I know Natasha can see me through the glass. I’m knocking on the door of my work and she’s across the office, half-turned in her seat, aware I’m here but doing nothing to let me in.

After a third knock, I give a chummy wave that kills a tiny bit of my soul. I mouth the word ‘hi’ and smile, hoping she’ll get off her sodding arse and let me into the damn building. This time, she spins fully around in her seat, offering the dampest of watery smiles; the type of expression that has a big fat middle finger directly behind it. She motions towards the door with her hand, pointing at me, then at her own chest. I nod, maintaining my smile.

Yes, I do need letting in, you massive cow.

Natasha is barefoot, her skyscraper overpriced Italian heels placed neatly under her desk. She only ever wears them from her car to the office and back each day – unless she has a meeting with Graham, of course.

She takes her time drifting across the office, showing off her shiny, waxed legs in case any of the lads are looking in her direction. When she gets to the door, she points to the scanner to the side.

‘Forgot your pass?’ she asks, the forced sweetness of her voice muffled by the door.

What do you think?

I nod and she finally presses the release button on the inside to unlock the door. I thank her and she gives me a look as if she’s just donated me a bloody kidney.

She starts off back to her desk. ‘You’re late today,’ she says over her shoulder.

‘Graham approved it,’ I reply.

‘That’s nice. Did you have a lie-in?’

‘I was working away.’

The smirkiest of smirks: ‘Right.’

Natasha and I are both IT sales reps. The thing with telling people my job title is that their eyes instantly glaze over. It sounds boring and, in all honesty, it is boring. It’s one of those careers a person falls into. No child dreams of growing up to sell computer networks from one company to another.

If the other person does show any degree of interest in my job title, the next question is along the lines of, ‘You must know plenty about computers?’ – and that’s when any explanation really does become a chore. I know an awful lot about one specific network system and how it integrates into a company’s framework. Even that sounds dull. When it comes to that one and only system, I can tell other people about its intricacies, what it can and can’t do, how it can help a company with its business, how users can be trained. And so on. It’s like being a butcher and knowing one hell of a lot about pork sausages but very little about beef.

What it does do is pay the bills. It also gave me something to do after Olivia was old enough to start school. I’ve been doing it for nearly thirteen years and I know I’ll almost certainly be doing something similar until I can afford not to.

I think that’s probably why I don’t like Natasha. For a start, she has almost two decades on me. This is a beginning for her, a first job after college. This will be the finish for me. It wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t so bloody obvious about knowing that. She’s the sort who puts every aspect of her life on Facebook or Instagram. It’s all ‘post-run selfie’ or ‘night in with my baby’, accompanied by a picture of her with her handbag dog. I know all this not because we’re friends online or anything like that, but because I’m something of a stalker. It’s hard not to look and I dread the day she ups her privacy settings. I’m living vicariously through her.

My desk is opposite Natasha’s and we’re separated by a cloth-covered piece of plywood. Natasha sits next to Claire, who’s nice enough – if a little quiet – and then there are three men who spend more time out of the office than in it.

When I get to my desk, there’s a Post-it note pinned to the monitor with ‘See Graham’ scrawled in felt-tip.

‘Oh, yeah,’ Natasha says. She’s twirling a strand from her blonde fringe. ‘You’ve got to see Graham.’

I’m not even sitting and pluck the note from the screen, holding it up.

‘Thanks,’ I tell her.

‘You’re welcome.’

There are times when I wonder how many of the interactions I have with people are false. My entire job is about talking up the functions of an IT system to try to make money. I fudge the awkward questions and overplay benefits. I’m frequently on eggshells with Dan and Olivia at home, pretending all is well – and then, even in the office, I never tell Natasha what I think of her. It’d mean too much of admitting what I think of myself. Most of what I do involves being fake-nice to people.

Graham’s office is a little down the hall, separated from the rest of us. I knock on the door and wait a few seconds until he calls for me to enter. He always leaves it a few seconds; perhaps making whoever’s outside worry a little more, perhaps clearing whatever’s on his monitor. I know which of the two I think is true.

He’s a very sweaty man, always has been, and – probably because of that – the air-conditioning in his office is always cranked up to levels that would have Greenpeace up in arms. On top of his stocky shoulders is a big bald egg and I’ve never been sure it’s through choice or premature hair loss. He’s forty-three, two years older than me, but a person would never guess it from looking at him. He’s got that red-faced fifty-going-on-sixty-thing going for him.

Graham nods at the seat opposite his own and the chair squeaks noisily as I slide onto it.

‘How was the meeting?’ he asks gruffly.

‘The client didn’t show.’

He tilts his head sideways, examining me with closed lips as if wondering if I’m lying. ‘He didn’t show?’

‘I got a couple of texts through the evening. He was running late, then said he was stuck in traffic, then he said he couldn’t make it.’

I get my phone out to show him, but Graham bats the evidence away without looking at it.

‘So I’ve got to pay for your night in a hotel and there’s not even a sale to show for it?’

‘I’m trying to rearrange.’

‘What was his name again?’

‘Luke.’

Graham taps the mouse on his desk and stares at his screen, scrolling and clicking until he’s found what I presume is the email I forwarded him for the hotel booking.

‘Remind me again why I’m paying for a hotel stay?’

‘Luke suggested meeting in the middle. He was coming up from Cheltenham but said he was too busy during the day. I said I’d go to him but had something in Birmingham last night. It was a compromise.’

I don’t add, ‘It was your idea to put it on expenses’.

Graham hmms as if this is somehow suspicious when it’s actually the norm. Our office is in Lincolnshire, which is, to say the least, out of the way. Few clients come here, so us reps go to them.

He presses back into his luxurious leather chair and purses his lips, glancing towards the certificates on the wall. His office is a shrine to himself. There are diplomas showing off his qualifications, which, from what I can gather, involved attending various weekend conferences. Those type of events in which everyone gets a prize – as long as they pre-pay for it. There are enlarged photos of him with clients that have been framed and mounted, as if they contain someone who’s actually famous.

‘I’ll try calling him,’ I say.

‘You do that. In the meantime, I’ve set you up an appointment for later.’

‘Oh.’

His eyebrows raise at the surprise in my voice. It’s rare that Graham sets up anyone other than Natasha with appointments. He’s her favourite, for what I assume are two very good pushed-up reasons. ‘I’m throwing you a bone here,’ he adds.

‘I know. I didn’t mean it like that. Thank you.’

He passes me a Post-it note, with the name ‘DECLAN IRONS’ and a phone number. That’s followed by a second note with an address. Graham likes his Post-it notes. If I ever went to his house, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the living room wallpapered with sticky yellow squares of paper.

The ‘bone’ he’s throwing is that Natasha picked up a massive new contract last week. Before that, her sales figures weren’t that impressive. The blokes always do okay and Claire ticks by. It’s not quite official, but it might as well be – I am the weakest salesperson in the office. I console myself by imagining Natasha picking up that contract while on her knees, but I know it’s not true. Her success is hers and my failure is all my own.

Graham tells me he’ll forward the rest of the details in an email and then I stand, assuming that’s it. I feel like a naughty schoolgirl waiting to be dismissed from the headmaster’s office. Graham is looking at his screen, apparently oblivious.

‘Shall I go…?’ I ask.

He tuts. ‘How many years have we worked together now, Rose?’

I make a point of counting on my fingers, as if the number isn’t imprinted on my mind. ‘Nearly thirteen.’

‘Right. You’re my longest-serving rep. Others have come and gone. Rats deserting a state-of-the-art cruise liner. I appreciate your loyalty, but that is something that has to work both ways…’

He stares me directly in the eyes and there’s a moment in which I wonder if he’s trying it on. His neck bulges against his tie, the top button of his shirt clinging on for dear life. He isn’t my type at all – and never has been. He divorced a couple of years ago and there were always rumours that he was having an affair with his PA. She left and wasn’t replaced – but I don’t know for certain. There are always rumours like that in places like this. Offices run on tea, biscuits and gossip about who’s shagging who.

What I do know is that Graham tried it on with me four or five years ago when he was married. We were away at a weekend conference and he’d been drinking for eight straight hours. He bought me a drink and then put a hand on my knee, saying he’d always found me ‘intoxicating’ – whatever that meant. He was unquestionably intoxicated. I turned him down politely and, ever since, he’s acted like it never happened. Or, almost. Before that, any small workplace failures on my part were accepted and not spoken of. Ever since, I’ve been questioned on every hiccup.

It’s when he jabs at his screen that I realise I’ve completely misread him.

‘I’m getting CVs every day,’ he says.

There’s nothing cryptic about it: he could replace me with someone younger who’ll work for less money. Our salaries are bumped up with performance-related bonuses – but I’m likely on the highest base rate, simply because of how long I’ve worked in the office. I also get more holidays than anyone other than Graham. He’s happy for all that to continue – as long as I keep selling.

‘I’m trying,’ I reply.

There’s a moment where I think he’ll offer a sarcastic ‘try harder’ – but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods at the Post-it note in my hand. ‘That Declan sounds keen.’

Perhaps I’m expecting it because of my own insincerity around people, but there’s no punchline. It takes me a second to realise he’s being nice.

‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

He’s expressionless as he turns back to his monitor. I think – perhaps hope – that he wants me to do well.

After closing his door, I wait in the hallway for a moment. I’m not ready to face Natasha and the others yet, so I try calling Luke. There’s a gap of a few seconds, a plip, and then nothing. It doesn’t even ring, let alone go to voicemail. I can’t remember if this is what happens when a phone is turned off, or if someone has no reception. Either way, I tap out another text message.

I read it through twice and then press send.

Back in the main office and I skim through the emails Luke sent last week. We never spoke on the phone, let alone met. Everything was set up through emails and texts. When I did try to call, there was no answer and he texted a minute or so later to say he was in a meeting.

None of this is necessarily unusual. At least part of the job is – or perhaps was – travelling the country and having late nights in bars, hotels and restaurants. The twenty-first century is the age that face-to-face everything died.

Luke’s emails read perfectly true. He works at a medium-sized cleaning firm that is hoping to become a large cleaning firm. They want to take all the ordering and finance onto a better system with external hosting that can be accessed remotely from phones and the like. It’s the type of thing my company sells.

I click the link at the bottom of his email and it takes me to the cleaning company’s website. It’s perhaps a bit bare but there’s nothing unusual that I can see. That is until I click the contact button – which only brings me to a webform. There’s a box in which to type a name, another for email address, and a final one to leave a message. There is no specific email address or phone number to use… which is certainly odd for a company trying to drum up business. I hadn’t checked the link before because there was no need – I already had Luke’s name and contact details.

The tingle at the back of my thoughts starts to ring louder.

It doesn’t make me feel any better when I hear Natasha snorting with laughter on the other side of the divide between our desks. I’d normally let it go but instead push myself up so I can see over the separator.

‘You all right?’ I ask.

She’s grinning wide, looking at her phone. ‘Fine, thanks.’

‘What’s funny?’ I ask.

She waves a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, nothing. You wouldn’t get it.’

I hover there for a moment, before taking my seat to stop embarrassing myself. Natasha continues to giggle as I find myself clicking on the web browser. My first search is thankfully fruitless. There have been no reported hit-and-runs anywhere close to the area where I woke up last night. I check the websites and Twitter feeds from a few of the neighbouring police forces just in case, but there’s still nothing.

There’s unquestionable relief, those three words – ‘tampering with evidence’ – starting to fade when my breath is taken by the scrolling news strap on the police site.

Someone from the nearest town to where I awoke is missing. His name’s Tom Leonard, a teenager who went to work and hasn’t been seen since. There’s a picture of him in a running vest and a few lines saying that he’s a keen amateur athlete. He’s nineteen with short dark hair and the merest hint of stubble. He’s smiling, happy, a normal kid. He has the whole of his life ahead of him.

The real kicker is in the final line, however: Tom Leonard worked at the Grand Ol’ Royal Hotel.