I sigh, depressed by the implication. Am I supposed to think she’s being helpful? I look up at her and she is twirling her fine blonde hair around her finger, tapping her foot and smiling to herself. The implication is that she has a special relationship with Bale. Has she? Has she slept with him? Oh, awful thought. I look closer and she defiantly returns my gaze. Her ice-blue eyes, sparkling out above her high, chiselled cheekbones, lock on mine for a fraction of a second. Then she starts to walk away. She is striking. Her mother is Norwegian and she has inherited her Scan, confidence and good looks. She’s one of those women who can make a beady bag and a friendship bangle look cool rather than childish. She is five foot ten; she has no hips, no thighs, no stomach. She is the ideal woman, as far as women are concerned. Generally Bale likes his women a little curvy, but then that is a generalization. It’s possible they’ve had sex. However, I don’t want to ask her. What’s the point? She wouldn’t have to tell me the truth. If she has slept with him she will have no influence over him, whatever she thinks to the contrary. But it is possible that he’s still trying to seduce her, and if this is the case I can’t afford to alienate her. She could be useful.

‘Hey, Fi. Yeah, you can help. Organize a meeting between our team after lunch. We need a brainstorm.’ I smile. We both know the smile is business. She grins back and I’m relieved. She probably hasn’t slept with him yet. I normally know about such things long before the participants do. I consider warning her but decide not to. She’ll either think I am jealous or too old to know better. Advice, by its very nature, is there to be ignored.

Our office is a huge glass building that seems to rise endlessly upwards. It’s turned inside out like the Pompidou Centre. There is an odd mix of ritz and tat. Diet Coke and watery hot drinks from vending machines are consumed around Conran aluminium tables.