‘I’m really sorry, Bryony,’ I said breathlessly when I finally got back into the shop. ‘It won’t happen again.’

I’d had to park up on a side street and scuttle back to the office as fast as I could.

‘Let’s hope not,’ she said sourly, her words laden with unspoken threats of what might happen if it did.

I glanced over at Jo, who appeared to be suddenly absorbed in sorting out a pile of glossy leaflets. I’d been in the new job for all of fifteen minutes and had already managed to rub my line manager up the wrong way. The worst thing was that I had to admit it was all my own fault. Only when I’d reversed the Punto back out of the parking spot, carefully avoiding Bryony’s glistening white Audi TT, did I spot the ‘Reserved’ sign clearly displayed on the wall. I’d been in such a hurry to get into the office on time that I hadn’t noticed I’d poached my boss’s space.

The shop door opened and Bryony’s face lit up, the sour fury melting away and being rapidly replaced by a winning smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Parnham, how lovely to see you. Please, come through to my office.’

A heavily perfumed and coiffured Mrs Parnham swept by me and grasped Bryony’s outstretched hand, her diamond-studded Rolex glittering under the stark fluorescent lights.

Only when they were safely ensconced in Bryony’s office did Jo look up from her leaflet shuffling. She let out a long breath and pulled a guilty face. ‘Sorry about the misunderstanding. I never thought to check where you’d parked. It’s one of Her Majesty’s pet hates, people nicking her spot. One of her many pet hates, I should add.’

‘My fault.’ I shrugged. ‘I don’t know how I managed to miss the reserved sign.’

‘You can relax now, anyway, she’ll be in there ages.’ Jo grinned. ‘Bryony adores the Parnhams. Well, she adores their wealth, I should say. They move house every couple of years or so, always on the lookout for the next ostentatious property to show off to their jet-setting friends. But this time, they’re looking to spend their most yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bryony’s commission is more than our salaries put together.’

‘Ahh, I get it.’ I smiled, everything falling into place. No wonder Bryony’s face had lit up when they walked in – the promise of a hefty commission can have that effect on people. The Parnhams had got me off a hook, anyway, so good luck to them.

I turned back to Jo. ‘Can I help you with anything? I feel like a bit of a spare part.’

‘You could file these property details away, if you don’t mind. Thanks.’ Jo picked up an unwieldy pile of stapled brochures and pushed them across her desk. ‘They need to go in the folder in postcode order, hope that makes sense.’

I smiled and nodded. It made perfect sense. Filing brochures was one of the duties I’d done as an apprentice, too many years ago to think about. In the space of a few days, the last twenty years of my career had melted away and it felt like I was back to square one.

I collected the pile of papers and carried them over to Phoebe’s old desk.

The phone rang once or twice, and Jo answered, but there were no more customers. Jo and I worked in companionable silence for a while.

‘Is it usually this quiet?’ I asked eventually.

‘Varies.’ Jo shrugged. ‘It’s been busier since Phoebe left.’

I liked to be busy. I’d worked with people before who seemed to get a thrill out of doing as little as possible all day, or by making simple jobs last twice as long. I found time dragged that way; I’d rather have too much on than too little. Less time to brood and overthink things, which was always a bonus in my book.

I slotted the property details in their rightful places in the laminated ring binder and glanced at the wall clock. Evie would have had her lunch and be back in class now. Maybe she’d do some artwork to bring home later. They would probably go through their spelling or handwriting drills, both of which Evie would be confident doing because we’d always spent time doing lots of reading and writing at home, even before she’d started nursery. I couldn’t wait to see her later and hear all about it.

‘Hello, is anybody there?’ Bryony’s hand swept in front of my face. ‘Goodness, Toni. That’s the third time I’ve spoken to you.’

‘I – I’m so sorry,’ I mumbled, feeling heat instantly channel into my cheeks as Mr and Mrs Parnham stared at me. ‘I was miles away.’

‘Weren’t you just!’ Bryony turned and grinned at the Parnhams, but I sensed a concealed threat hanging behind her words. ‘Can you photocopy these details for Mr and Mrs Parnham? They have another appointment in town, so quick as you can, please.’

‘Of course.’ I stood up and took the thin wedge of property brochures from Bryony, who was already distracted again, gushing about Mrs Parnham’s rather vulgar-looking clutch purse that had what looked like a jewelled knuckleduster for a handle. The new Alexander McQueen range, apparently.

I hadn’t been shown where the photocopier was yet but I sensed this was not the time to interrupt Bryony’s charm offensive on her most valued of customers. I walked around them and headed for Jo’s desk to ask her. But the phone rang and Jo began an animated conversation with a builder who, from what I could gather, hadn’t turned up for a customer’s viewing of a brand new apartment near the train station that morning.

I walked into the back hallway and looked around. I’d operated enough photocopiers in my time to know that extracting a few back-to-back copies wasn’t rocket science. I just had to find the damn thing.

I surveyed the available doors. The one to the right was the small boardroom I’d had my interview in. The door at the end bore a sign that read ‘Staff Toilet’. That left two others.

I opened the first one and stepped inside. It was quite a large room and held a sleek blonde wood desk and a beige leather chair. A couple of aesthetically beautiful filing cabinets stood against one wall with tastefully framed secluded-beach prints hanging symmetrically on either side.

I stood for a second and surveyed the longest wall, lined floor to ceiling with shelves that housed what seemed like hundreds of perfectly colour coordinated and immaculately labelled files. Not your regular dull black or grey office binders but those expensive, elaborately coloured designer folders from a specialist supplier. The desk was dotted with other products of the same brand; a complicated post-it holder, a stapler and hole punch, all obviously part of a matching range.

I turned to another door, tucked away in the corner of the room. Often, unsightly copiers were hidden away in walk-in cupboards so I put the stack of brochures down on the desk and tried the handle, but the door was locked.

‘What the hell are you doing, snooping around my office?’ Bryony’s voice cracked like a whip behind me. I jumped and spun around. ‘The Parnhams are still waiting for their details.’

‘I – I was just looking for the copier,’ I stammered. ‘I haven’t been shown where anything is yet.’

‘Well, it’s fairly obvious there’s no copier in here,’ she snapped, her tone acerbic. ‘Try the next office.’

I hurriedly gathered up the papers from Bryony’s desk, at the last second spotting one that had fallen on the floor by her chair.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, silently berating myself for failing yet another task on what was promising to be the worst first day ever. I pushed open the door of the tiny room next to Bryony’s office and there it was: an all-singing, all-dancing photocopier that took up most of the floor space.

I braced myself for further problems as I peered at the complicated computerised control panel but breathed a sigh of relief when I saw there was no passcode and straight forward back-to-back copying seemed to be a case of pressing a single button.

A few minutes later, I was back in the shop and I handed the details to Bryony.

She took them without thanks and turned back to Mr and Mrs Parnham, and I found myself as good as dismissed.