it out then,’ I say, heading for the door. As per usual. What is it with this place? Does everyone have an ‘it’s not my job’ attitude? If I’d had that over the years I’ve worked here, the bloody wheels would have dropped off long ago.

‘While you’re at it, do you think you could check to see where we are with the minutes of the board meeting I need typed up?’ John ventures. ‘I’d quite like to get those sent out today, if at all possible.’

Yes, of course, why not? And I’ll make the tea and sweep the floor on the way, I think, peeved – and then stop. I don’t remember having had the audio tape for the minutes, let alone distributing that one specifically to be typed up. But I must have done. Though I was distracted, that being the day my father had called suggesting I check Jason’s laptop, I distinctly remember gathering up the various files and audio tapes from my out tray and dropping them off before I left.

Was that one there? The truth is, I can’t concentrate on anything but the hurt gnawing away at me. I can’t think straight. Closing my eyes, I take a breath, gather myself and push through the admin assistants’ office door, where there is an immediate lull in the conversation as three surprised faces look up from PCs to me. I haven’t knocked, I realise, which I always normally do out of respect. Tough. I’m the office manager. I’m here to make sure the housing association runs efficiently, not pussyfoot around, being careful of people’s feelings. ‘Did it not occur to anyone to collect the post?’ I demand, my expression hopefully communicating how unimpressed I am.

Now there are definitely surprised faces. They’re not used to me actually exerting my authority.

‘No.’ Zoe, the senior secretary, speaks up. ‘We’ve all got piles to do. If someone had asked us, we’d have—’

‘You shouldn’t need asking, Zoe. If I’m not here, then it should have occurred to you. Using your initiative is a requirement of the job,’ I snap, unfamiliar anger rising inside me. I don’t get angry with the girls. A little despairing, sometimes, when there’s more gossiping going on than work, but never murderously angry, like this.

‘Well, excuse me,’ Zoe says indignantly. ‘I didn’t realise we were supposed to cover everyone else’s—’

‘And being disrespectful to your superiors is not,’ I point out.