‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ I say, in that brittle way people do when they’re being disingenuous. I hope he notices.

‘Marvellous,’ he says, his eyes flicking from me to the now empty screen to the hard drive. He’s wondering what I was doing. Why I was so quick to close down the window. ‘Yourself?’

‘Fantastic,’ I say, and then I turn away from him and look back at my screen, opening up a perfectly innocent Word document containing a list of pitches pre-approved by Hyacinth.

‘Well, chin up. It’s a new day, a new week!’ And then fuckhead disappears off to the kitchen. A moment later the coffee machine whirrs to life and I take the opportunity to eject Sabine’s hard drive and drop it into my handbag.

I stare at the list of pitch ideas. There has to be one here that doesn’t make me want to shove a pencil up my nose.

If only I’d changed my password, none of this would have happened. As if on cue, Stan emerges with his coffee. I can feel his eyes on me as he moves over to his desk but I refuse to look up.

I hate him.

Instead, I try to ignore the heat simmering beneath my skin and focus on the screen. There’s a photographic exhibition in the 1st arrondissement I could go to: a young German photographer with strong Saul Leiter influences. That would get me out of the office for a while, away from dangerous combinations like pencils and Stan.

Pulling up the gallery webpage, I press print on the address; the printer hums with industry.

I glance up at the time, it’s just before nine. Hyacinth will be in soon. And if I can avoid seeing the disappointment in her eyes for a few hours more that would suit me just fine. So I pick up my bag, turn off my computer, grab my coat and phone, and head for the elevator door.

Twenty minutes later I’m on the platform at Bastille, standing back from the edge as the metro arrives. There aren’t that many of us here now. The responsible people of the world are in their office cubicles by now. Doing their personal expenses. Seething as they reply to a passive-aggressive email from a colleague. Applying for another job. Sexting with the guy from last night while pretending to work. All the covert operations that allow the more superficial aspects of office life to hum along unhindered.