“Well, you know,” I amend, trying to sound more diplomatic. “All your mistakes. And…well. The stuff with the staff.”

“What stuff with the staff?” She gazes at me through the murk, with that myopic, confused, incredibly frustrating expression she gets.

“Well.” I shrug awkwardly. I’m hardly going to spell it out, am I?

There’s silence. Demeter’s foot is tapping on the floor in a nervous, repetitive pattern. Her eyes are darting around like a cornered animal’s.

“Tell me about the stuff with the staff,” she says abruptly. “You were one of them. Tell me.”

Oh God. This is excruciating.

“Really,” I say at once. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!”

“It is! I mean, there were just a few tiny things….” I trail off uncomfortably.

“Clearly there were more than a few tiny things,” says Demeter evenly. “Katie, I’m asking you as a fellow professional. Give me a review. A full, honest review. No holds barred.”

Arrgh. Is she serious?

“I can’t!” I twist my legs together. “It would be…awkward.”

“Awkward?” Demeter erupts. “How awkward do you think I feel right now, hiding in a woodshed from a man who used to be my junior? Looking at my whole career disappearing down the drain? Feeling I must be going mad?” She clutches her head, and I can see tears suddenly glittering in her eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like for me. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.” She bangs her head against her hands, and I gape in shocked dismay. “Nothing makes sense. I really think I may be getting dementia. But I can’t admit that to anyone. Anyone. Not even James.”

“You haven’t got dementia,” I say, appalled. “That’s ridiculous!”

But Demeter is shaking her head almost savagely, as though she can’t hear me.

“Things change. Things…they don’t make sense. Emails. Messages.” Her brow wrinkles as though with the memory. “Every day I get through in a state of, basically…panic. Yes. Panic. Trying to keep on top of everything and failing. Quite clearly failing, as my imminent dismissal goes to prove.” She wipes roughly at her eyes. “I do apologize. This is unlike me.”

“Look.” I gulp, feeling more and more uneasy. “You’re brilliant at what you do. You really inspired me, and you’ve got amazing ideas—”

“Tell me about the staff.” She cuts me off dead. “Where have I messed up? Why do they hate me?”

I’m about to give the pat answer: They don’t hate you. But something about Demeter’s expression stops me fobbing her off. I respect this woman. She deserves better than that.

“Well, take Rosa.” I pick a name at random. “She feels…” I hesitate, trying to decide how to put it.

She feels you stamp on her fingers with your Miu Miu shoes.

“She feels you don’t always encourage her to develop her career,” I say carefully. “Like, you wouldn’t let her do the mayor’s athletics project.”

“She’s holding that against me?” Demeter looks incredulous.

“Well, it would have showcased her talents….”

“Jesus.” Demeter closes her eyes. “I don’t believe this. Do you want to know the truth? They didn’t want her at the mayor’s project.”

“What?” It’s my turn to stare.

“I wrote an email recommending her, and we sent off a portfolio, but she didn’t make the grade.”

“But why didn’t you tell her?” I exclaim.

“Rosa always seems very sensitive. Oversensitive, even.” Demeter shrugs. “I thought I’d protect her feelings and say that I needed her. Keep her confidence levels up.”

“Oh.” I think about this. “Well, maybe you kept her confidence levels up, but…”

“Now she hates me,” finishes Demeter. “Yes. I can see how that might have happened. Unintended consequences and all that.” There’s a strange quiver to her face, and I think she’s quite upset but trying to mask it. “I won’t make that mistake again. Who else?”

“OK,” I say, feeling worse than ever. “So…Mark. He hates you because you stole his thunder with that Drench moisturizer rebrand.”

“Really?” Demeter looks astonished. “But that was a massive success. We’ve won awards. It’s boosted his career.”

“Well, I know. But he had his own ideas, and you came barging in and took over and embarrassed him….” I bite my lip. “I’m only telling you what people say—” I break off, unnerved at the anger suddenly flashing in Demeter’s face.

“I saved him,” she says hotly. “I bloody saved him. Those designs he came up with were rushed and substandard. He’s talented, Mark, but he does too much freelance work on the side. I know that’s what he’s up to at home. He’s greedy; he takes on too much, and it shows.” She falls silent and seems to simmer down. “But I could have been more diplomatic,” she adds. “When I get a good idea I forget everything else. It’s a bad fault of mine.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I’m quiet for a while. I can see that Demeter’s head is teeming with thoughts, and no wonder.

“So, Rosa hates me and Mark hates me,” she says, in an odd voice. “Anyone else?”

“Hate’s the wrong word,” I say hurriedly, even though it’s exactly the right word. “It’s just…I suppose…they don’t feel very respected. For example, did you even know that Mark won the Stylesign Award for Innovation?”

Demeter turns her head and surveys me as though I’m mad.

“Of course I bloody knew. I put him up for it. I’m on the contributing panel. And I sent him a card afterward.” Then her brow creases. “Actually, did I send it? I know I wrote it….”

“You what?” I gape at her. “Well, did you tell him you nominated him?”

“Of course I didn’t tell him,” she retorts. “It’s anonymous.”

“So no one at the office has any idea you helped him?”

“I don’t know,” says Demeter impatiently.

“Well, you should!” I practically yell. “You should get some credit! Demeter, you’re driving me mad here! You’re so much nicer than you make out you are. But you’ve got to help yourself!”

“I don’t understand,” says Demeter, a little haughtily, and I nearly pop with exasperation.

“Don’t make people do up your corset dress. Don’t make people do your roots. Don’t tell Hannah she’s being a drama queen because she’s had a panic attack.”

“What?” Demeter looks horrified. “I never said that. I would never say something like that. I’ve been very supportive of Hannah and her issues—”

“I remember it exactly,” I cut her off. “You said to Hannah, ‘No one thinks you’re a drama queen.’ To her that sounded like, You’re a drama queen.”

“Oh.” Demeter sounds chastened. “Oh. I see.”

There’s a long silence, and I can tell she’s mulling. “I think perhaps I don’t always communicate what I want to communicate,” she says at last.

“We have an expression for it,” I say. If I’m going to be honest, I might as well tell her the lot. “We call it ‘being Demetered.’ ”

“Oh my God.” She looks even more shell-shocked. As well she might.

There’s another long silence, and I know some thought or other is bubbling to the top of Demeter’s head. Sure enough, a moment later she exclaims, “But the roots! Do you hate me because I asked you to do my roots?”

“Well…” I’m not sure how to reply, but luckily Demeter doesn’t seem to need an answer.

“Because that I do not understand,” she continues emphatically. “I thought we were all in the sisterhood. If you asked me to do your roots, Katie, and I had time, then of course I would. Of course I would.”

She meets my gaze, unblinking, and I realize that I believe her. I think she means it. She’d do my roots in a heartbeat and not be remotely offended.

With every revelation, more of a pattern has started to form. I think in some ways Demeter’s the opposite of what we all thought. Maybe she’s careless—but she’s not vindictive. She isn’t deliberately stamping everyone with her Miu Miu shoes—she’s just not being careful enough about where she places them. She obviously thinks that everyone’s like her: focused on having great ideas and making them work and not fussing too much about the details. The trouble is, people—employees—do mind about the details.

The more I realize the truth, the more frustrated I’m feeling with her. It could all be so different, if she took more care.

“You know, it really doesn’t help that you always mix up people’s names,” I say bluntly. “And the way you look at people as if you can’t remember who they are? That’s bad.”

For the first time in our conversation, Demeter looks truly mortified. “I have a very small visual-recognition issue,” she says with dignity. “But it’s only a detail. I’ve masked it successfully all my life. It’s never held me back at work.”

God, she’s perverse. I feel like strangling her.

“You haven’t masked it successfully!” I retort. “And it has held you back! Because, look, you’re about to get fired, and that’s a factor. People think you don’t care about them. If you just told everyone you had a problem—” I break off as an idea hits me. “Maybe that’s why you get confused with stuff. I mean, it’s a thing. Like being dyslexic. You could get help; you could get support….” I trail off as Demeter shakes her head.

“I wish. It’s not that. It’s worse than that.” She gives me a bleak little smile. “I’ve googled early-onset dementia. I have all the signs.”

“But you’re totally with it!” I say, feeling quite distressed at this conversation. “You’re sane, you’re lucid, you’re young, for God’s sake….”

Demeter shakes her head. “I send emails I don’t remember sending. I get confused over dates. I don’t remember things I’ve agreed to. This issue with Allersons. I’m sure they told me to stall. They were waiting for some piece of research they’d commissioned.” Her face crumples. “But now everyone’s telling me they didn’t say that. So it must be me. I must be losing my sanity. Luckily I think quickly on my feet, so I’ve got myself out of a lot of situations. But not all of them.”