A relatively empty Central Line carriage, shortly after 10 one recent morning.
The chap next to me drops a folder onto the seat between us. It’s headed “Company disciplinary interview ” – “Meeting room E. 11:00” – and the name of the young lady concerned.
Where was she then, I wondered, with almost an hour of dread ahead? Sitting at her desk, pretending to concentrate? Hiding, crying in the loos? Being hugged and unconvincingly reassured by her best friend in the coffee shop next door? For she knew what had happened to the last girl to get into trouble: the whole office had heard the slippering; had seen her emerge with her face painted with mascara tears; had watched as she winced when she’d returned to her desk.
It had been a genuine mistake. And it was years since she had last been punished at home, by daddy. And at least he used to do it because he loved get and cared.
All she wanted was for her man to arrive, and to tell the horrid people to leave her alone. To protect her. And that wasn’t going to happen, when she was too ashamed to confess to him that his girl was in trouble…