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A mobile phone on the table began to flash and vibrate, and Olivia’s skin tone turned a few pantones lighter.

‘Is it he?’ Bella asked, leaning forwards. She picked up the mobile and examined the flashing photo. Then she looked at Olivia and grinned. ‘Wait, that’s your Ross?’

Olivia nodded.

‘Well, he can backend develop me, anytime…’

‘Bella!’ screeched Holly, elbowing her in the ribs.

Olivia gave a knowing smile. ‘He’s all yours,’ she said, retrieving the phone and cancelling the call. She put it back into her bag and for a nanosecond looked wistful.

‘You’re not going to talk to him?’ Holly asked.

Olivia shook her head; her eyes belying more grief than she perhaps wanted them to. ‘No. When it’s over, it’s over,’ she said as the phone made a loud beep from within her bag. ‘Stick a fork in it, I say.’

‘You’re not even going to see what that is? He’s probably left a voicemail?’ Holly said.

‘Nah.’

No surprises there, Holly reasoned, remembering how at university they’d always joked that Olivia must have been having a cheeky manicure the day God was dishing out the batches of needy female hormones. Which went some way to explaining why the last time Holly had seen her, Olivia had declared herself in the midst of a ‘friendship audit’. Although Holly had been spared this time around, Olivia’s plan had been to prune away anyone peripheral, Facebook or otherwise, that she hadn’t seen in a year. One by one, she had called up each unsuspecting friend for a fond farewell, in the hope that streamlining her social life would have a Zenifying effect. Now that Olivia was newly single, Holly couldn’t help wondering whether she might be regretting the mass cull.

‘So you were telling us what happened?’ Bella said.

Olivia rolled her eyes like a child being told she had to eat her peas before any pudding. ‘All right then. Just quickly. So, as you know, he was a bit of a computer nerd – which was sexy in the beginning. You know, he had a proper geek-chic thing going on. But then he went freelance, set up his own company, and it all changed. He started working from home a lot more, sleeping in and working late. Then one day he just stopped getting dressed at all – he’d just sit around festering, in these rancid jogging bottoms. Until eventually, you couldn’t tell where the pyjamas ended and the tracksuits began.’

‘Wow, that’s so strange,’ Holly said. ‘He was Mr Charisma at uni.’

‘I know,’ Olivia’s eyes moistened as she threw back the rest of her glass of wine. Then like Olivia Twist, she held out the empty receptacle in front of Holly, who immediately filled it up.

‘I remember,’ chimed in Holly, ‘he was that guy in Fresher’s week. The one every girl wanted to… you know, and every guy wanted to be.’

‘But it’s easy to be nostalgic about Old Ross – before he killed his personality off with a lethal concoction of daytime TV and JavaScript.’

‘So what did you do? How did it end?’ Bella tipped her head to one side, her empathy palpable.

‘Fairly predictable stuff. Me saying I thought he’d let himself go, that I just didn’t love him anymore, and we’d grown apart, blah blah… Him saying, “Shit, Olivia, I’m sorry. I wish I could just press Control Z.”’

‘No way,’ Holly said, while Bella’s brow furrowed.

‘That’s Apple Z, for the benefit of Mac Monks. As in, to undo?’ she added, and Bella’s brow un-furrowed. ‘Yes. So then I said, “Ross. I think we both know, it’s a case of Control Alt Delete now.”’

‘Well,’ Holly began, ‘it sounds like you’ve done the right thing. It must feel like such a massive shock to your system though, after seven years.’

‘It’s been brewing for a long time – it’s a relief to have finally done it.’

‘So where are you going to live now?’ Holly asked. ‘Do you want to come and stay with us?’

‘Oh thanks, but I’m staying with my parents in Hampstead for a bit; just while I get myself sorted with a new job down here. But chances are, I’ll only be allowed a week in the show home before I’ll have to be out again!’ Olivia smiled, then covered her ears as the incredibly loud smoke alarm began to go off.

Bella leapt up. ‘That’s dinner!’ She poked her head in the oven. At the sight of smoke she began turning off all the knobs and dials. Holly began prodding at the smoke alarm with a broom to make it stop. This was all done with complete composure, as though it was an everyday ritual.

‘So, everyone, dinner’s kind of a buffet type thing. Just pile on,’ Bella said, as she handed out partially-chipped plates to everyone.

‘Looks amazing, thanks,’ Holly said, spooning some of the blackened food onto her plate and assessing it for carcinogens. ‘Is Daniel not eating with us?’ said Holly.

‘No, he’s got a night shift at the hospital again, poor bastard,’ Bella said.

‘Ah, shame,’ Holly said, secretly thinking it might have been handy to have a member of the medical profession on standby, but then feeling guilty for being so mean and having done nothing to help prepare dinner. She watched Lawrence digest a whole mouthful before taking one of her own.

Olivia picked up a fork full of food, but then opened her mouth to carry on speaking: ‘But anyway, a friend of mine is just about to put his gorgeous flat in Dalston on the market, so if Ross can buy me out of our flat in Didsbury in time, I’ll be able to nab that and move straight in!’

Bella’s eyes widened. ‘Dalston? As in, East London?’

To Bella, East London was a hallowed kind of a place. Legend had it, it was where all the hot men in London were being kept. Bella had stumbled across it one day while navigating a Walk of Shame through an unknown neighbourhood somewhere North of Bethnal Green. Quite by accident, she’d found herself in a quaint little strip called Broadway Market. It was all fancy deli stalls, fit-as-fuck buskers, and dashing men with oversized spectacles on fixed-gear bikes. Ever since then, there was sometimes talk in hushed tones of ‘going East’, as if it was some kind of promised wonderland. Bella would bring up the notion of warehouse parties in Dalston once in a while, but the thought of venturing somewhere new always lost out to the easy walk home from the local.

‘Anyway, Liv,’ Holly said, feeling the need to change the subject, ‘if I can say so, you seem to be doing very well considering.’

‘You really are,’ Bella said, ‘I mean, if it was me, I’d be needing round-the-clock care to help me do basic things like getting dressed and swallowing solids.’

‘Yeah well, when you know, you know,’ Olivia said.

‘Any more, Liv?’ Holly said, holding out more food towards her.

‘Oh no, I’m stuffed,’ Olivia said, slotting her knife next to her fork and laying it to rest. Her plate looked as full now as it had at the start of the meal, only everything on it appeared to be in a slightly different position. ‘That was great though, thank you!’

Some hours later, they had retreated to the lounge. Lawrence was snoozing on the faded blue sofa in a post-gluttonous coma. Olivia sat perfectly upright next to him, staring at her phone, and Bella was picking at the yellow strips of foam that were leaking out of the sides of the sofa like oven chips. Over time, the hole had grown so large that these chips were now a regular feature of the lounge décor. Lawrence was forever coming into the kitchen after a big night out, picking them off the floor and going to eat them in his drunken stupor. Then, once Holly reminded him they had slightly less nutritional value than their real-life counterparts, he would drop them back onto the floor. But not before placing one of them on her shoulder and saying, ‘Look, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder.’ Every time.

‘We really should stitch up that hole. Can anyone sew?’ Holly said.

Naturally, Bella did not respond. Her filter for all things domestic was now so advanced, the vibrations of Holly’s speech were physically shielded from penetrating her eardrum and making the journey to the middle ear. Instead, she stood up, a puddle of chips at her feet, and began the preparations for a round of Analogue Netflix. This was a game Bella had devised some time ago, borne out of her reluctance to pay for what she called ‘special television’, and her belief that they should all learn to appreciate the one thousand films they already owned between them. In reality they spent far more time deciding what to watch than they did watching anything, so in many ways it was exactly like the real Netflix.

Bella stretched up towards the Jenga-like tower of DVDs and plucked some out at random, as Holly began laying them out on the coffee table. Bella started calling out titles.

‘OK, so what have we here… The Notebook.’

‘Nope. Boring, saccharine, predictable…’

‘It’s beautiful!’ Bella said, staring daggers at Olivia.

‘Pride and Prejudice?’

‘Too long. And too… period,’ Lawrence said, rubbing sleep dust from his eyes.

‘How about… The Curious Case of—’ Olivia began.

‘Benjamin Boring? The film that editing forgot?’ Holly said.

‘Love Actually.’

‘Um, get a life, actually,’ Holly said, and Lawrence nodded in agreement.

‘But it’s a wonderful film,’ Bella insisted. ‘So affirmative of the power of love as life’s great leveller—’

‘If I can just stop you there, Miss Bella. I’ve nothing against Richard Curtis per se,’ Lawrence began to pontificate, ‘I mean, let’s be honest, Blackadder was pure televisual perfection. But the trouble with Love Actually – nay, the whole Curtis canon – is that he’s clearly being paid by the people at Visit Britain to promote a wildly inaccurate view of London to the rest of the world. Take Notting Hill. There is no way the character William Thacker would be able to afford to live in such an attractive period property – with a gargantuan roof terrace – in the real Notting Hill. I mean, let’s be real here: HE WORKS IN AN INDEPENDENT BOOKSHOP!’

Lawrence was getting more irate than was probably necessary. Holly felt her stomach constrict, and looked round the room to see if anyone else had noticed him being a little too shouty.

‘But maybe house prices shot up after the film? Maybe Notting Hill used to be like Hackney?’ Bella posed, desperately still wanting to believe.

‘Hey, you know what would be fun?’ Holly began, her eyes on Lawrence. ‘We should make a tongue-in-cheek mash-up of all the Curtis films, where the characters live in properties which actually correspond to their income. So, let’s see… Will Thacker would live in an ex local authority one-bed in Kensal Rise, with a Juliet balcony at best.’

Lawrence laughed. ‘Yes! And we’d replace all the friendly cabbies and romantic Routemasters with those charmless new buses with grumpy drivers that refuse to stop for you.’

‘We’ll have it raining the whole time! And we’ll call it Stamford Hill!’

‘Perfect! And Love Actually could be – Dumped Actually,’ Lawrence said, smirking.

‘Or, Shat on from a Great Height, Actually!’ Holly added, and they both fell about laughing.

‘Yeah, yeah. Whatevs,’ Bella said. ‘So. Anyone for Four Weddings? Oldie but a goodie?’

Holly began to realise she and Lawrence were outnumbered. An hour and twenty minutes later, she was feeling her usual bout of nausea at the scene where Hugh Grant and Andie MacDowell kiss in the rain, when she noticed Lawrence’s eyelids closing out of the corner of her eye, his wine glass hanging off his fingers at a precarious angle. In slow motion, she saw his fingers relax and the glass slip, sending Shiraz cascading to the floor. As everyone leapt up to try and stem the tide with a whole roll of extra-quilted kitchen roll, Holly reached a conclusion. It was time to take Lawrence to a place where other people were not.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom and smiled. Once again Lawrence lay on top of her bed, eyes closed, with all his clothes on. His muddy Adidas trainers hung off the edge of the bed. A trickle of drool was slowly wandering from his lips and onto her freshly laundered pillowcase.

‘Lawry…’ she said, peeling off her clothes and hopping into bed beside him. She kissed him on the back of his neck, noticing that, as ever, he smelled very strongly of unwashed hair. She told herself this was sexy and manly, and not that Lawrence was a disciple of the ‘your hair starts to clean itself after a while’ gospel of hair care.

She began unlacing his shoes, rolling down his jeans and unbuttoning his shirt.

‘Hey, I’m fine,’ he said, as though bidding his manservant off duty.

‘Oi,’ she said, resorting to prodding.

After a few more inaudible grunts that sounded like ‘No… sleeping…’, he turned his back to face the wall and resumed snoring. Following a couple more failed attempts at erotic coercion via the means of spooning and shiatsu, Holly gave up and turned around so they could do that less talked about but equally popular sexual position – the back-to-back ‘we’re in a strop’ position, where they remained for some time. Occasionally, their bare bottoms made contact, but they quickly moved apart on impact as though electrically repelled.

An hour later, she felt someone kissing the back of her neck.

‘Hey. I miss you.’

‘I’m right next to you,’ she said, but she knew what he meant.

She felt his arms tighten around her. She turned to face him and they shared a slow, sleepy kiss.

‘Meet me somewhere?’ he said when they stopped. ‘Old Havana?’ His eyes closed again, his last words dispatched.

Holding his head to her chest, she closed her eyes and thought of vintage motor cars, cigars and salsa dancers and everything else they knew about the city they planned to visit together. She attempted to teleport herself there, to join him in his sleep-world. This wasn’t a low-budget version of Inception; it was a game they’d invented when they first got together. It had been one of those nights where they’d laid together talking and cuddling all night, amazed at having found each other and wondering how other couples ever got any sleep. This had been their way to make parting for sleep just that bit easier: to pretend they would meet in their dreams.

Sometimes it didn’t work so well. Tonight in particular, there was heavy congestion on the teleporting highway. Five hours later, Holly was staring vacantly at the ceiling, listening to the busy traffic noises of Holloway, not Havana. She closed her eyes as she heard the recycling van belting out its one-hit wonder, ‘Stand Clear. Vehicle reversing’. Sometimes the traffic was so unfeasibly loud that she had to check her mattress wasn’t actually in the middle of the road.

After a while, she became aware of how spectacularly un-tired she was, and lay watching Lawrence snoring blissfully away. Attempting to locate some inner yogic calm, she tuned in to the rise and fall of her boyfriend’s snores. Loud to soft. Heavy breathing to quiet breathing, then back to blissful silence. Another chorus of heavy breathing, a guttural snort, then back to more quiet breathing. Holly listened to this on a loop for hours, wondering when she’d first become an insomniac. Gradually, the room stopped being so dark, and Lawrence’s snoring solo found some backing singers in the baby blackbirds outside her window.

Two hours later, she switched off her alarm and wanted to weep at the time. She stared down at Lawrence sleeping and whispered, ‘Lawry, I’ve got to go. See you later.’

A freckly and toned forearm emerged from under the covers, attempting to pull her back into the warm, feathery world under the duvet. Half asleep, he planted kisses on her cheeks, moving down to her neck.

‘Hey, I’ve got to go to work,’ she said as he drew her further inside and pulled the duvet high above their heads. He tucked it round them, so they were hidden from the world, in their own dimly lit universe. And then she remembered. When things were good with Lawrence, there was nowhere she’d rather be than under the duvet with him. Hiding from responsibility, from pretending to be a grown-up.

‘Stay.’

‘I can’t. It’s only my second week!’ she said as he planted kisses on her stomach. She pulled in her non-existent abdominal muscles. ‘I’ve got to try and be in early as I don’t think my new boss is terribly impressed with me. My first episode ended up over length, when I forgot to allow for the extra ad-breaks they have on Sky!’

Lawrence looked at Holly, his eyes hazy with sleep. ‘But you can’t go – I’ll miss you too much.’

‘But I need to try and make a better impression.’ Mustering all her willpower, she lifted the lid on their private universe, letting the cold air to their faces. It was a wrench, but slowly she untangled herself from the covers and peeled herself out of bed. She kissed him goodbye, feeling a tinge of pain.

‘I love you,’ mumbled Lawrence through slumber, his eyes closed.

‘Love you too.’

‘Love you three,’ he said as he sank into sleep.

Holly smiled and tucked in the covers around him so he was all sealed up and no cold air could sneak in. She stood watching him sleep; his brown curls splayed out over the pillow, his long eyelashes twitching as he dreamed. She thought how adorable he looked, all wrapped up like a lanky, stubbly bundle of cute. He was exasperating at times, yes, but Lawrence-on-form was so full of life that she struggled to imagine a world without him.

In a way, knowing it was hard to leave him gave her a kind of comfort. Maybe Shakespeare was onto something with that whole ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’ thing. Sweet because somehow it made it OK that they were still together – that even five years in, it still hurt a little bit to say goodbye. Yeah, we’re all right, Holly told herself as she tiptoed out the room and down the hallway. Then quietly, she snuck through the front door and went to work.

2. Airbrushing

‘OK, that’s it, a bit closer, Chardonnay, we can’t quite see your pores,’ Holly said in her broom cupboard of an office. ‘There we go.’

Holly picked up the clip of Chardonnay and dragged her into the timeline of her Final Cut editing programme. Then she began to mix, chop and change the scene around, in the hope of making something good out of the weekend’s footage.

It was hard not to talk to yourself in the broom cupboard. Having no one to share her new ‘office’ with, Holly’s self-discipline had to work extra hard just to stop herself from taking naps or ringing her friends. Still, she was only two weeks into the job – she’d get used to not being open plan anymore. It was all part of being a more responsible adult, this promotion to actual Editor. Even if her old job assisting the Drama Editor at a small, artistic production company now seemed infinitely more creative. Mark, her lovely old boss, had always referred to the edit suite as the ‘shit to ice-cream department’. But as Holly played with the colour levels, adjusting Chardonnay’s tangerine skin tone to something more natural, she wondered whether she would ever manage to submit an episode of Prowl that had anything like the appeal of ice cream.

The latest in a craze of brain-dead reality TV shows, Prowl was a docu-soap set in a suburban nightclub which screened on Sky’s Channel 653 (she couldn’t say for sure, never having watched it). Much of the content came from the ‘fly on the bog wall’ footage from within the ladies’ lav. Not actually inside the cubicles (they weren’t that desperate for content… yet), but in the communal wash-basin area, where the perfumes, lollipops and Brandii, the guilt-mongering towel lady, were gathered. The ‘unsung hero of the UK club scene’ (so sang the press release), Brandii was effectively the eyes and ears of ‘Prowl’ in East Sheen. So, quite literally, the show Holly edited was unadulterated crap.

No, she decided, cutting this negative thought and pasting it at the back of her mind. Taking this job in Daytime TV had been a triumphant career move of epic proportions! It paid twice as much as her last job. Not only that, she was going to use her evenings and weekends to pursue Proactive Creative Projects. Like making short films. Yes, with Lawrence’s help she would edit a fabulous film to enter into festivals. Together they would use their spare time to win industry awards, like the creative powerhouse dream-team they were truly meant to be. Hurrah, she thought, stemming the tide of career anxiety and picturing her lovely, talented boyfriend back home, tucked under her covers – his long-toed man-feet poking out of the bed.

If Holly had mastered one skill so far in her small time on Earth, she reckoned it was the ability to cut and paste the things of life into little compartments in her brain. She was as good an editor of her thoughts as she was of daytime television. As she returned to editing the scene in front of her, a new face filled the monitor; that of Luke Langdon, the show’s main male ‘character’, Phil the Barman.

Luke was a trained actor, reduced to the status of a barman on a reality TV show. But because the premise of the show was that everything must appear real, to all Luke’s luvvie peers, it looked as though he was actually a barman. As he bent over to lift the beer barrel in the fictional-but-real-world bar that he ran, Holly couldn’t help staring at the muscles on his upper arms as they flexed in and out. Playing around with the slow motion effect (in a purely artistic way, of course), she realised the job had some perks. Although, it was unlikely to propel her to Baftaville any time soon. Nor was it getting her any closer to her dream job of editing a feature. But she might as well enjoy the scenery along the way, she mused as she heard a beep from her emails.

Jeremy.Philpott@Totesamaze‌Productions.com to

Holly.Braithwaite@Totesamaze‌Productions.com

Morning Holly,

Could you bring me a coffee when you have a minute? Just my usual! Also, just a heads-up that we had to do some major re-cutting on some of the scenes at the end of the second episode. Bit woolly in places. Too many indulgent shots over the graffiti on the toilet walls, for one. The ending has much more punch now we’ve taken those bits out. Less is more.

Also, small point: What was with the Wagner soundtrack??! Maybe artistic if this was a film festival, but let’s try and remember that this is DAYTIME TV. Your audience are ASDA MUMS with 2 GCSEs or less, who eat KFC for breakfast and smoke while breastfeeding. They don’t need to see pretentious shots set to opera. The only music they know comes out of the X Factor.

Did you get a chance to type up those minutes? Would like to get them circulated before lunch.

Many thankings,

Jezza.

P.S. Oh – almost forgot! A little niggle’s come up regarding your contract. I’ll tell you when you come in.

Getting to the coffee machine involved traversing a mixed terrain of sets, wardrobes and dubious props. Being a very small production company, TotesAmaze often had to shoot some of their scenes in-house when they couldn’t get into the actual locations. So there were a number of makeshift replica locations to wander through – down the pretend hallway, past the pretend cloakroom, and through the pretend chill-out room. As Holly arrived, she found herself staring at the same muscular arms she’d been admiring from before, only this time less pixelated. TV’s ‘Phil the Barman’ was fixing a drink in the real world. He was resting one arm on the coffee machine, staring vacantly into his plastic cup as it filled up with tan coloured foam. Holly couldn’t help wondering whether he had one too many buttons of his checked shirt undone than was really comfortable for a work environment. She wondered if the open-chested look was a decision from the Wardrobe department, or if it was Luke’s own style. But after a few moments of staring at the chest hairs that were peeping out, she decided it definitely wasn’t a problem.

‘Hi. Sorry. All yours in a minute,’ he said, and she stopped gawking and looked up at his face.

‘Oh, don’t hurry. I’m in no rush to get back to the broom cupboard.’

‘The what?’

‘My windowless edit suite.’

A penny dropped behind Luke’s retina. ‘Oh, I thought you were a runner, I don’t know why. Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘That’s OK. Flattered you think I look young enough to be a runner! The anti-wrinkle cream must be working!’ she said, wishing she could cut that last sentence as soon as she’d delivered it.

‘Oh, definitely,’ Luke said, his smile that bit more genuine in the flesh.

‘And you are?’ she said, immediately wishing this shabby attempt at humour could also be relegated to the cutting-room floor.

‘I’m Luke. I’m – “the star of the show”,’ he said with a reasonable dose of irony.

‘I know. I was joking. Sorry. My bad joke filter isn’t working today.’

‘And you call yourself an editor,’ he said, and Holly smiled nervously.

‘Is this fake?’ Luke said, staring at her.

Holly was flummoxed. Was her conversation that dull?

He took his coffee out of the machine. ‘You know, the coffee? Is it pretend, seeing as it’s all smoke and mirrors round here?’

‘Oh!’ Holly said, relieved. ‘Like it’s actually just boiling water with food colouring in it? No, I’m pretty sure it’s real. It’s got a fraction more flavour.’

He smiled and took a sip. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

Holly pressed the cappuccino button.

‘So, you’re the person who dishes out the close-ups?’ Luke delivered another of his really quite smouldering leading-man grins.

‘Well, in between being an accidental PA to the Head of Programming, yes, deciding between shots is one aspect of being editor.’

‘So I should keep you sweet, shouldn’t I?’

Holly took the plastic cup from the machine and grappled with not swearing about how hot it was. She didn’t want to shatter the illusion she wasn’t totally potty-mouthed. Yet.

‘So there’s no non-cheesy way to say this – but how about I take you for a real coffee some time?’

Holly hoped her smile covered the fact that inside, her heart was having minor palpitations. ‘I wouldn’t have said cheesy. Transparent, maybe…’

Her phone began to ring in her pocket. She looked down to see a flashing thumbnail of a girl with jet black hair and red lips holding a microphone.

‘Oh sorry. This is my flatmate, I’d better…’

‘Sure. Let me know about that coffee another time.’ Luke smiled as she turned to walk away.

Those teeth have almost certainly been bleached in a Hollywood salon, Holly decided before answering the call.

‘Hey hon, you OK?’

‘Holly! Oh my giddy fuck! The world has just ended.’

Holly sighed. The world was always ending in Bella’s world.

‘What’s wrong? Have you and Daniel had another flatmates squabble? Have you thrown the laundry rack at him again?’

‘It’s so much worse than that,’ she said, breaking into sobs.

Putting her hand over the receiver to drown out Bella’s crying, Holly headed down the corridor. She rounded the corner to her office and closed the door behind her. ‘OK. Sshhhhh. Deep breaths. What’s happened?’

But all Holly could hear now was broken speech, not unlike a child’s hyperventilating playground tears.

‘My beautiful Sammy! He’s shitting well dumped me!’

Through the phone, Bella began to rant, oscillating from desolate to indignant with every breath. One moment it was all ‘How-dare-HE-dump-ME!’, the next it was ‘He’s the love of my life, my soulmate!’

‘Oh, hon,’ Holly said, ‘I’m so sorry. Where are you?’

‘Guildhell.’

Ever since her first term at The Guildhall – a prestigious Drama School that worked its students very hard – Bella and her course-mates had referred to it as The Guildhell School of Music and Trauma.

‘Do you want me to come and meet you after work?’

‘Can’t-You-Meet-Me-NOW?’ she wailed. ‘Yes. Sorry, can I just have a chai latte extra hot please, takeaway. Thanks. Can I pay by card? Oh sorry, where’s the nearest…? OK never mind. Sorry… sorry… Hol, I’m back. Oh no, hold on, Daniel’s ringing. Sorry Hol, wait one second.’

Holly cleared her throat. Before long. Bella returned to the phone line with renewed focus. ‘Sorry Hol. That was just Daniel wanting me to buy loo roll again. The man’s obsessed! I mean – can you honestly believe he thinks he’s exempt from buying bog roll just because he poos at work?! I mean, who thinks like that?!’ Bella giggled despite her trauma.

‘He’s probably expecting one of his lady callers.’

‘Yes, that figures. But anyway! Can we do a movie and Prosecco tonight please?’

‘I really should be working late on fixing this new episode. I’m still two minutes and twenty-three seconds over length.’ She looked at Chardonnay’s tangerine face, frozen mid-pout, and thought for a moment. ‘But of course, B. I’ll pick up some pizzas on the way home.’

‘Christ, no. Shan’t be no solids passing my lips for at least a month now.’

‘Oh, right. More for me then.’

‘Actually, maybe pick up some chocolate brownie Ben & Jerry’s? I can probably digest that. At a push.’

‘Done. See you later for some Sex and the City therapy. Love you.’ Holly had an unrivalled talent for prescribing the exact most fitting episode for when her friends were going through a personal crisis of any sort. Despite being almost a decade old, many of the show’s scenarios were still so on the nail that viewings became like a workshop session.

What would it be this week? Definitely not the ‘he broke up with me on a Post-it’ one, she decided as she hung up the phone.

She grabbed the cup of black coffee that was now only partially warm, and headed down the hall towards the gargantuan corner office. She knocked on the door.

‘Enter.’

Once Holly had recovered from being momentarily blinded by the light from Jeremy’s floor-to-ceiling windows, she handed him his coffee. He took the cup without looking up from his screen, which was quite clearly displaying an inter-marital dating site. A dialogue box was open, in which Jeremy was filling out his physical characteristics with a generous dollop of artistic license. Holly stared at the back of his head, where a bald spot was forming like a threadbare patch on an old rug. She waited for him to stop typing, minimise his screen and turn to face her. When that didn’t happen, she began to talk in that garbled way she did around people she thought didn’t like her.