She describes herself as ‘Part-time model and beauty blogger’. I read her blog and watch her YouTube videos. Product reviewing, tips for contouring and smoky eyes, fake wellness advice… yawn. You and all the millions of others, sweetie. She has a Pomeranian called Dorothy who appears in some of her vlogs, and Dorothy has her own zone in the apartment’s impressively stocked closet, featuring diamanté collars, tiny sweaters and even a miniature tutu.

In my opinion she’s not especially good at being a vlogger, and her mediocre follower numbers bear this out. There’s no evidence of any commercial sponsorship. Nor is she tall enough or distinctive enough to be a successful model. So how is she supporting herself? I sit at her desk, take out the file she’s helpfully labelled ‘Tax and Invoices’ and start looking through the paperwork. And there it is. A bunch of pro-forma time sheets, dated at fairly regular intervals, from an office temp agency. So, in reality, she’s a secretary.

The great thing about this is that it means she doesn’t have a fixed place of work. Every few weeks or so, when she’s not vlogging or ‘modelling’, she shows up to work at a place where no one knows who she is. They know nothing about her other than name and social security number; they’re unlikely even to have seen a photo. I take the agency’s number from their payment slip and call them, telling them I want to work now. This week. Today even. I should go to the Elite Staffing website and log into my account, they tell me, and fill in an online request with the dates and hours I’m available, along with any preferences for type of work. I tell them my internet is down. The woman on the other end of the line, whose name is Marianne, bitches and moans that this messes up their paperwork, but eventually agrees to see what’s available and get back to me.

Marianne calls me back after a couple of hours. I spend the intervening time going through the contents of the overflowing closet, trying on and co-ordinating potential workwear outfits. I can start that afternoon at a downtown law firm, but they only need help with filing and general clerical duties. Marianne stresses it’s not the kind of executive-level PA work they normally find for me. I tell her that’s just fine: it’s only short-term. It occurs to me that if they’d found me something where I had to take shorthand I might be in trouble. Do people even do shorthand any longer? I’ve never worked in an office, so I don’t know. I dress in a silk blouse, a tight pencil skirt and high-heeled pumps, and I really love the effect. Like Rachel Zane out of Suits.

People in a commercial law firm are far too busy to notice temps, or care what they do. Only the woman who shows me where I’ll be sitting speaks to me; to say I might like to wear more comfortable shoes next time, as I’ll be on my feet going through filing boxes a lot of the time. I’m well suited for the work, given that I’m very methodical and I like to organise. I like the light, bright offices, the super-clean staff kitchen, the soothing background hum of noise. Occasionally the male lawyers walking past my desk give me a curious second look, and after I’ve relaxed a little I allow them brief eye contact, give a half-smile in return. I don’t talk though. The less I say, the safer I am.

The same woman comes to me at the end of the day and says I’m doing a great job and would I be prepared to stay for the rest of the week? I say I would.