“Well … we do advise them to make an effort,” she says, reddening before she hurries off. I glance over at Steve, who is peering at the beautiful girls as if he can hardly believe his luck.

“Welcome, everyone!” I head to the front of the stage. “Thanks for coming today. My name is Lottie Graveney, and I’m here to talk to you about choosing a career at Blay Pharmaceuticals. You’ll know us best for the range of global brands we sell at the pharmacy, from our Placidus range of painkillers to our bestselling Sincero baby cream. But a career with us is so much more than that—”

“It’s an exciting career.” Steve practically elbows me out of the way. “Yes, it’ll challenge you, but it’ll thrill you. We’re working right at the edge of pioneering research and we want to take you on that roller coaster with us.”

I glare at him. He’s tragic. First of all, that’s not the script. Second, where has that fake “sexy” voice come from? Third, he’s now rolling up his sleeves, as though he’s some sort of rugged, pharmaceutical-research version of Indiana Jones. He really shouldn’t. His forearms are all white and veiny.

“If you want an adventure in life …” He pauses for effect and practically growls, “Then this is the place to start.”

He’s homed in on a girl in the front row, whose white shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a deep, tanned cleavage. She has long blond hair and big blue eyes and seems to be scribbling down every word he’s saying.

“Let’s show the DVD, Steve,” I say brightly, dragging him away before he actually drools over her. The lights dim and our first DVD clip starts rolling on the screen behind us.

“Bright lot,” whispers Steve as he sits down beside me. “I’m impressed.”

Impressed by what? Her bra size?

“You can’t know if they’re bright yet,” I point out. “We haven’t talked to them.”

“You can see it in the eyes,” Steve says airily. “I’ve been at this game long enough to know potential when I see it. That fair-haired girl in the front row looks very promising. Very promising. We should talk to her about the scholarship program. Scoop her up before any of the other pharmaceutical companies get to her.”

For God’s sake. He’ll be offering her a six-figure contract next.

“We’ll give them all information about the scholarship program,” I say severely. “And maybe you could try not to address every remark to her boobs?”

The lights come up and Steve strides center stage, pushing his sleeves up still farther, as though he’s about to split some lumber and single-handedly construct a cabin with it.

“Let me share with you a few of the newest advances we’ve made and those we hope to make in the future. Maybe with your help.” He twinkles at the blond girl, and she smiles back politely.

Onto the screen comes a picture of a complicated molecule.

“You’ll all be familiar with onium-poly hydrogen fluorides.…” Steve gestures at the screen with a pointer, then stops. “Before I continue, it would be useful to know what you’re studying.” He looks around. “There’ll be biochemists here, obviously—”

“It doesn’t matter what they study!” Deborah cuts him off sharply before anyone can answer. To my surprise, she’s leapt up out of her seat and is heading toward the stage. “It doesn’t matter what they study, surely?”

She’s as tense as a spring. What’s going on?

“It’s just a useful guide,” explains Steve. “If all the biochemists could raise their hands—”

“But you take students from all subjects.” She cuts him off. “You say so in your materials. So it’s irrelevant, surely?”

She looks panicky. I knew something was wrong.

“Any biochemists at all?” Steve is looking at the silent room, baffled. Normally, at least half our audience is biochemists.

Deborah is ashen. “Could we have a word?” she says at last, and beckons us desperately to one side. “I’m afraid …” Her voice trembles. “There was an error. I sent the email to the wrong set of students.”

So that’s it. She’s left out the biochemists. What an idiot. But she looks so upset, I decide to be kind.

“We’re very open-minded,” I say reassuringly. “We’re not only interested in biochemists. We also recruit graduates in physics, biology, business studies.… What are these students studying?”

There’s silence. Deborah is furiously chewing her lips.

“Beauty,” she mutters at last. “Most are trainee makeup artists. And some are dancers.”

Makeup artists and dancers?

I’m so flummoxed I can’t reply. No wonder they’re all so stunning and fit. I catch a glimpse of Steve—and he looks so gutted I suddenly want to giggle.

“That’s a shame,” I say innocently. “Steve thought this seemed a very promising bunch. He wanted to offer them all scientific research scholarships. Didn’t you, Steve?”

Steve scowls evilly at me and rounds on Deborah. “What the fuck is going on? Why are we giving a lecture on a career in pharmaceutical research to a room full of bloody makeup artists and dancers?”

“I’m sorry!” Deborah looks like she wants to weep. “By the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. I’ve been set a target of attracting more blue-chip companies, and you’re such a prestigious firm, I couldn’t bear to cancel—”

“Does anyone here want to work in pharmaceutical research?” Steve addresses the room.

No one raises their hand. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I got up at six A.M. to be here. Not that I’d been asleep, but still.

“So what are you doing here?” Steve sounds like he’s going to explode.

“We have to go to ten career seminars to get our career-search credit,” says a girl with a bobbing ponytail.

“Jesus Christ.” Steve picks up his jacket from his chair. “I do not have time for this.” As he stalks out of the auditorium, I feel like doing the same thing myself. I’ve never met anyone as incompetent as Deborah in my life.

But, on the other hand, there’s still a roomful of students watching me. They all still need a career, even if it’s not in pharmaceutical research. And I’ve come all the way from London. I’m not just turning round and going home.

“OK.” I take the remote from Deborah, flip off the DVD, and walk center stage. “Let’s start again. I don’t work in the beauty industry or the dance industry. So there’s not much point me advising you on that. But I do employ people. So, how about I try to give some general advice? Do you have any questions for me?”

There’s silence. Then a girl in a leather jacket hesitantly lifts her hand.

“Could you look at my CV and tell me if it’s any good?”

“Of course. Good idea. Anyone else want me to look at theirs?”

A forest of arms shoots up. I’ve never seen such a well-manicured selection of hands in my life.

“OK. Form a line. That’s what we’ll do.”

Two hours later, I’ve scanned the CVs of about thirty students. (If Deborah is their CV adviser, then Deborah should be fired. That’s all I’m saying.) I’ve done a Q and A session on pensions and tax returns and self-employment law. I’ve shared all the advice I think might help these guys. And in return I’ve learned a lot about many areas I was totally ignorant of, such as: 1) How you make someone look wounded in a movie; 2) which actress currently filming in London seems really sweet but is actually a total bitch to her makeup artist; and 3) how you do a grand jeté (I failed on that one).

Now I’ve opened the floor to any subject at all, and a pale girl with pink streaky hair is speaking about the cost of shellac and how difficult it is to make the margins work if you want to open your own salon. I’m listening and trying to make helpful comments, but my attention keeps being drawn to another girl, sitting in the second row. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she hasn’t said a word, but she keeps fingering her phone and blowing her nose and dabbing her tissue to her eyes.

There was one moment during the Q and A when I could have done with a tissue myself. I was talking about vacation benefits, and it brought all my anguish back in a whoosh. I’d been saving up vacation myself. Three weeks’ worth. I thought I’d be needing it for a honeymoon. I’d even found this amazing place in St. Lucia—

No, Lottie. Don’t go there. Move on. Move on, move on. I blink hard and refocus on the girl with pink hair.

“… do you think I should focus on brows?” she’s saying, looking anxious.

Oh God, I wasn’t listening properly. How did we get on to brows? I’m about to ask her to recap her main points for the benefit of the room (always a good way out) when the girl in the second row gives a massive sob. I can’t ignore her anymore.

“Hi,” I say gently, waving to attract her attention. “Excuse me. Are you OK?”

“Cindy’s had a breakup.” Her friend puts a protective arm round her. “Can she be excused?”

“Of course!” I say. “Absolutely!”

“But will she still get the credit?” chimes in another friend anxiously. “Because she’s already failed one module.”

“It’s all his fault,” says the first friend viciously, and about ten girls nod in agreement, murmuring things like “It so is” and “Tosser” and “He can’t do a smoky eye.”

“We were together for two years.” The pale girl gives another sob. “Two whole years. I did half his coursework for him. And now he’s all like, ‘I need to focus on my career.’ I thought he wanted to be with meeee.…” She dissolves into prolonged weeping and I stare at her, tears starting to my eyes. I know her pain. I know it.

“Of course you’ll get the credit,” I say warmly. “In fact, I’ll give you a special mention for turning up when you’re clearly in mental distress.”

“Will you?” Cindy gives me a watery smile. “Will you really?”