“It’s really not,” I repeat. “I think you should go.”

I don’t even look up as he departs. I draw his stupid pile of papers to me, flick through them, too angry to read a word, then open a document on my computer and type furiously:

D arrives at office, leaving N with me with no notice, contravening agreement. Unhelpful manner. Wishes to raise more points regarding divorce settlement. Refuses to discuss reasonably.

I unclip my memory stick from its place on a chain round my neck and save the updated file to it. My memory stick is my comfort blanket. The whole dossier is on there: the whole sorry Daniel story. I replace it round my neck, then speed-dial Barnaby, my lawyer.

“Barnaby, you won’t believe it,” I say as soon as his voicemail answers. “Daniel wants to revisit the settlement again. Can you call me back?”

Then I glance anxiously at Noah to see if he heard me. But he’s chortling over something in his book. I’ll have to hand him over to my PA; she’s helped me out with emergency child-care before.

“Come on.” I stand up and ruffle his hair. “Let’s find Elise.”

The thing about avoiding people at parties is, it’s quite easy if you’re hosting. You always have an excuse to move away from the conversation just as you see a forty-inch pink-striped shirt bearing down on you. (So sorry, I must greet the marketing manager of the Mandarin Oriental, back in a moment.…)

The party has been going for half an hour and I’ve managed to avoid the Gruffalo completely. It helps that he’s so massive and the atrium is so crowded. I’ve made it appear totally natural that every time he gets within three feet I’m striding away in the opposite direction, or out of the room completely, or, in desperation, into the Ladies’….

Damn. As I emerge from the Ladies’, he’s waiting for me. Gunter Bachmeier is actually standing in the corridor, staking out the door of the Ladies’.

“Oh, hello, Gunter,” I say smoothly. “How delightful to see you. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you—”

“You hef been avoiding me,” he says in severe guttural tones.

“Nonsense! Are you enjoying the party?” I force myself to put a hand on his meaty forearm.

“You hef traduced my new hotel.”

He pronounces “traduced” with a rich, rolling sound. “Trrrraduced.” I’m quite impressed that he knows the word. I certainly wouldn’t know the equivalent for “traduced” in German. My German extends to “Taxi, bitte?”

“Gunter, you’re overreacting.” I smile pleasantly. “A four-star review is hardly … traducement.” Traduction? Traducedom? “I’m sorry that my reviewer found herself unable to allot you five stars—”

“You hef not reviewed my hotel yourself.” He’s bristling with anger. “You hef sent an amateur. You hef treated me with disrrrrespect!”

“No, I hef not!” I retort before I can stop myself. “I mean hev. Have.” My face is flaming. “Have not.”

I didn’t mean to do that; I just have a terrible parrot habit. I mimic voices and accents without intending to. Now Gunter is glaring at me even more viciously.

“Everything all right, Felicity?” Gavin, our publisher, comes bustling up. I can see his radar twitching and I know why. Last year, the Gruffalo shelled out for twenty-four double-page spreads. The Gruffalo is keeping us in business. But I can’t give his hotel a five-star review simply because he bought some ads. A five-star review in Pincher Travel Review is a very big deal.

“I was just explaining to Gunter that I sent one of our top freelancers to review his hotel,” I say. “I’m sorry he wasn’t happy, but—”

“You should hef gone yourrrself.” Gunter spits the words dismissively. “Wherrrre is your crrrredibility, Felicity? Wherrre is your rrrreputation?”

As he stalks off, I secretly feel a bit shaken. As I lift my eyes to Gavin, my heart is pumping.

“Well!” I try to sound lighthearted. “What an overreaction.”

“Why didn’t you cover the Palm Stellar?” Gavin is frowning. “You review all major launches. That’s always been the deal.”

“I decided to send Celia Davidson,” I say brightly, avoiding the question. “She’s a great writer.”

“Why didn’t you cover the Palm Stellar?” he repeats, as though he hasn’t heard me.

“I had some stuff going on with … with …” I clear my throat, unwilling to say the word. “Some personal stuff.”

I watch as Gavin suddenly comprehends. “Your divorce?”

I can’t bring myself to answer. I twist my watch round my wrist, as though suddenly interested in the mechanism.

“Your divorce?” His voice sharpens ominously. “Again?”

My cheeks are burning with embarrassment. I know my divorce has taken on epic, Lord of the Rings–style proportions. I know it’s taken up more of my working time than it should have. I know I keep promising Gavin that it’s all done and dusted.

But it’s not like I have a choice. And it’s not like it’s fun.

“I was talking to a specialist barrister based in Edinburgh,” I admit at last. “I had to fly up there; his schedule was really busy—”

“Felicity.” Gavin beckons me to one side of the corridor, and at the sight of his tight-lipped smile, my stomach turns over. That’s the smile he wears to cut salaries and budgets and tell people their magazine is unfortunately being axed, could they please leave the building? “Felicity, no one could be more sympathetic to your plight than me. You know that.”

He’s such a liar. What does he know about divorce? He has a wife and a mistress, and neither of them seems to mind about the other.

“Thank you, Gavin,” I feel obliged to say.

“But you cannot let your divorce get in the way of your job or the reputation of Pincher International,” he raps out. “Understand?”

Suddenly, for the first time, I feel genuinely nervous. I know from experience that Gavin starts invoking the “reputation of Pincher International” when he’s thinking of firing someone. It’s a warning.

I also know from experience, the only way to deal with him is to refuse to admit anything.

“Gavin.” I draw myself up as tall as possible and affect a dignified air. “Let me make one thing quite clear.” I pause, as though I’m David Cameron at Prime Minister’s Questions. “Quite clear. If there’s one thing I never, ever do, it’s let my personal life compromise my job. In fact—”

“Pow!” An earsplitting shriek interrupts me. “Laser attack!”

My blood freezes. That can’t be—

Oh no.

A familiar rat-a-tat sound assaults my ears. Orange plastic bullets are shooting through the air, hitting people in the face and landing in glasses of champagne. Noah is running down the corridor toward the atrium, laughing uproariously and firing all around him with his automatic Nerf gun. Fuck. Why didn’t I check his backpack?

“Stop!” I launch myself at Noah, grab him by the collar, and snatch the plastic gun out of his hands. “Stop that! Gavin, I’m so sorry,” I add breathlessly. “Daniel was supposed to look after Noah tonight, but he left me in the lurch, and— Shit! Argh!”

In my agitation, I’ve pressed some button on the Nerf gun, and it’s spraying more bullets out, like something out of Reservoir Dogs, hitting Gavin in the chest. I’m massacring my boss with an automatic weapon flashes through my mind. This won’t look good in my appraisal. The stream of bullets rises to his face and he splutters in horror.

“Sorry!” I drop the gun on the floor. “I didn’t mean to shoot.…”

With a shudder, I notice Gunter, ten feet away. There are three orange Nerf bullets lodged in his tufty white hair and one in his drink.

“Gavin.” I swallow. “Gavin. I don’t know what to say—”

“It was my fault,” Elise interrupts me hastily. “I was looking after Noah.”

“But he shouldn’t have been at the office,” I point out. “So it’s my fault.”

We turn to Gavin as though waiting for his verdict. He’s just staring at the scene, shaking his head.

“Personal life. Job.” He meshes his hands together. “Fliss, you need to sort yourself out.”

My face is hot with mortification as I frog-march a protesting Noah to my office.

“But I was winning!” he keeps complaining.

“I’m sorry.” Elise is clutching her head. “He said it was his favorite game.”

“No problem.” I shoot her a smile. “Noah, we don’t play with Nerf guns at Mummy’s office. Ever.”

“I’ll go and find him something to eat,” says Elise. “Fliss, you need to get back to the party, quick. Go. Now. It’ll be fine. C’mon, Noah.”

She hustles Noah out of the room and I feel every cell of my body sag.

She’s right. I need to hurry back, sweep in, gather up the Nerf bullets, apologize, charm, and turn this evening back into the slick professional affair it always is.

But I’m so tired. I feel like I could go to sleep right now. The carpet under my desk looks like the perfect place for me to curl up.

I sink down on my chair, just as the phone rings. I’ll take this one call. Maybe it will be some uplifting piece of news.

“Hello?”

“Felicity? Barnaby here.”

“Oh, Barnaby.” I sit up, feeling freshly galvanized. “Thanks for ringing back. You won’t believe what Daniel just did. He’d agreed to have Noah tonight, but then he left me in the lurch. And now he says he wants to revisit the settlement! We might end up back in court!”

“Fliss, calm down. Chill out.” Barnaby’s unhurried Mancunian tones greet me. I do often wish Barnaby spoke a bit more quickly. Especially as I’m paying him by the hour. “We’ll sort it. Don’t worry.”

“He’s so frustrating.”

“I hear you. But you mustn’t stress. Try to forget about it.”