Until the moment when a man almost died in front of her eyes on the 08:05 train, Iona’s day was just like any other. She always left her house at half past seven. It took her an average of twenty minutes to walk to the station, wearing heels, which meant she usually arrived fifteen minutes before her train departed for Waterloo station. Two minutes later, if she wore her Louboutin pumps. Arriving at the station on time was of the utmost importance if she wanted to get her usual seat, in her usual carriage, which was exactly what she wanted. Innovation might be a wonderful thing in fashion or cinema or even in pastry-making, but it was unwelcome when it came to her daily commute to work.

Iona’s editor-in-chief once suggested that she start working from home. It was very fashionable, he told her, and her job could be done just as well remotely. He tried to persuade her to give up her personal office space with various incentives, such as an extra hour of sleep and greater flexibility, and when those failed, he tried to force her hand by making her comply with a dreadful practice called “hot desking,” which—as Iona discovered—was business jargon for a shared desk. Ever since she was a child, Iona hated sharing things. That little episode with the Barbie doll had remained indelibly etched in her memory, as it undoubtedly had in her classmates’ as well.

No, personal boundaries were essential. Fortunately, Iona’s colleagues quickly figured out which was her favorite desk, which soon turned from hot to distinctly cold. Iona loved going to the office. She enjoyed interacting with new people who taught her the modern youth slang, played her their favorite new songs, and told her what to watch on Netflix. It was important, especially in her profession, to keep at least one ear tuned to the pulse of the times. Bea, bless her, was completely clueless about the modern spirit of the age.