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face began to scrunch in on itself until her nose was the only discernible feature left. ‘Were you weeing or were you down there texting everyone you’ve ever worked with? On a public toilet? In London?’

      ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I was reading texts on the toilet and making one very quick phone call. Perfectly acceptable according to millennial social etiquette. I only sent that one text.’

      She suddenly stared at me with very wide eyes.

      ‘Ros, did you send that text to every number in your contacts?’

      I nodded.

      ‘And you thought that was a good idea?’

      I nodded.

      ‘Have you got any idea of the number of dick pics you’re going to get in the next twenty-four hours?’

      I considered it for a moment then decided I definitely did not want dick pics. Yes, I was going through a dry spell but still. Unbidden dicks were not nice to look at. Even bidden dicks failed to make the prettiest of pictures. There was a reason there was no ‘hall of knobs’ at the Louvre.

      ‘No one in my contacts would send a woman dick pics,’ I stated. ‘I’m sure of it.’

      I was not sure of it.

      ‘So it is written, so shall it be,’ Sumi declared. ‘Thou sendeth a group text to unknownst numbers and ye shall receiveth pics of dicks. Even I get dick pics and talk about a waste of time.’

      I grabbed my glass of wine and took a deep sip. ‘You’re so lucky to be a lesbian.’

      ‘And don’t I know it,’ she agreed.

      By ten o’clock, I was safely tucked up in bed with Starting Over, slightly buzzed, learning how to tap into my limitless ass-kicking optimism and waiting for my phone to stop vibrating. The shed was feeling more and more like a Twilight Zone version of home – from the Forever Friends jewellery box to the Groovy Chick pillowcase – but it was all just a little bit off. To make matters even more confusing, just as I got into bed, Mum popped in to put all my dryer-shrunk clothes away in my drawers and, at some point in the day, Dad had been by to hook up an ancient VHS to the useless television. I now had the thrilling choice of watching any number of mid-nineties Disney films, six episodes from season two of Sex in the City, or a live rendition of Les Misérables Mum had taped off BBC about twenty years ago and, for some reason, protected with her life. I’d never had it so good.

      As the words in my book began to blur together, I gave up on reading, sliding the book down the slender gap between the bed and the wall and checking my morning alarm for at least the fifteenth time.

      ‘See?’ I told the ceiling of the shed as I wedged my phone underneath my pillow. ‘I am not a failed loser who is going to die alone, I am loved by my friends and family and an in-demand professional who is open to love and new experiences and also drinking wine on Mondays.’

      I hiccupped and smiled happily, hugging my pillow tightly as I closed my eyes and went straight to sleep.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Ten o’clock the following morning, I sat, patiently waiting in the waiting room, wearing a pair of trousers left over from the turn of the millennium that the internet assured me were due to come back into fashion any second now and my mother’s second-best shirt. There had been no time to shop for a better interview outfit and since Dad had destroyed all my nicest things, I was forced to be a trendsetter.

      PodPad, according to the research I’d done on my way into town, was no longer the tiny startup I’d rejected three years ago but a terribly cool company that made terribly cool podcasts about terribly cool things, like paleo diets and radical politics and serial killers. People loved podcasts about serial killers. Probably a societal red flag, I thought, reading through the list on their website: Murderville, The Killer Nextdoor. Murdered to Death. Probably something we ought to be more worried about, as if we didn’t have enough to be worried about already.

      A tall, gangly, red-haired man, who looked like he’d shaved for the very first time that morning, stuck his head out the door. He glanced at me once, frowned and desperately searched the otherwise empty room for someone who was not me.

      ‘Ros?’ he asked, eventually giving up his pointless quest.

      ‘Hi.’ I stood and held out my hand. He took in my trousers, shiny shoes and freshly ironed shirt before taking my hand, shaking it and turning away with an audible sigh.

      Off to a brilliant start.

      ‘This way,’ he said, leading me out of the waiting room and into a very different environment. I looked back through the door and blinked; it was like walking into hipster Narnia. Gone were the bare walls and hard plastic chairs, and in their place was a farm full of happy-looking people clicking away at computers, sitting on bold, colourful sofas, lounging next to gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows that let in all the light. They even had the requisite ping pong table that seemed to be a contractual obligation in modern media offices. It meant this was a Cool Company and I had always wanted to work for a Cool Company. They probably had a fridge full of beers that you could have whenever you fancied and someone who came in on Tuesdays to make tacos.

      ‘Danielle says hi,’ the man said, his hands gripping his upper arms, squeezing an assortment of colourful but seemingly unconnected tattoos. I saw Mickey Mouse in his Sorcerer’s Apprentice outfit; a Pepsi logo; an Indian-looking symbol I was sure I recognized from a yoga class; and a face that was perhaps supposed to be Kurt Cobain’s but, under the tension of the man’s grip, looked more like Postman Pat’s. ‘She’s in the New York office for the next couple of months so I’m looking after content while she’s away. She said you’ve just come back from the States, yeah?’

      ‘Yes,’ I confirmed, desperate not to sound as nervous as I felt. ‘Just got ba—’

      ‘And you were working for APR, yeah?’ he interrupted. ‘Cool, cool. My favourite radio station. Not that I really listen to radio.’

      ‘Thanks, it was a really good pla—’

      ‘You were a producer? That’s choice.’

      Apparently he was going to interview himself on my behalf.

      ‘Dream job, right there,’ he said, stopping suddenly and perching his very tiny arse on the edge of a desk. ‘Why did you leave?’

      I looked around the office, with its bright colours and happy, busy people, and I wanted to be part of it so badly.

      ‘It was time for a change,’ I said. No need to go into specifics unless specifics were asked for. ‘I learned a lot there but I’m ready for the next challenge.’

      He considered my answer as I squeezed the strap of my handbag tighter and tighter and tighter. Was he really going to interview me in the middle of the office, in front of everyone? I cast my eyes around the room and saw everyone pretending they weren’t watching.

      ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ the man said, staring hard into my eyes. My hand rose to swipe at any stray mascara that might have migrated where it was not wanted. ‘We need a producer ASAP. Someone who can think fast and work hard. Danielle says that’s you. Is that you, Ros?’

      ‘I think so?’ I said hesitantly, taken aback by his sudden intensity.

      ‘We don’t do “I think so” here,’ he said, eyes burning directly into mine. ‘We do passion.’

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, coughing to cover an awkward attack of the lols that threatened to burble up and out of my mouth. ‘I just realized I didn’t catch your name.’

      ‘That’s because I didn’t tell you my name,’ he replied, re-crossing his arms over his T-shirt and covering up a slogan that was either very funny or very rude, depending on how you felt about vegans.

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