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‘It’s not you, Brooke, it’s me.’

Wow. I’ve heard people use that line – usually the most despicable characters in romantic comedies who ideally get their comeuppance – but I never realised real people said it in real life.

Ugh, look at him, hiding behind his pint, pursing his lips, hanging his eyelids at half-mast. It looks as though each word physically hurts him – it definitely hurts me to hear them.

Do you know what though? I knew it. I bloody knew he was going to say something like this. I knew from the second he perched on the edge of my desk and asked if we could go somewhere ‘more relaxed’ after work. ‘More relaxed’, as though somewhere ‘softer’ might cushion the landing. Well, we’re here now, and I certainly don’t feel ‘more relaxed’.

I can’t believe he’s doing this here, of all places. We’re in Highlights, a sports bar in Leeds city centre, one we only come to because it’s beneath the office. You know the kind of place, full of big TVs showing whatever sport the screaming crowd want to watch at any particular time. The sort of place that only serves messy food like burgers, hot dogs and nachos, the kind of things you eat with your hands (which, to be fair, is the other reason we come here – the food is great). It always stinks of beer, it’s sticky almost everywhere, and now it also holds the traumatic memory of being the place where a man actually hit me with the line: it’s not you, it’s me.

Erm, damn right it’s him. I’ve been a-fucking-mazing – he was lucky to have me for as long as he did.

I stare down into my cocktail glass – at my Messi Margarita. It was that or a Murray Mojito. I don’t really know what to say, so I want him to elaborate, to watch him squirm. Let’s see him try to make this better.

‘Don’t get me wrong, you’ve been great,’ Simon assures me. ‘Fantastic, actually. Better than I expected in some ways.’

I mean, so far, he’s only making it worse. I don’t think ‘better than I expected’ landed how he thought it was going to. Sort of like when someone says ‘oh, you look nice today’ – implication being you don’t usually.

‘But sometimes…’ he says, taking a breath, ‘…things just aren’t moving in the direction you want them to.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘I don’t want you to think this is about anything you’ve done – or anything you’ve not done,’ he adds. ‘As I said, I think you’re brilliant.’

A shit sandwich, if ever I were served one. It’s so jarring to be dropped and complimented at the same time. I suppose, along with the cocktail, it’s supposed to soften the blow.

‘But I’m sorry,’ he says finally. ‘There’s no future here for you – I want you to get out while you can, you deserve that much at least. Don’t let me drag you down with me.’

He gestures wildly with his hands, swiping his plastic plate of nachos to the floor. Why, no, he isn’t letting this ruin his appetite. He hops down from his high stool and uses a napkin to brush the floor-food back onto the plate. He’s got a bit of a Mr Bean vibe, that awkward, oh-so-English, bland brand of chaos. It’s giving me the ick.

‘I just… I really can’t believe you’re doing this now,’ I reply eventually. ‘After the week I’ve had…’

‘I know, I know, losing your home can’t have been easy,’ he says, insisting he understands, but I’m not so sure he does, unless he’s found himself homeless too. ‘But that’s why I want you to move on, ASAP, so you can get back on your feet.’

‘I can’t believe you’re firing me,’ I blurt. ‘Actually firing me.’

‘Technically, I’m making you redundant,’ he explains – as though that makes it any better.

Ugh, why does it feel like I’ve been broken up with? Except there are no apps to get back on. Well, I suppose there’s LinkedIn, but I’d rather eat the floor nachos to be honest with you.

‘You’re creative, proactive, great with clients,’ he says, ticking off my many dazzling qualities – not that any of them were enough to keep me in my job. ‘You’ve been a real asset to the team.’

‘But I’m sacked?’ I confirm.

‘Yes. No. Well… made redundant. Yes.’

I look down at my cocktail again, as the world keeps disrespectfully turning around me. The big screens are flashing all around, the speakers are booming, glasses are clinking, people are chatting loudly – everyone has the Friday feeling but me.

‘Making you redundant isn’t the same as firing you,’ he attempts to reassure me. ‘Like I said, it’s not you, it’s me.’

‘It feels the same from where I’m sitting,’ I point out.

‘I know.’ He rubs a hand over his mouth. ‘And I know it’s awful timing.’

I lean back in my chair, just staring at him for a moment.

Simon already knew that my landlord was selling my flat out from under me because I told him, because I needed to take an afternoon off to move out, but still, you would think it might have given him pause when it came to letting me go in the same week. Could he not have waited a month or something?