I down the rest of my drink and clench my jaw. I need to keep my mouth busy with something, otherwise I’m going to say things like, ‘I’m not sure two years of working for free every night can be classed as a fucking short cut, Stan.’

But saying things like that won’t end well. I don’t want to make enemies this early and Stan has already decided who I am. How I fit into the world. And he’s spent too many years being told how clever he is, how right he is, to doubt those initial perceptions. And the worst part is I’m scared he’s actually right. What if this is as good as it gets for me? What if nobody ever takes me seriously no matter how hard I try?

‘I’m going to get another drink,’ I say, crinkling my nose as I stand up and head to the bar.

I pull out my phone and refresh my emails. And there it is. Finally. A reply from Hyacinth.

Harper, what is this? We need less Berthe Morisot, and more about Noah. Who he is. What he wants. What makes him tick. We need zing. Dig deeper.

The first thing I notice is: no exclamation marks. This cannot be good. My cheeks grow hot. Maybe Stan’s right. Maybe I do suck. Maybe I’m kidding myself thinking I can do this.

I click back to my inbox and glance down the rest of the subject titles. It’s the fourth one down, a Google alert, that has me hanging onto the bar for stability as my downward spiral takes proper hold.

Harrison Daze to tour West Coast.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It’s not that I want Harrison to fail as such (except for when I do). It’s more that every time something like this happens I feel like maybe he was right to leave me, maybe I was holding him back.

I down the rest of my drink and look around for the bartender. But he’s still busy, five people over, so I can’t get another yet. I flick through to Instagram to distract myself, scanning through the list of people who’ve liked my photograph from earlier. When I first set up this Instagram account I had the naïve intention of becoming one of those Parisian lifestyle influencers: lots of balconies, bottles of perfume and paintings in galleries. That was before I realised how intense my new job would be, and how much work goes into maintaining an influencer account. But it’s probably lucky I relinquished that dream. Because I’ve had seven likes. Seven. Fucking. Likes. But there at the top of the screen, amid all the other Instagram stories, gleaming from its technicolour halo, sits Noah’s story.

I tap on it, expecting a still frame of a painting he’s working on or a wineglass or, I don’t know, the moon.

But up comes a video of what looks like an artist’s studio, a crowd of people, then Noah and a girl with big white teeth. She’s holding her wrist up to the lens and there’s something drawn on it but then it’s gone again.