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‘Yes. Working with a broad scope of clientele, though,’ I explain. ‘Mostly consumer brands, lifestyle, hospitality – we had some high-profile clients, mostly local celebrities – but with national exposure.’

‘And sport?’

‘Less so,’ I say, because admitting ‘none’ feels like it will instantly end the conversation.

‘Are you a fan of rugby league?’ he asks.

I could say yes, I could try to bullshit my way through the reasons why, act like I know what I’m talking about – but the truth is that I’m not a fan. I’d be making up reasons on the spot, and whether he saw straight through me or not, kicking things off with a lie isn’t the best way to bag myself a job. I should be honest – as honest as I can be.

‘I’m not, but I can’t say I’ve ever watched a game, so maybe I would be a fan,’ I reply. ‘But as far as the job goes, I already know that it doesn’t matter if I’m a fan of my client, or if I even like them, to be honest. I was part of the team that reformed Michael Greg, the radio DJ.’

Bryan raises an eyebrow.

‘He was the one who lost his job?’ he checks.

‘He got it back,’ I reply. ‘We helped him.’

‘I remember when the news broke about him messaging all of those women behind his wife’s back…’

I nod slowly.

‘Yeah, well, however I feel about his, erm, active social life,’ I start tactfully because, in all honesty, I thought he was gross, ‘he and his wife were separated, the station cleared him of any misconduct. So, for us, it was about showing him to be the family man everyone believed he was before.’

Bryan smiles.

‘Well, it worked,’ he confirms. ‘I’d forgotten about all that until you reminded me. I was listening to him on the radio on the way here.’

Michael Greg really was separated from his wife, and all the women he was messaging were more than happy to receive messages from him. Newly single, and drunk on local fame, he became a top shagger before his separation was public news. Of course, the good people of the internet wanted blood, so he became persona non grata overnight. But, when all was said and done, he got his job back – the public just needed convincing to get back onside, and that’s where my firm stepped in.

I can’t say he was anything other than lovely and polite and professional with me. It’s a poor do when a serial shagger isn’t interested in cracking on to you, but it didn’t matter, and I didn’t judge him – I did my job. And I did it well. To the point where even I’m not quite sure how we managed to get the world to forgive and forget.

‘So, he got his old life back,’ Bryan concludes.

‘Actually, he got a better one,’ I reply. ‘We did such a good job highlighting his family side that he got his show back, he started spending more time with his kids, and now he has a podcast with a popular YouTuber with hundreds of thousands of listeners. My job wasn’t simply to make him look better, it was to make him be better. That’s why what I did was so effective. I didn’t show him how to pretend he had changed, I showed him how to actually change.’

Bryan nods as I talk – he definitely seems impressed… I think.

‘The problem we have is that the game needs to grow,’ he explains. ‘That’s the honest truth of it. We’ve got loyal fans, brilliant fans, the best in the world, but we need more people through the gates – different types of people too. More families. More young people. More women. More people who just don’t know they love it yet.’

‘That makes sense,’ I reply.

‘Too many dismiss it as a northern bloke’s sport in the UK, and that keeps the cycle going,’ he continues. ‘But if we could get more people interested, if they watched a few games, they’d realise it’s more than that. The atmosphere, the community, the players, the families, the kids. I don’t think there’s a better sport for everyone.’

‘I hear everything you’re saying,’ I reply. ‘And I’ll be honest, I probably would have assumed the same before I came here today. I was shocked at how many families were here. I was expecting nothing but men.’

‘A lot of people have the wrong idea,’ he replies. ‘So, we’re looking for someone who can work on changing that – not just here at Leeds, but across the league. We’ve got so many great clubs, so many fantastic players, but we’re out of ideas in-house now.’

‘Great publicity is about telling a story,’ I explain. ‘If I were doing this, I’d start with the characters. Don’t focus on trying to shift tickets, because the people who are coming are coming; it’s the rest who need more convincing. So, we need to connect with people. You need to pick out the players with the strongest personalities and push them more, publicly – but off the pitch.’

‘Right,’ he says, suddenly much quieter, his face void of any emotion or expression that I can read. I might as well go on.

‘There are two sorts of characters we can focus on,’ I continue. ‘Those who look great, who need a spotlight shining on them. And those who could do with some image refinement, to show people who they really are. I understand that, in any industry, the best players might not be the ones who are the best in front of a camera. I can work with that.’

He taps his pen against the desk.

‘So, if the most impressive characters are not all squeaky clean?’

‘Even better, sometimes,’ I reply.