‘Replaceable,’ she sighed. She was fifty-four and her husband had just left her a year ago for ‘a fucking 35-year-old. Well, of course, at that age and childless, if you haven’t found someone you can be attracted to anyone. The bloody fool. He thinks he’s escaping into some youthful vita nuova; he’ll be changing nappies in a year or two, mark my words, and pretending to be happy about it.’

She laughed, and then her face fell.

‘The awful thing is that she works in the same industry. I’ll see them together at book fairs and launch parties – until she has the babies and her career falls on its arse while she’s waiting for them to grow up. God knows how I managed. It was better then, I think, or perhaps it was more acceptable to farm your kids off on someone else. My kids, by the way, are absolutely fine, they’re delightful young people.’

She told me about her kids and after a while I realised I had not listened, distracted by thoughts of what my own imaginary child would be like, and I tried to correct this by earnestly nodding along with a story about her daughter which I didn’t understand.

‘So, what are you going to do with your life?’ she asked suddenly. ‘I don’t want to assume that you’re a bit lost. But you seem a bit lost.’

She cut me off as I became vague and uncomfortable.

‘You strike me as a bright young man, full of creative ideas. And you’re right, the editor positions are full of confident Oxbridge graduates who are used to arguing forcefully and articulately, but there are other ways of getting in the door, particularly for people with years of experience selling books and…’

She told me to apply for a marketing assistant position, that it was possible to progress quickly. I nodded my head and took out my notebook and made notes on what she thought I should say in my application. Do anything you want to me, I wanted to say to her. Tell me to do whatever you like.

‘That’s very kind,’ I said. ‘I’ll definitely apply.’

I wanted to succumb to a powerful change.

She didn’t go back to the office that afternoon. We sipped glasses of wine until we were drunk enough to move on to cocktails and she introduced me to entertainment lawyers, literary agents and novelists, and Jude Law, who seemed to be wearing a denim jacket without anything underneath, though I was so drunk I suppose it might have been a denim shirt, or Benedict Cumberbatch.

At twelve we decided to go home.

‘Walk me to a cab,’ she said.