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I did my own filing and photocopying; I bent over backwards to avoid giving her work to do. So Martine was bored. She devoted herself instead to being the company’s unofficial social secretary, and my unwanted fairy godmother.
    ‘You feeling all right?’ She had come all the way into the room. ‘Only you look white as anything. Got a headache, have you? Want a painkiller? I’ve got some Nurofen.’
    I tried to ward off the pills with a quick shake of my head and a smile, but she was determined.

    ‘I’ve got aspirin cos you’re supposed to take that every day in case of strokes, at least that’s what they say now but they’ll probably say something else next week. Let’s see. I think there’s some paracetamol in the first-aid kit. But you’ve got to watch that. Someone told me it only takes five tablets to kill you. Imagine!’ Her face, impeccably made-up, was alive with delight at the very idea.
    ‘I don’t need anything, really.’
    ‘Someone else might have something. I can ask. One of the other girls might have Solpadeine. Do you take that, love? Or can you not have codeine?’
    Somehow, Martine had got the idea that I was some sort of religious zealot. It was probably because I never drank at anything work-related, be it a lunch with colleagues or a night out with clients. The Christmas party was no exception. I only went because it would have looked bad to avoid it, and tried to fade into the background as much as possible, sipping a sparkling water until it was a reasonable time to go home. Martine found that incomprehensible and came up with a reason for it that made sense to her. I had never tried to explain it, after all. It seemed easier just to let her make up her own mind. But it involved me in futile, ludicrous conversations now and then.
    ‘I can have codeine. I mean, I don’t need it, but if I did, I could.’
    ‘Oh, so you’ll have that, will you? I see.’ She looked arch, as if codeine was first cousin to cocaine, as if I’d managed to find myself a loophole and could spend many a happy hour hopped up on over-the-counter medication.

    I was gathering up my papers for the meeting. ‘I’ll just be off, then. I’ve got everything I need, thanks.’ Then, thinking fast, ‘If my friend rings – Rebecca, you might remember her – can you get a number from her so I can call her back?’
    Her eyes had gone straight to the picture of the two of us that was stuck to the wall above my desk, a picture from years ago, when I had been thinner, paler, even more quiet than I was now, and Rebecca had been at the height of her young beauty, flushed like a rose, yelling in triumph at the end of her exams. It wasn’t a good picture of me – I was looking at Rebecca, not the camera, and the expression on my face was wary – but she was so very much herself in it, so very much alive, that I had always kept it as a reminder of how she’d been when I first knew her. As she grew older, she hadn’t become any less beautiful, but her face had changed, refined a little, and her eyes, the last time I’d seen her, had been sad – so, so sad.
    ‘Can’t get hold of her?’
    Martine’s voice was sympathetic, and I found myself telling her that no, I hadn’t been able to reach her, and what did she think I should do?
    ‘Go round,’ she said instantly. ‘Knock on her door. You know where she lives, don’t you? Too much time emailing people these days, ringing them, texting them – not enough face-to-face time.’

    It was one of Martine’s favourite hobbyhorses, the isolation of modern life, and I slipped away to my meeting with a feeling of relief, but also with a renewed sense of determination. Martine, for once, had had a good idea. I did know where Rebecca lived, and what was more, I had a key. I would go after my meeting, I decided, and sat down at the table with a light heart for the first time in weeks.
    The good mood lasted me all the way from the office to her flat’s front door. I had