I prepared myself for sympathetic comments about the state of my vagina. ‘Hi, Fran, how are you doing?’ said Stella Sanderson to my crotch. Thanks, Leonie, I thought, as I fumbled with the coffee urn. Hugh came in shortly after and ignored me completely. He seemed convinced that I was dying of syphilis. A tall, skinny man, wearing tight jeans and brogues, was sitting at my desk. As I approached him uneasily from behind I noted several warning signs: a Fashion hairstyle, a Fashion cravat and a Fashion cardigan. ‘Er, hello there, I’m Fran,’ I mumbled, waiting for him to spring up and clear away his stuff. ‘Fran,’ he said, turning slowly. Oh, fuck. Oh, FUCKING FUCK. Oh, fuck up the bottom. It was Alex, Michael’s best friend. Oxford-educated Alex who’d smoked cigars when he’d come round to dinner and who had once told Michael he was ‘surprised’ by Michael’s choosing me.
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