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that had begun to gather, slowly shuffling forward to encircle her desk, until Richard cleared his throat officiously. She looked up, startled, cramming the last of her personal effects into a bulging plastic folder with the rest of the clutter she had accumulated over the past three years. She turned around and smiled at the assembled mob, realising that she knew hardly anything about the majority of them, despite have worked with most of them for three years. Simon hadn’t shown up.
    Richard cleared his throat again, drawing a chorus of obsequious titters. Kirsty’s heart sank, as the corners of her mouth locked upwards in a forced grin.
    “Kirsty first came to work for me almost three years ago now, when she first joined the graduate program. She provided invaluable assistance, and at the end of the year, I invited her to join my team full-time. She has proven herself to be an excellent multi-tasker, although her time-management skills have become debatable. Which is why...” (Kirsty noticed the small square parcel in his hand for the first time) “... we thought you should have this.” He handed her the package, sparking another round of giggles. Tearing off the paper, she forced a laugh when she unveiled a small analogue alarm clock, obviously taken from the marketing cupboard, judging by the company logo plastered on its face.
    “Joking aside,” Jones continued, “I would like to thank Kirsty for her contribution to my team and to wish her every success in her travels and in her future endeavours.”
    Everyone clapped enthusiastically, before looking to Kirsty expectantly.
    “Thanks Richard,” she responded. “And thanks everyone for coming to see me off. It’s been a pleasure working with you all. As my email said, my leaving party will be at the Grey Cat this evening, I hope you can all make it.”
    The crowd dispersed quickly. Turning back to her desk, Kirsty knelt down to grab her handbag from the floor  where she had kicked it earlier. Jamming the folder into the already bulging bag, she put on her coat. Exit, stage left, she thought. Almost. She sat back down on her chair and hurriedly rifled through the pile of documents that remained on her desk. Having separated them into two piles, she hurried to Richard’s office and placed one on his desk, deliberately knocking over one of the neat piles. After feeding the other bundle into the confidential document bin, she returned to her desk and typed a quick list to Richard before shutting down her machine. The only things left on her desk were her handbag and the old photo. It had become almost talismanic to her: it reminded her of the moment when her life had started taking its new direction. She picked it up and placed it carefully in the side pocket of her bag.
    She surveyed the office emotionlessly on her way to the exit: the endless warren of glass walls had begun to feel like a prison during her final months there. The kitchenette was where she had been collared into corporate small talk on a daily basis, and the row of glass-walled rooms along the wall held only memories of appallingly frustrating conference calls where nothing was ever really said.
    In the corridor, she pressed the lift call button repeatedly -- eager to escape now that she was so close -- drawing an irritated glance from the besuited man waiting beside her in the lift lobby. She looked away from him smiling. She fought to contain the growing euphoria within her; the ‘Friday feeling’ magnified a thousand-fold. Skipping into the lift, she punched the G button with glee; the only obstacle still standing on the path to freedom was her leaving party.
     
    “There she is, the intrepid adventurer herself!” boomed a ruddy-faced Richard, as Kirsty walked into the bar.
    It was standard fare for Canary Wharf: groups of men in shiny Italian wool suits, colourful shirts and loud ties; and women in smart tailoring, stood in loose circles around their reserved tables, alternatively