Should I ask about the children? No, too personal. As my eyes roam around, they take in all the piles of papers everywhere. This is yet another thing that drives Sarah mad: when Demeter asks her to print out emails. I often hear her muttering at her desk: “Read them on the fucking screen.”

On the shelf beside Demeter is a row of books on branding, marketing, and design. They’re mostly standard titles, but there’s one I haven’t read—an old paperback entitled Our Vision—and I look at it more closely.

“Is that book Our Vision good?” I ask.

“Brilliant,” replies Demeter, pausing briefly in her typing. “It’s a series of conversations between designers from the eighties. Very inspiring.”

“Could I maybe…borrow it?” I venture.

“Sure.” Demeter turns her head briefly, looking surprised. “Be my guest. Enjoy.”

As I take down the book, I notice a little box on the same shelf. It’s one of Demeter’s most famous triumphs, the Redfern Raisin box, with its dinky little red string handles. Everyone takes those string handles for granted now, but at the time, no one had ever thought of such a thing.

“I’ve always wondered about Redfern Raisins,” I say impulsively. “How did you get those string handles through? They must be expensive.”

“Oh, they’re expensive.” Demeter nods, still typing. “It was a nightmare persuading the client. But then it all worked out.”

“Worked out” is an understatement. It was a sensation, and the sales of Redfern Raisins rocketed. I’ve read articles about it.

“So, how did you do it?” I persist. “How did you persuade the client?”

I’m not just asking to make conversation; I really want to know. Because maybe one day I’ll work on a project and want to push through some super-expensive feature, and the client will be all stroppy, but I’ll remember Demeter’s wise advice and win the day. I’ll be Kung Fu Panda to her Master Shifu, only with less kung fu. (Probably.)

Demeter has stopped typing and she turns round as though she’s actually quite interested in the question herself.

“What we do in our job,” she says thoughtfully, “it’s a balance. On the one hand it’s about listening to the client. Interpreting. Responding. But on the other, it’s about having the courage to go with big ideas. It’s about standing up for your convictions. You need a bit of tenacity. Yes?”

“Definitely,” I say, trying to look as tenacious as possible. I lower my brows and hold the hair dye wand firmly. Altogether, I hope I’m giving off the vibe: Tenacious. Alert. A Surprisingly Interesting Junior Member Of Staff Whose Name It’s Worth Remembering.

But Demeter doesn’t seem to have noticed my tenacious, alert demeanor. She’s turned back to her computer. Quick, what else can we talk about? Before she can start typing again, I say hastily, “So, um, have you been to that new restaurant in Marylebone? The Nepalese–British fusion place?”

It’s like catnip. I’ve mentioned the hottest restaurant of the moment, and Demeter stops dead.

“I have, actually,” she says, sounding surprised that I’ve asked. “I went a couple of weeks ago. Have you?”

Have I?

What does she think, that I can afford to spend £25 on a plate of dumplings?

But I can’t bear to say, No, I just read about it on a blog, because that’s all I can afford to do, because London is the sixth-most-expensive city in the world, hadn’t you noticed?

(On the plus side, it’s not as expensive as Singapore. Which makes you wonder: What on earth does everything cost in Singapore?)

“I’m planning to,” I say after a pause. “What did you think?”

“I was impressed.” Demeter nods. “You know that the tables are handmade in Kathmandu? And the food is challenging but earthy. Very authentic. All organic, of course.”

“Of course.” I match her serious, this-is-no-joking-matter tone. I think, if Demeter had to put her religion down on a form, she’d put Organic.

“Isn’t the chef the same guy who was at Sit, Eat?” I say, dabbing the brush into more gloopy dye. “He’s not Nepalese.”

“No, but he’s got a Nepalese adviser and he spent two years out there….” Demeter swivels round and looks at me more appraisingly. “You know your restaurants, don’t you?”

“I like food.”

Which is true. I read restaurant reviews like some people read horoscopes. I even keep a list in my bag of all the top restaurants I’d like to go to sometime. I wrote it out as a jokey thing with my friend Fi one day, and it’s just kind of stuck around, like a talisman.

“What do you think of Salt Block?” Demeter demands, as though testing me.

“I think the dish to have is the sea urchin,” I say without missing a beat.

I’ve read that everywhere. Every review, every blog. It’s all about the sea urchin.

“The sea urchin.” Demeter nods, frowning. “Yes, I’ve heard about that. I should have ordered it.”

I can tell she’s fretting now. She’s missed out on the must-eat dish. She’ll have to go back and have it.

Demeter turns and gives me a short, penetrating look—then swivels back to her computer. “Next time we get a food project, I’m putting you on it.”

I feel a flicker of disbelieving delight. Was that a vote of approval from Demeter? Am I actually getting somewhere?

“I worked on the re-launch of the Awesome Pizza Place in Birmingham,” I quickly remind her. It was on my CV, but she’ll have forgotten that.

“Birmingham,” echoes Demeter absently. “That’s right.” She types furiously for a few moments, then adds, “You don’t sound Brummie.”

Oh God. I’m not going into the whole ditching-the-West-Country-accent story. It’s too embarrassing. And who cares where I’m originally from, anyway? I’m a Londoner now.

“I guess I’m just not an accent person,” I say, closing the subject. I don’t want to talk about where I’m from; I want to press on toward my goal. “So, um, Demeter? You know the Wash-Blu rebrand we’re pitching for? Well, I’ve done some mock-ups of my own for the new logo and packaging. In my spare time. And I wondered, could I show them to you?”

“Absolutely.” Demeter nods encouragingly. “Good for you! Email them to me.”

This is how she always reacts. She says, “Email them to me!” with great enthusiasm, and you do, and then you don’t hear anything back, ever.

“Right.” I nod. “Perfect. Or I can show you right now?”

“Now?” says Demeter vaguely, reaching for a plastic folder.

She wanted tenacious, didn’t she? I carefully put down the hair dye on a shelf and hurry to get my designs.

“So, this is the front of the box….” I put a printout in front of her. “You’ll see how I’ve treated the lettering, while keeping the very recognizable blue tone….”

Demeter’s mobile phone buzzes and she grabs it.

“Hello, Roy? Yes, I got your message.” She nods intently. “Let me just write that down….” She seizes my printout, turns it over, and scribbles a number on the back of it. “Six o’clock. Yes, absolutely.”

She puts the phone down, absently folds the paper up into quarters, and puts it in her bag. Then she looks up at me and comes to. “Oh! Sorry. That’s your paper, isn’t it? Do you mind if I keep it? Rather an important number.”

I stare back, blood pulsing in my ears. I don’t know how to respond. That was my design. My design. That I was showing her. Not some piece of crappy scrap paper. Should I say something? Should I stand up for myself?

My spirits have plummeted. I feel so stupid. There I was, believing—hoping—that we were bonding, that she was noticing me….

“Shit.” Demeter interrupts my thoughts, staring at her computer in consternation. “Shit. Oh God.”

She pushes her chair back with no warning and bashes my legs. I cry, “Ow!” but I’m not sure she hears: She’s too agitated. She peers out of her glass office wall, then ducks down.

“What is it?” I gulp. “What’s happened?”

“Alex is on his way!” she says, as though this is self-explanatory.

“Alex?” I echo stupidly. Who’s Alex?

“He just emailed. He can’t see me like this.” She gestures at her head, which is all messy with dye and needs to be left for at least another five minutes. “Go and meet the lift,” she says urgently. “Intercept him.”

“I don’t know who he is!”

“You’ll know him!” Demeter says impatiently. “Tell him to come back in half an hour. Or email. But don’t let him come in here.” Her hands rise to her head as though to shield it.

“But what about your hair dye?”

“It’s fine. You’re done. All I do now is wait and wash it off. Go! Go!”

Oh God. Demeter’s panic is contagious, and as I scurry down the corridor I feel hyper-vigilant. But what if I don’t catch this Alex? What if I don’t recognize him? Who is he, anyway?

I take up a position right outside the lift doors and wait. The first lift disgorges Liz and Rosa, who give me a slightly odd look as they pass by. The second lift whizzes straight past to the ground floor. Then the first lift arrives at our floor again and…Ping. The doors open and out steps a tall, slim guy I haven’t seen before. And Demeter’s right: I instantly know this must be him.

He has brown hair, not mousy brown but proper dark chestnut, springing up from his brow. He looks about thirty and has one of those wide-open, appealing faces that you get when you have good cheekbones and a broad smile. (He’s not smiling, but you can tell: When he does smile it’ll be broad, and I bet he’s got good teeth too.) He’s wearing jeans and a pale-purple shirt, and his arms are full of boxes covered in Chinese characters.

“Alex?” I say.