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going to be one of those single women in bars! Desperate!’

      ‘No, you’re not,’ I say, ignoring the fact that she’s thinking exactly what I thought for years, and that Plum and I are now said single women in bars. But we are not desperate, I think firmly. Not. The d-word. ‘Being single is fun,’ I say. ‘You can do whatever you want, whenever you want, go to sleep early or stay up all night . . .’

      Charlotte doesn’t look impressed.

      ‘You can go out and flirt,’ I say, as enthusiastically as I can. ‘Go on dates. I’ve got a date tonight, actually.’ With a man named Skinny Jeans. I mean Mark. ‘Kiss other men and, you know, all of that,’ I say. This too isn’t impressing her. Guess I won’t actually mention sex, then. ‘It’s so much fun, Charlotte. Honestly. You won’t know yourself in a few weeks.’

      She looks at me blankly and wipes a last solitary tear from the corner of her eye.

      ‘Think about all the things that made him irritating,’ I say, trying another tack. ‘Like, lazy around the house? Bad dresser?’ I realise that Charlotte wouldn’t recognise a bad dresser if he stamped on her foot wearing Crocs and hurried on. ‘Messy drunk? Moody? Bad cook?’

      ‘Oh, he never cooks,’ she says. ‘I do. Every night. And he won’t try new foods so it’s always chicken and chips. I did an amazing sushi course and he never lets me make it at home because he hates the sight of fish. And seaweed. And rice.’

      Wow, I think to myself. What a fucknuckle. ‘Well, there you go,’ I say. ‘Now you can make and eat sushi to your heart’s content.’

      Charlotte gazes into the distance and smiles. ‘And he never cleans up after himself. He just expects me to do it for him. And he’s gained quite a lot of weight recently.’ Charlotte’s on a roll now. ‘And he thinks no one is as good as his mum. And he makes me pull his finger when he farts.’

      What the devil were you doing with him for nine years, I think to myself. But I refrain from saying it. I am not one to talk about the comfort of habit.

      ‘Well, you never have to deal with that stuff again,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Now, Charlotte, if you want to, please take today and tomorrow off.’ I have no authority to offer that to her. Oh well. ‘And whenever you mention his name, pretend to spit over your shoulder. It’s very cathartic.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she says gratefully, looking slightly mystified at the spitting comment.

      As we leave the coffee shop, and Charlotte heads off for the tube, I lean over and give her a proper hug.

      ‘You’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Feel free to call me if you need anything.’

      ‘Thank you, Abigail,’ she says. ‘I never thought I’d feel so cheerful about being dumped!’

      I walk back in the office, swinging my security tag around in little circles, smiling to myself. How did I become the motivational speaker for single girls? It’s so nice to be able to comfort someone and feel like you’ve made their day a bit better, I’ve never really done it before. And you know, I think I’ve misjudged Charlotte all this time. She’s not blah at all.

      When I get back to my desk, Alistair is waiting for me.

      ‘I need to talk to you,’ he hisses. ‘Can we have a coffee?’

      God, I’ve had four coffees already and it’s only 9. 30 am.

      ‘Of course,’ I say, my heart sinking at the thought of more caffeine. ‘Give me ten minutes to check emails.’

      There are over 50 emails in my inbox, and I can see I’ve got a few phone messages to answer too. Ah well. Fuck it. Alistair wants to talk. That’s more important, surely.

      ‘I have been offered a job,’ says Alistair, the moment we’re seated. ‘With UBS. On a trading desk. As a desk assistant.’

      ‘You’ll be a glorified coffee maker,’ I say, aghast. ‘I mean,’ I continue, quickly composing myself, ‘Are you sure? That’s an entry level job.’

      ‘It’s what I want!’ he says. ‘Look, I’m impatient. I want what I want now. I can’t afford to waste any more time here.’

      ‘You know, you’re only 23. There’s no rush—’

      ‘Yes, there is. I’m sorry, Abigail. I know you’ve been doing research for me, but I wanted a job.’

      ‘We only spoke like, two weeks ago . . .’

      He shrugs. ‘I had already been talking to people. I was just asking for your help to be polite, really. And because I wanted to have lunch with you.’

      ‘Gosh, thanks,’ I say sarcastically, then realise he’s looking at me anxiously, wanting my approval. ‘Of course, I totally understand. And congratulations,’ I add. ‘It’s great, I’m really happy for you.’

      ‘I’m sorry I’m leaving your team, you know I love working with you. I feel like . . . like I could get stuck here.’

      I nod, thinking: I am stuck here.

      ‘I don’t have a passion for it, like you clearly do,’ he says apologetically, reading my face.

      ‘I wouldn’t say I have a passion for it,’ I say, tearing my napkin into little shreds. ‘But I do . . . I do know it inside out.’

      ‘That’s why you’re the best.’

      We both take a careful sip of our drinks, and I try to ignore the thought that I am stuck in a job I don’t love.

      Now I’m going to have to tell my boss Suzanne. Holy shit.

      I dread dealing with Suzanne. She is very short, very blonde and very frightening. She joined six months ago from another bank, replacing my unusually easygoing last boss. (He was either pushed out or jumped, depending on who you believe.)

      Suzanne works at least 14 hours a day, and is constantly barking into a headset that’s permanently attached to one ear whilst simultaneously reading reports, checking numbers, pushing sales and sending snappy/terse emails. She spends all her spare time walking around Bluewater and Westfield, taking day trips to Edinburgh or Paris, surveying the stores and the shoppers and the atmosphere. It all goes into forming a detailed picture of the retail market in her head. She’s like a megacomputer for retail analysis.

      ‘Why is he leaving?’ she snaps.

      ‘He’s bored.’

      Oops. That came out without me thinking about it. There’s a pause and she stares straight at me.

      ‘Bored?’

      ‘Research just didn’t, um, stimulate him . . .’ I say helplessly. ‘He wants to be on the floor, making things happen.’

      There’s a beat whilst she looks at me. She is nailing the eye contact thing. It would be inspirational if it wasn’t so fucking scary. She wears too much black eyeliner.

      ‘I’m not seeing enough drive in you, Abigail,’ she says, finally. ‘You have the knowledge and the experience, but you don’t care. Your reports are always bang-on, but you’re totally reactive and you never over deliver, you just . . . deliver.’

      I nod, trying to look as composed as I can. Since when was this a critique of me?

      ‘I’ve been monitoring you since I arrived. You only make two or three calls a day. I expect you to make 15. You’re too passive. I expect you to know the luxury retail market; to eat, breathe, and fucking sleep it.’

      I nod. I don’t even know how to respond to a speech like this. Is everyone else really doing this? Is Charlotte doing this? I haven’t noticed, but then again, I’ve been a bit distracted over the past six months.

      She sighs. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning. Where were you?’

      ‘Um, Charlotte

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