Thomas strolls in looking bloated and uncomfortable, his belly swelling from an expensive lunch. There’s a dollop of chocolate sauce smeared in the corner of his mouth and his tie has a sticky white spot staining it (probably not what it looks like). I bet he had a tête-à-tête with some bigwig wanker who’s backing his we’re-not-allowed-to-tell-anyone-yet-(wink-wink) campaign, wining and dining the rich bastard until he climaxes at the end of their gastronomic orgy and promises to vote for him and throw lots of cash his way. That’s how the political system works, I guess.

I smile at him – a ‘Hi, boss. I see you’re back from lunch really late’ smile, not a fake ‘OMG, I’m totally in love with you’ smile (too early for that). He meekly smiles back before scuttling into his office and shutting the door. I’m confused. Am I ever going to speak with him? I probably shouldn’t have run away from him earlier.

Lunch with Millie was dreadful. She took me to a health-freak restaurant where they only make vegan food. I was forced to choose something nutritious to eat: plain salad, runny soup or a smoothie blend of unappetising antioxidant slop. I opted for the salad and spent half an hour shovelling long bits of lettuce into my mouth while Millie sobbed into her soup.

She had many questions, none of which I could answer. Why’s her boyfriend such an arsehole? Who’s Amber and how did they meet? What will she do now? Why is she so unlovable? Why does every single guy she dates turn her life to shit?

I gave her the number of Amelia’s therapist, Alvin. It’s not weird that I have his number: I slept with him once when I bumped into him at a bar. To be honest, I’m not sure whether Amelia set it up. She was trying to convince me that sleeping around ‘wasn’t very good for my long-term wellbeing’ (yada, yada – she’d just got into therapy), and told me that I should see her therapist to deal with my shit and finally confront my commitment phobia. I didn’t realise that she meant that I should have therapy though. I thought she told me to bang her therapist, which admittedly seemed odd at the time, but I was very drunk and he was very hot. I ended up screwing him in the ladies’ toilets and it wasn’t an overly memorable experience, but we swapped numbers and sexted a few times.

I hope it’s the right number that I’ve given Millie… I don’t remember another Alvin though.

‘Julianne?’ I hear Thomas’ voice from behind me.

I turn and smile half-heartedly.

‘Can I speak with you?’ he asks.

Crap. Have I done something wrong? I was bored earlier and orchestrated a mass deletion of random meetings in his calendar – after all, Jamal told me to clear his schedule up.

‘Sure,’ I chirrup nervously, and walk into his office.

He closes the door behind us and I try not to look anxious. We sit down next to each other in his plump visitor chairs. I look down at the floor and notice that there’s a patch of something that looks like spilt coffee on the bottom of his desk.

‘So… This is awkward,’ he admits.

Oh, God. Is he going to fire me? Jamal will kill me if that happens.

I don’t say anything and wait for him to speak.

‘Do you remember me? From university?’ he asks.

Ooohhh. He wants to have ‘the talk’.

I decide to look as if I’m somewhat embarrassed as I wonder what to say.

‘Yes,’ I say simply, looking up at him and leaving the ball in his court.

He sighs, almost as if he’s relieved. ‘That’s why this is awkward. I didn’t know whether you remembered... that night.’

Does he want us to reminisce? Probably not, at least not here.

‘I remember. It was a long time ago though.’

I sit cool and composed and wonder how I should act. Should I play the embarrassed little girl or the cool yet seductive, I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-you femme fatale? I opt for a combination of both roles – I don’t know what he wants.

‘I don’t want anything to be weird between us now that we’re together.’ Wow, that was a big Freudian slip. He corrects himself: ‘I mean… I meant now that we’re working together.’

‘Okay. The past is the past.’ Isn’t that what people say, even though it doesn’t really mean anything at all?

‘Yes! Exactly. Now, you’re aware that I’ll be campaigning soon. So obviously I don’t want that night to be made public.’

‘Okay…’

‘Please, don’t tell anyone about… our past. Nobody knows.’ He watches me to see how I react.

I smile at him. ‘That’s fine. It’s our little secret.’

I try not to sex-up the words ‘our little secret’, but somehow it comes out sounding sexy as hell. It reminds me of when I told Mark that we’d keep our relationship (or whatever we have between us) secret from Amelia, and I flash back to Saturday night.

Thomas interrupts my thoughts. ‘So how are you getting on?’

‘Fine,’ I lie. ‘Jamal told me that we’re meeting with the caterers tomorrow.’

He looks surprised that I’m coming too.

‘He said that you need a woman’s perspective on the food,’ I explain.

‘That makes sense,’ he admits.

‘Jamal’s drawn up a guest list of everyone who’s confirmed and what allergies they have, so I’ve printed that out ready for tomorrow. And I know that we need to give the caterers the final numbers on Friday.’

‘Right.’ I think he knew all that. This is such a boring conversation.

‘I opened your post,’ I continue, and indicate towards the in-tray on his desk, which sits next to the clichéd photo of his wife and kids. ‘There are a few things for you to read and something for you to sign.’

Millie’s the PA for another partner so she showed me what to do with his post. Thank God, or I would have been bored out of my mind while I waited for him to get back from lunch. Plus I enjoyed the thrill of guessing what was inside each envelope. (Porn magazine? Dildo? Nope, a crappy management magazine and a book from one of his friends.)

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Is there anything that you need me to go through with you?’

‘I don’t think so. Do you need me to do anything for you?’ I ask, trying to tone down the sluttiness of my question.

‘No, I’m fine,’ he says quickly.

I nod and wonder whether he’ll dismiss me so I can head back to my desk. I’m not doing such a bad job of being his assistant, considering I haven’t worked in years.

He hasn’t asked me what I’ve been up to since university, and I haven’t asked him. Maybe he doesn’t want to mention it, what our lives are like outside of here, because once we had a connection and he’s not sure whether he wants to get up close and personal again. I’m dying to ask how Christine is, but mentioning his wife’s name will score me zero points in this bizarre seduction game that I’m playing.

‘Okay, well, that’s it,’ says Thomas. ‘Just let me know if you need anything.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, standing up and feeling relieved that this weird talk is over. I probably should say something else – play up my role as someone who’s interested in him. I give him a fake thankful smile. ‘And thanks for this chat. It was a bit weird seeing you walk into the office this morning.’

‘No problem,’ he says, beaming as if he’s glad that this talk is over too.

I saunter out and sit down at my desk again. I can’t judge him. I don’t know whether he’s interested in me; it doesn’t seem like he is. How do I entice him? Should I act like the perfect sexy secretary or be myself: the disinterested city girl that doesn’t give a shit about him or this job? Maybe I should ask Jamal what he thinks. Not that he’d know; he really doesn’t understand me. After all, he tried to talk me into taking this job by throttling me in my own kitchen.

I don’t really have anything else to do between now and home time. Watching the clock, I wish its hands would speed up and suddenly tell me that it’s 5pm.

Millie appears in front of me, looking frazzled, her hands and nails covered in black smudges.

‘I need your help,’ she begs.

Has she killed a shoeshine boy and she’s now covered in his blood and boot polish and wants me to help her bury the body?

Before I can ask, ‘What the fuck?’ she explains her predicament: ‘I broke the photocopier. Then I fixed it. But I need to make one-hundred copies of a ninety-page report by the end of the day for a conference tomorrow morning, and I need your help.’

Ick, photocopying? I guess it’s in my job description. I look down at my manicured nails and pray that I’m not going to get covered in toner too.

I’d like to say that the rest of the day whizzes by because I was given an actual job to do, but those three or four hours photocopying with Millie in a boxy little room were the longest hours of my life. I was hobbling around the room in pain so decided to throw off my shoes. Then I to-and-froed in my laddered tights between the tall tower blocks that I’d modelled out of hundreds of copied pages. Millie started singing. Singing! Musical songs.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to die. Or kill her, which is wrong, because she’s like a cute little kitten who’s sick and won’t survive without an operation, but you can’t afford the op and look at the kitten considering whether you want to put it down or save it by selling one of your kidneys. Sure, in that situation I’d put it down, but the kitten really doesn’t have it coming because it’s young and it didn’t know any better than to… I don’t know… eat some sort of poison that made it sick? The point is: it doesn’t know shit about the world because it’s a kitten and hasn’t ever lived a truly fulfilling and fun-filled life.

Millie will be my new project: I’ll get her to quit her job and do something fun, get laid and not give a shit about having a relationship. She doesn’t need a boyfriend; she needs a life.

I trudge home, limping to avoid stepping on my blisters. The tube was rammed and I had to stand and endure some guy’s putrid armpits for the entire journey. I didn’t see Thomas before I left. He’d slipped out of the office before I staggered back to my desk stinking of sweat and toner. Probably for the best.

Unlocking my door, I throw off my shoes onto the pile of post lingering in the hallway and stagger upstairs to my flat. I want a bath. I want wine. Lots of wine.

Throwing open my door, I want to run over to my blessed wine rack, but my sore feet won’t carry me. Like a dehydrated explorer who’s lost in the dessert and desperately seeks water, or maybe more like a zombie in search of brains, I amble across my kitchen towards the manna that’s nearly in reach. I grab a corkscrew and wine glass from a cupboard on my way, then grasp at an Amarone and plunge the corkscrew into the top. Out pops the cork. Hastily I pour out a large glass, savour the sweet scent of the wine as I lift it to my lips, then close my eyes and take a big gulp. It glides down my throat like heaven.

Opening my eyes, I glance down at my floor. My clean floor. Someone’s swept up the glass that Jamal broke. Fuck, has Jamal been here again? Is he still here?

I spot a suit jacket thrown over the arm of my sofa. The bastard’s still here. In my bedroom no less, unless he’s hiding in a cupboard, ready to jump out and scare the shit out of me again. The bloody cheek!

I calm down and decide that I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting to me. I pour out another glass of wine and carry it through to the bedroom, elbowing open the door.

There he lies on my bed, hands behind his head, muscled arms straining against his navy shirt, smirking at me. He sees the wine and the corners of his mouth drop a little.

‘Honey, I’m home!’ I exclaim, walking over to him and placing the wine glasses down.

‘How was your day, dear?’ he asks insultingly.

‘Dreadful! My boss is a monster.’

He frowns at me and drops the act. ‘Seriously, how was it?’

‘You should know if you’re bloody filming me all the time.’

Climbing onto the bed next to him, I nestle my head into the crook of his arm as if I’m traumatised. Lying down takes the pressure off my feet and I want to let out a blissful sigh. Plus it’s fun to try and freak him out.

He sniffs me. ‘You stink.’

‘That would be from my eventful afternoon of photocopying. And the tube ride home.’

‘Maybe you should take a shower.’

‘Maybe you should get the fuck out of my flat,’ I retort, but without sounding angry. It’s as if I’m resigned to the fact that Jamal’s a permanent fixture in my home now.

‘I wanted to make sure that you were okay.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘How did your talk with Thomas go?’

‘Fine... But he’s not interested in me.’

‘It’s your job to make him interested.’

I sit up and glare at him angrily. ‘I don’t know anything about him! I don’t know what he likes. I don’t know what he does, apart from waltz in late and hide behind his desk. He’s the most vanilla guy I’ve met.’

‘That’s why your job is easy. He’s dying for something different.’

‘Is he?’

‘He watches porn every single night.’

I pull a face. ‘He’s boring. I’m not surprised that Christine doesn’t want to fuck him.’ Then I get curious. ‘What kind of porn?’

Jamal smiles. ‘Vanilla.’

I roll my eyes. ‘What did you do today anyway, boss?’

He gets up off the bed and becomes distant again as he walks out of the room. ‘Not a lot.’

I hate how he’s so cryptic. ‘You’re a man of few words,’ I tell him as I follow him to the living room, grabbing my wine on the way out.

I try not to limp as I walk after him. Showing Jamal any sign of weakness would be like dipping my bloody feet into shark-infested waters.

‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone tomorrow,’ he tells me, putting on his jacket.

What does he mean? Oh, that he’s not coming to the taste-testing thing in the morning. ‘Fine with me. Three’s a crowd.’ I take a sip of wine, trying to evoke pure nonchalance.

‘Really? You don’t want a threesome?’ he jokes. Before I can answer, he says, ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘I can’t wait,’ I say unenthusiastically.

He leaves, probably off out to hound other unsuspecting victims.

I turn the latch, put my wine down and push the cabinet in front of the door again. Jamal probably knows that I did this the last time he left, and he’ll know that I’ve done it tonight too if he chooses to rewind and carry on watching Julianne’s Apartment Live. Last night I tried searching for hidden cameras but had no clue what I was looking for. Unless I’m being paranoid and there aren’t any cameras, in which case hours of my life were wasted rearranging the entire contents of my flat.

I grab my phone, plop down on the sofa and put up my feet. I’ll order dinner, get drunk then have a bath: the perfect night in. I’ll try to forget that I need to go back to the office tomorrow and finish the job that I started.

I’m looking through a menu when up pops a text from Mark. My heart flutters then I berate myself for being stupidly obsessed about him.

Yesterday I texted him to say that I was home and something stupid like, ‘Thanks for a good time.’ He didn’t reply (and I got paranoid and thought that he gave me the wrong number). This morning I was still pissed off that he’d ignored me or was too busy to reply, but I forgot about it when I was at work.

‘How was it?’ are the three words that flash across my screen. No kisses, no sweet terms of endearment, no note about yesterday. Fuck him, I’ll make him wait for a reply too.

I order dinner, down my glass, top myself up and switch on the TV. There’s nothing on, of course, and I scroll through social media for a while until my food arrives. My ‘friends’ (mostly mere acquaintances that I meet in pubs and clubs) have posted baby updates, holiday snaps, smug selfies, couply photos and overshares about how they love each other so much. I want to wretch. Nothing interesting.

The buzzer goes off and I race down the stairs, wincing at the pain in my feet, so I don’t miss the delivery guy. They’re impatient nowadays, always knocking loudly just to make sure that you’re still alive (as if an old granny would be ordering pizza) and you have to run to the door as quickly as possible, probably so they can bugger off straight after and have a nap in between deliveries.

I chuck my money at the pizza guy then shut the door. My shoes lie dead in the hall and I glare at them for being sleek and beautiful at the same time as mini Iron Maidens into which I made the mistake of placing my feet.

I return to my apartment and sit down to watch the news while munching on a slice. War, famine, earthquakes, liberals, far-righters, murderers, same old shit. A regional presenter with a bright blue jacket smiles inanely when he describes a ‘wonderful’ story about ‘a new local hero’ who’s voluntarily picking up trash every day. The stupid idiot will be picking up rat faeces, used condoms, rusty cans and syringes off the London streets; days later he’ll be disease-ridden and lying in an understaffed hospital wishing he’d never started litter-picking in the first place. Next, there’s a bland piece about London’s ‘secret sports stars’ and then the weather report, which says that it’s going to piss it down tomorrow.

I keep thinking about how to answer Mark’s question. ‘What took you so long?’ (Too desperate.) ‘Was it a good date last night?’ (Too jealous bitch.) ‘As well as can be expected: not.’ (Too depressingly accurate.) ‘Great! I think my boss wants to bone me.’ (Too depressingly inaccurate.) I need some kind of witty riposte, casual, short and sweet, nothing brutal. I type: ‘I didn’t kill anyone.’ Send. No kisses.

I receive another text straight away: ‘Are you free Thursday night?’

My fantastic texting skills have won me a prize!

I’ll make him wait again for an answer though. Dating is like psychological warfare, and all’s fair in love and war.