It’s hard to describe the atmosphere in the house over the next couple of weeks. Things really couldn’t be weirder if Gemma Atkinson turned up as our maid. At first Scott seems to be there every time I go home – which is hard to get used to, given that his presence had been so rare before. He makes repeated attempts to talk to me about what happened, but I cut him dead every-time. I just can’t take his rejection. This defies everything I’ve learned from the lifetime of study I’ve devoted to the agony aunt pages – and I’m certain that Deidre wouldn’t approve. I’m completely embarrassed. Forever ashamed. Permanently wishing I lived somewhere else. Like Mars. I still haven’t discussed what’s going on with Dani and Katie. And I definitely haven’t told them what happened on the night of the ratatouille dish. I’ve thought about it, of course, but it’s as though discussing my feelings for Scott makes them more real, and I’d rather pretend that they didn’t exist, thank you very much.

A few days later on a wonderful sunny August morning, I switch on the radio as I drive to work, as Dolly Parton is singing “Working Nine to Five”. I only know the chorus but my vocal chords take the battering of a lifetime. By the time I’ve reached the outside of the city centre, drumming my hand on the steering wheel at the traffic lights, I’m so fired up I’m practically raving in my seat. It’s an important week this week. On Wednesday, I’ll be implementing the Nike UK plan. It’ll be the biggest challenge of my career to date, but one to which I’m determined to rise. This is the week I prove my worth to Mr Brown. My phone rings and I reluctantly silence Dolly and connect to the hands free. “Emma, it’s Alistair.” He doesn’t sound happy, but that’s only to be expected, given the week ahead. “Hi Alistair. What can I do for you?” “It’s out, Emma. It’s already out to the public,” he sounds as though he’s referring to an escaped lion. “What’s out?” “The News about the c

I frown at Scott. So does Drew. “Andrew?” I repeat. “I haven’t got it wrong, have I?” Asks Scott. “You went to Perronet Thompson school until about 1995?” “This isn’t Andrew,” I tell him. I look up and notice that Drew’s neck has turned an odd shade of red, and there’s a vein pulsing in the side of his neck. “And you are?” He glares at Scott. “Scott McMcanus. Your always stole my clothes at P.E, so I had to walk in front of the class in my boxers. Not that I’ll hold it against you,” he laughs. “It was a long time ago. What are you doing these days?” I sit, absolutely flabbergasted, unable to shut my mouth. “Now, wait just a minute,” I interrupt them. “Drew, you’re the Andrew who bullied Scott when he was at school?” “I haven’t called myself Andrew in a long time,” he bites out. “Do you know each other?” Asks Scott. He looks shocked that I would know his high school bully. “We work together,” I tell him, meaningfully. “This Scott, is Drew Turner.” A look of reali

When Scott doesn’t come home I know that my prayers have gone unanswered. It’s hardly surprising – even I am appalled to have raised this with our maker when parts of the world are ravaged by war and famine. The fact that I tagged on a perfunctory note about world peace and cruelty to animals is hardly going to have satisfied him. It is now 10 am and the only conclusion I can come to is that Scott officially has a new girlfriend. I phone Dani, trying not to whimper when she answers. “I need some retail therapy,” I declare when she answers. “Did you have a date last night?” she asks. “No. What makes you say that?” “You sound depressed.” “Not this time. Are you up for a shopping spree or what?” “Sorry sweetie, not this time. Jamie and I are going away for the night,” she says apologetically. “It’s a nice little guest house in Whitby. The sort of place that used to be my idea of hell.” “Oh. Well, have a great time, won’t you?” “What is it, anyway? Can’t you just tel

Despite her earlier performance, Dani is distraught. I can tell because, as I accompany her back to the office, she keeps threatening to castrate and kill people. Well, mainly Jamie, but also a few pedestrians who don’t dive out of the way quick enough. “Knobrash,” she hisses under her breath as she matches ahead, while I struggle to keep up. “Knobrash, knobhead, wanker.” “He’s definitely that,” I concede breathlessly. “Did you see the bloody slut he was with?” She spins round and takes me by surprise. I only just stop in time to avoid colliding with her, only to cause a small four person pile up. “I did,” I untangle myself from someone’s earphone wire and hand it back apologetically. In fact, the woman Jamie was with didn’t look like a slut. She looked completely respectable – and as shocked as Dani. “Knobrash,” she repeats, continuing down the street. “Knobrash, knob…..” “Dani… please slow down,” I beg eventually. She stops and turns. Her lips are trembling, he