The bar is one of those long, thin London places with no room to move but with its walls decked out with dozens of massive mirrors in the hope of conning you into believing that there is room to move. There’s no music blaring out; the background soft jazz is all but drowned out by the clamour of conversations. There are blue leather sofas and blue halogen lights—subdued to coal-mine proportions—and a granite, drink-soaked floor. There’s as much modern art on the walls as there are stains on the tiles. Established in 1870, a plaque on the wall states—ruined in the 1990s, I’d like to add. The after-work crowd are out in force. Co-ordinated clothing is definitely optional for the men—pinstripe suits and pink-checked Thomas Pink shirts teamed with spotted red ties seem to be de rigueur. Where did all the Old School go with their charcoal chalk-stripe suits, bowler hats and rolled umbrellas? The women wear a uniform of tight, black Armani with overly short skirts. They all have bleached blond hair and talk in ear-splitting, yah-yah voices. We struggle through a sea of laptops and black leather briefcases abandoned on the floor. Monica and Charlotte form a front-line push to the bar, while I huddle pathetically behind them. I’m not sure I need a drink this much. I look at my watch—six o’clock. What time is it in Nepal? Nearly midnight. Dean will have been in bed for hours. I wish I were with him—and not for the more obvious reasons. I wonder if he’s alone.

Monica and Charlotte finally manage to get served and Monica splashes out on a bottle of champagne, ostensibly as a welcome-back present, but I’d like to bet a pound that it appears on next month’s My Baby’s expenses sheet. One of the few perks of being a boss, I guess. Too late to bag a sofa, we fight our way over to one of those tiny tables that you have to stand up at, and Charlotte plonks down the glasses. Monica pops the cork and they both cheer. I have to admit to a little cheer myself.

We’ve barely taken a sip when three smoothy City blokes in sharp suits and mismatched ties move in on us.

‘Celebrating, ladies?’ the smoothiest of all says.

‘Our friend Lyssa has just returned from the wilderness,’ Monica announces. ‘We’re welcoming her back.’

They raise their glasses in a toast to me. ‘Welcome back, Lyssa.’

Monica and Charlotte echo it. ‘Welcome back!’

‘Cheers.’ I raise my glass in return. Monica and Charlotte are already girly and giggly, despite the fact they haven’t even had time to do much more than inhale the vapours of the champagne yet. It seems that now they are considerably less interested in my escapades in Nepal than in what these three young studs might have to offer.