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'Of course I am,' I say distractedly.
    Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple of the journalists I'm meeting pulling up outside in a cab. My nerves jangle. I always feel like this before one of these lunches. I have to do a little presentation of a new product we represent and it's my opportunity to get press and promotion. As much as it's dressed up as lunch and wine and chit-chat, there's a lot of pressure on me.
    'Look, Dad, I'm going to have to go…'
    'Oh, right, well, off you go, then. It was nice speaking to you.'
    I feel a stab of regret. We've barely spoken. But it's like that nowadays. When I was younger, I would sit on the phone for hours, talking about anything and everything, but now I'm lucky if I can snatch five minutes.
    'I'll call you tonight,' I say hastily.
    'Well, ta-ra, luv. Have a good day.'
    'I will. You too, Dad.'
    I snap my mobile closed, but for a moment I can't bring myself to move. My mind returns to my conversation with Dad, and for a moment I think about what he just said. Am I happy? I mean, am 7?
    'Charlotte!' I come to and turn round to see a woman in her early fifties. It's Katie Proctor, a journalist I've known since my days as a freelance writer. Grinning widely, she gives me a big perfumed hug. 'Ooh, are those new shoes?' she gasps, pointing at my feet. 'They're adorable'
    I feel a beat of pleasure. 'I didn't think you were coming.' I smile, kissing her on both blushered cheeks. 'You never RSVPed!' I throw her a mock look of disapproval.
    'I know, I'm terrible.' She rolls her eyes guiltily. 'Do you forgive me?'
    If it was anyone else, I'd be thrown into a panic, but Katie is more a friend than a work contact.
    'Of course. How are you?'
    'Parched! C'mon, let's go have a drink and catch up.'
    We link arms, and as we enter the bar, I compose myself. Honestly, I don't know what's got into me today. The other journalists start arriving, and plunged into a cacophony of air-kissing, introductions and ice-cold Sauvignon Blanc, I pin on a bright smile and set to work. Of course I'm happy. Why on earth wouldn't I be?
     
    Chapter Four
    Lunch is a success.
    The journalists leave tipsy, clutching goody bags and promising lots of press. I put the huge bill on my expenses, wave them off in their cabs and collapse on to the back seat of mine. At least, I hope it was a success. I feel the familiar pangs of worry as my cab starts weaving through the traffic on the way back to the office.
    My face aches from smiling. That's the thing about my job. It might look easy, sipping wine and nibbling on a marinated vegetable and watercress salad, but schmoozing is hard work. You're on full alert the whole time. Trying to mix business with pleasure, trying to find the right balance between discussing your clients and discussing so-and-so's recent break-up: 'He did what? No!
    That's terrible! You poor thing. You should get away for a few days. Treat yourself to a spa weekend. Talking of which, I know an amazing one in Scotland that we just happen to do the PR
    for…'
    I make it back to my desk by around three and spend the rest of the afternoon chained to my keyboard. Beatrice leaves at six on the dot. She has salsa on Mondays and is in love with Pablo, the Brazilian instructor. Whenever she talks about him, she puts on this really over-the-top South American accent, all very dramatic with lots of lisping and rolling of Rs, and starts tossing her hair around, which is quite hard as it's a short bob. The transformation is incredible. It's like she goes from this no-nonsense English rose with sturdy calves to this tempestuous Latino seductress. In fact I could have sworn I saw a pair of fishnets in her handbag when she left. Bea in fishnets! The mind boggles.
    Anyhow, as usual Beatrice (or should I say Be-a-treeth?) tries to 'encourage' me, as she puts it, to leave the office with her by starting to turn off the lights while I'm still sitting here typing. Bea is not one to give subtle hints. Trust me, she would