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He leans towards the buttons, his face close to the intercom.

‘Oi!’ he says as he presses the call button. ‘We’re stuck. Some of us have places to be.’

It only takes a second or two for a reply to come through.

‘Sorry, sir, they said this could happen,’ the voice explains. ‘Someone is coming right along to reset it and we’ll have you moving in no time.’

I squeeze the handrail. It doesn’t sound like we’ll be stuck in here for long – hopefully not anyway – but I don’t love it.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says to himself.

I notice him looking at his champagne.

‘How long do we need to be stuck before you’re willing to pop that?’ I joke.

He laughs.

‘It’s funny, I only came up to get it because I’ve got a good feeling about tonight,’ he tells me.

‘You’re clearly not a very good psychic,’ I break it to him, feeling a little more at ease for having a joke with him.

‘I had a good feeling about us winning,’ he clarifies. ‘This was to celebrate.’

‘Do you mean “us” like when sports fans say “we”, but they mean a group of highly trained athletes they won’t be assisting in any way?’ I joke.

He taps the Minotaurs badge on his chest.

‘Erm, no, I’m a player,’ he insists with a chuckle. ‘Who are you supporting?’

I hold my lanyard briefly, so he can see the lion at the top.

‘I work here,’ I tell him.

‘Oh, so you’ll be hoping I don’t get out in time,’ he replies – certain he’s joking.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got faith in my boys.’

My boys – ha. They’ve been my boys for a minute and, despite walking past murals of them every day, I couldn’t pick most of them out of a police line-up.

He leans back against the mirrored wall.

‘What do you do?’ he asks.

‘PR. Social media. Generally making everyone look good,’ I reply.

‘How’s that going?’

‘I mean, they’re great, so it makes my job easy,’ I tell him.

I’m not about to admit that I’ve only been doing it for a week, I’ve already caused a PR crisis, and I don’t really know what I’m doing.

‘Well, either you don’t know who I am, or you’re doing a great job of pretending not to,’ he tells me, stepping forward, offering me his hand. ‘I’m Jamie.’

‘Nice to meet you, Jamie,’ I tell him, neither confirming nor denying that I don’t know who he is. ‘I’m Brooke.’

The lift remains still. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that it’s silent.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he assures me, sensing that I’m scared.