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that. Everything bang up to date. First-class turnaround time. Outstanding feedback from the clients. But those bills just aren’t getting sent out, are they?’
    ‘No. Urn.’
    ‘We’re in this business to make money, after all.’
    ‘Urn.’
    ‘There’s no point doing the work if we don’t get paid for it, is there?’
    ‘Urn.’
    Mr Hook sighed, and glanced sideways at the framed photograph on his desk. Mr Hook never ever talked about his family, but the woman in the picture was twenty years younger than him and looked as though she’d just stepped off a catwalk. There was also a small nondescript female child, and a dog. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that we’ve had this conversation before. Isn’t that right?’
    ‘Mm.’
    ‘I have an idea that last time you promised me you’d make a real effort to get the invoices written up and sent out on time.’ Pause. His eyes were eating into Emily’s soul like shipworms gnawing a keel in the middle of the Sargasso Sea. ‘That is what we agreed, isn’t it?’
    ‘Mm.’
    ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch—’
    ‘Yes. Only,’ Emily added quickly, in a teeny-tiny voice that made her sound about the same age as the kid in the photograph, ‘there’s been ever such a lot to do this month, and I try and keep on top of the paperwork, but it’s not always easy, and I get confused about what’s zero-rated for VAT and what isn’t, and every time I sit down and try and do the apportionments the phone always rings and it’s someone with a dragon or a chimera or something and you can’t keep the clients waiting, and by the time I get back to the office it’s been driven right out of my head, and …’
    Her words tailed off, like the last few drips from a punctured water-bottle in the desert. Mr Hook looked at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said. Those eyes: like those of a crucified spaniel.
    ‘Sorry really isn’t good enough, though, is it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘We really are going to have to buck our ideas up, aren’t we?’
    ‘Mm.’
    ‘This time, when we promise faithfully that we’re going to try and do better, we’re going to have to mean it, aren’t we?’
    ‘Mwf.’ Pause. Oh God, Emily thought, he’s about to be nice. I can’t stand it when he’s nice. It’s like having your raw soul scoured with a wire brush.
    ‘I do understand, really,’ said Mr Hook. ‘You’re a hard-working, dedicated young woman who never gives less than a hundred and ten per cent. The profession isn’t just a job of work to you, it’s a passion. I think that’s wonderful, I genuinely do. But.’ He stopped and looked at her; that how-do-you-solve-aproblem-like-Maria look that made her feel - that was the wicked, cruel, unbearable thing about Mr Hook’s eyes. He could make her feel sweet. When his eyes latched on to her like that, suddenly she was a twelve-year-old girl who’d handed in twenty sides of homework that still didn’t manage to answer the question. He made her feel like she was playing at the job, indulging herself, instead of doing what she was paid for. Of course, if they’d hired a man—
    ‘Now then,’ said Mr Hook. ‘We really have got to sort this out, haven’t we? I’m going to give you one last chance. Bills properly drawn up, sent in on time, credit-control procedures carried out properly. You know you can do it if you try. After all, you’re a highly intelligent girl, and it’s just paperwork. If you’re having trouble with the VAT apportionments, get Clive or Sarah to help you - I’m sure they’ll be only too happy to show you how to do it. Get into the habit of setting aside a little bit of time every day - an hour and a half should be plenty - to really get a grip on those invoices and timesheets and yellow slips. Talking of which, I gather we’ve been a bit careless about filling out stores requisitions, haven’t we?’ Emily nodded. Left undone those things which we ought to have done, and there is no health in us.
    ‘I really