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‘I’m sorry,’ he says – again. ‘I genuinely am, but we’re barely keeping our heads above water. You know that.’

I mean, I didn’t know that. Not exactly. I knew the number of clients had gone down, that we weren’t spending as much money on pointless but fancy things for the office – but we’re a PR company. No one says ‘we can’t afford the fancy coffee pods any more’; they say ‘we’re doing blah blah blah for the environment blah blah blah’ – it’s almost always for the environment; that’s the best corporate spin there is. Never, ever say you can’t afford something – blame it on reducing your carbon footprint.

‘We’ve lost two retainers in the last month,’ Simon continues. ‘There are so many PR firms fighting for the same clients now, and everyone is undercutting everyone else. It’s brutal.’

‘So… you’re not shutting down, but you are getting rid of me?’

He nods.

‘I don’t have a choice.’

Ha. ‘I don’t have a choice’ – a thing people often say, right before they make a choice that fucks up your plans. Or your life.

I sip my drink, hoping the sharpness of the margarita unties the knot in my throat, because suddenly it feels so tight. It’s not that I think Simon is doing this to screw me over, I know that business is tough at the moment, but it’s the panic, the fear – the complete loss of control, because losing my home and my job in the same week is a lot for anyone to contend with and, if I’m being honest with you, I’m not known for my solid mental health and chilled disposition.

What’s the saying? Life’s toughest challenges are given to the strongest soldiers? Who do I speak to about this? Because whoever is in charge of dishing out the challenges has got the wrong girl.

I’m twenty-nine – thirty is on the horizon, and that terrifies me. I suppose I thought I’d have my life together by now, not because everyone should have their ducks in a row by the time they hit thirty, but because it’s hard not to measure myself against my school friends. They’re all married, they all have kids – they’ve been ‘all set’ for years now, so why am I so different? If we had the same upbringing, spent all our time together, then how have I ended up so out on my own?

It’s strange, because we were so close growing up, but then I went to uni to study PR, while they drifted into the family lives they wanted. I didn’t go far, I studied here in Leeds, lived at home with my parents. I suppose I didn’t fit the mould. To them, uni just seemed like more school, which they didn’t see the point in because they were grown-ups living in the real world.

I still see them now and then – I’m seeing them next week, actually. They’re all still as close as ever, seeing each other all the time, whereas I’m only invited now and then, as a sort of gesture, or a throwback to the past or something. It’s funny, I don’t even enjoy seeing them these days, in fact I dread it, but I suppose I want to keep that old part of me alive too.

‘What happens now?’ I ask, trying to regain some control of the situation. If I know where I stand, then I can come up with a plan. How can I spin this for myself?

Simon sits up straighter, visibly relieved to see me already in the acceptance phase.

‘We’ll pay you through the end of the month, of course. Plus statutory redundancy – not that it will be much, unfortunately,’ he explains. ‘But you don’t need to come in – use the time to job-hunt. I’ve written you a reference. A really strong one. And I’ve asked someone to put all your things in a big box, so you don’t have to come in.’

‘A big box?’ I repeat back to him. ‘Oh fab, I can live in it.’

‘Brooke…’

‘Simon…’ I reply – but then I soften. ‘Sorry. Sorry, I know you’re not trying to make my life harder.’

‘If there was anything else I could do…’

He lets the sentence hang in the air for a second, which is a mistake, because there are loads of things he could do. He could not make me redundant. He could give me more notice to find a new job. He could sell his BMW and use it to pay me for a while.

Instead, he slides an envelope across the table.

‘Everything you need to know is in there,’ he tells me. ‘Brooke, it’s been such a pleasure working with you. I wish you all the best for the future.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply – because of course I thank him. ‘You too. I hope stuff works out.’

Simon stands, smoothing the creases from his shirt.

‘I’ll leave you to finish your drink in peace,’ he tells me.

Fab. Being on my own right now sounds fucking fab.

He squeezes out one last apologetic look for me, then heads for the door, weaving his way through the ever-growing Friday crowd.

I watch him go, then glare at the envelope that supposedly contains all the answers. I think I’ll look inside it later. Whatever it is, I doubt it will be much to show for three and a half years.

‘Same again?’ a member of the bar staff asks, clocking my empty glass.

I should say no. I should go upstairs, grab my ‘big box’ and walk out with my head held high. I should call my mum. I should update my CV. I should do something sensible and proactive and…