‘As I said,’ Rose cuts in, her smile rigid, her tone steely, ‘we are looking for a fresh young team, and that can only be a good thing for everybody.’ As Belinda throws me a frustrated glance, Rose moves swiftly on to further questions. ‘So, what I plan to do next,’ she concludes, eyes sparkling, hands clasped before her, ‘is to talk to each and every one of you about how you can contribute to our new, exciting future here at Flaxico. Thank you very much for your time, everyone. I hope you’ve found this useful and illuminating today.’

Belinda gives me another quick look as we leave the boardroom, and there’s a distinct buzz of unease as everyone drifts back to their own departments. I’m wondering now if Rose really meant: ‘And, crucially, I shall decide whether you’re going to be part of it or not.’ Although she and I seem to rub along pretty well, I have known her to fire people for pretty flimsy reasons, largely ignoring the verbal and written warning procedure that’s supposed to be in place. Although I hope she knows I work diligently – and of course she’ll still need a PA, whatever happens – I can’t help wondering how I’ll fit into the new regime. I absolutely cannot afford to be without a job right now.

Early hours of Tuesday, July 30

Although I hate to admit it, Andy was right about one thing: it is like waking up in a swamp around here. At 3.27 a.m. I’m lying in bed with my chest soaking and my heart racing, worrying about what’s going to happen at work and, more pressingly, how I’m going to get to sleep again now I’m wide awake at this unearthly hour.

I should be used to it by now, the waking up drenched thing. That’s what interrupts my sleep – not a car alarm or a dog barking, but my body’s overenthusiastic emissions. It’s quite a design fault, this perspiring madly: not because I’ve hauled myself to the gym, but because I’ve just been lying there quietly.

At least, this is how it is for those of us who aren’t ‘breezing through’ the menopause. I know every woman experiences it differently. I’d imagine that Estelle Lang doesn’t sweat at all. She probably doesn’t even have pores – which seems a little unfair as these days mine are visible from outer space, like vast craters. The last time I braved one of those make-up counter ladies in a department store, she helpfully suggested how I might go about ‘filling’ them, as if they were holes in the road.