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moment.”
    “You what?” she asked, cocking her head.
    Then I smiled, the wonderful news dawning on me all over again. I was leaving the dealership. I was going to start living the dream.
    “Good news?”
    “The best.”
    We grinned idiotically at each other, wanting to throw our arms around each others’ necks and do a dance of joy, but obviously that was out of the question.
    “I’ve typed up your resignation letter,” she whispered as Victor waddled back in from lunch, a touch of lipstick on his collar, looked red-faced and pleased with himself, completely oblivious to us.
    “Thanks.”
    After I’d signed it, I picked up my bag and mouthed to her, “Pints on me this Friday.”
    “See you there,” she mouthed back.
    I walked out of the dealership without looking back.
    I wiled away the afternoon in the nearest Topshop, rationalising the splurge by telling myself I’d just jumped too many tax brackets to be concerned about money ever again.

Chapter 4
    Mum and Mia were clamouring for details by the time I got home. They were so excited to hear how it went that Mum let me turn the sound down on her soap while I gave them a blow-by-blow account of the interview.
    “And I fell face-down on the carpet. Can you believe it? And then, after all that, it wasn’t even him. It was his arsehole brother. Can you believe that ?”
    We all laughed uproariously. After making the initial announcement of my fortuity, I’d cracked open some Lambrusco (purchased that afternoon) for us to have with our dinner. Mum had gone light pink. Mia and I were starting to swear a bit, which we didn’t usually do in front of her, and the evening had the air of high celebration. It was great.
    After we’d had a bit more to drink, I managed to convince Mia to let me wear her shoes again the next day, and then she lectured me about making a good impression and not saying stupid, inane things to people, and practicing active listening, and being sure to infiltrate the gossip network as quickly as possible.
    “You should start going for interviews, Mia,” I said, wistful. “You’re so good at being employed.”
    “Fuck that,” she said jovially.
    “Nihilist.”
    “Corporate slave.”
    “Welfare queen.”
    “Capitalist whore.”
    “Girls!” barked Mum, horrified. “Now, is this the job with the artist?” she asked me, trying to steer us away from our bickering.
    “No, Mum,” Mia said mock-patiently, “he’s a patron . Anyway, that doesn’t matter. Ava’s not interested in the job .”
    “Shut up,” I hissed at her.
    “What does she mean?” Mum asked me, in that sweetly dazed way that she’s always had. Mum is one of those endearingly absentminded types, the kind of person who spends the morning looking for her reading glasses only to find them perched on her head after lunch.
    “She doesn’t mean anything,” I said, but Mia had already cut me off mid-sentence: “Ava wants to shag her boss!”
    “No I don’t.” I thought of Tam and felt nervous.
    “Yes you do!” she crowed.
    “Do you, darling?” Mum asked, worried. “He’s not married, is he?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, “and anyway it doesn’t matter because I do not want to sha—sleep with him. I’m excited about this because of my career .”
    “Psh,” Mia snorted, “let me tell you now, missy, that your career will not bring you fulfilment. I should know.” This was Mia’s current hobby-horse: the Anglo-Saxon obsession with gainful employment was nothing but a source of misery, and we should all be wearing loincloths and living off the land. Mum tried to reason with her once, saying that in England it just wouldn’t be practical on account of the cold winters, but it was all for naught.
    “Really?” I snarled, annoyed. “Are you suggesting that shagging around would be a better source of fulfilment? What about marriage? Doesn’t look like it did much for you.”
    Mum gasped. Oh shit, I thought, that’s probably going to cost me a