‘We’re being besieged by journalists,’ she adds. ‘Don’t put any calls through to me.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘And I’ll need you to minute the meeting.’

‘Yes, no problem.’

‘Thank you, Viv.’ With another brisk flap of her hand, I am dismissed.

In my five years at Flaxico I’d assumed I’d acquired a decent grasp of what goes on in our company. However, in the hours that follow, the head honchos spout so much waffle, I’d be no more equipped to understand what happens in Andy’s consultancy room.

‘What we’re looking at,’ says a short, stocky man with ruddy cheeks, ‘is a situation in which Kytes were supplied not with human-edible product but animal feed, and in terms of legislative issues there has clearly been a contractual-something-or-other not to mention a breach of mumble-bumble-rabbit-food-culpability in accordance with essential labelling criteria blah-blah-blah …’

Eh, what? I want to shout as, instead of enunciating clearly, he is muttering into his shirt collar, clearly uncomfortable about addressing us at all. I have never seen this man before. Perhaps it’s the first time he’s been liberated from a secret room. However, the gist seems to be that we’re sticking to the ‘It’s their fault, not ours’ line, although I can’t see how that holds true. After all, we manufactured and sold Kytes the basic product. In one of the news reports I’ve read, an angry mother announced: ‘If I’d wanted to give my little boy limestone to eat I’d have taken him to a quarry.’ Quite right too. I know for sure that Izzy won’t be getting any of the snacks made from our products anytime soon.

We’ve moved on to question-and-answer time now, which seems to fluster the man even further, and as a result his answers expand until, all around me, I catch my colleagues glancing at each other impatiently and stifling yawns. There’s a bunch of us who are friendly and usually have lunch together in the bleak canteen. We keep shooting each other ‘What-the-hell?’ looks, and a few renegade souls are hovering at the back, making goofy rabbit faces at each other. I notice that Bugs Bunny has been drawn on a whiteboard and decide not to minute that.

Clearly, there will be no release for lunch today as one of the other PAs has organised for sandwiches and muffins to be ferried in. Being windowless and lacking even basic ventilation, the lower basement is beginning to feel uncomfortably stuffy, and the last thing anyone wants to do is eat. I have already had one full-on hot flush and can sense further ones brewing. My shirt is clinging to my back. I think you’ll find reptiles are dry-skinned, Viv.