After two weeks of silent treatment from my friends, interspersed with lurid overtures from Victor and unreasonable demands from the Boss, I have made up my mind: I take a deep breath and dial the number. It rings twice before it’s answered by an impossibly perky Antipodean.

“Michael Taylor Clarke . . .”

“Oh, hello, I, er . . . ”

“Hello,” she chirps. “Would you like to speak to one of our employment consultants?”

“Er, yes, I suppose I would.”

“Would that be in private practice, in-house, support, public sector, management, international, partner-designate or partner?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No, that’s why I’m calling – I have no idea what category I’d fit best with.” Though I’m pretty confident it won’t be either of the last two.

“Hold the line please.” A burst of Vivaldi breaks out of the receiver.

“I’m going to put you through to Guy,” she cuts in. “He’ll take it from there.”

Guy is, evidently, one of the “senior employment consultants” in the private practice team.

“Hello,” he drawls, “How can I help you?”

“I’m not sure exactly,” I say. “I’m thinking about moving on from my present role but I don’t know what I’d like to do.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place,” he chuckles. “We are the experts in career management.”

“So I gather.”

“Yes, so the first thing we need to do is to book you a little appointment to come over and meet us.”

“There’s really no need for that,” I reply. “I just wanted to have a chat to get a feel for the market – you know, that sort of thing.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” he urges. “We like to get to know all our candidates personally so we can do our very best to promote them to our partner firms.”

“Well, ok, if you think that’s the best thing.”

“I assure you, it is – tomorrow morning, say eight?”

“Eight’s a little ambitious,” I reply. “How about next week sometime?”

“A week is a long time in law,” he warns “What about Thursday evening?”

“Er, well . . . ”

“You need to strike while the iron is hot! The market is very competitive at the moment.”

“Ok, then.” I give in. “Thursday it is.”

“Great, can you let me have a copy of your CV?”

CV? I hadn’t thought of that.

“Yes, of course,” I lie, “though it might need a little bit of work.”

“OK, but don’t worry too much about that, we can work on any areas of concern when we meet. Just get it over to me ASAP.”

“OK.”

“Great, see you Thursday. Oh, by the way, what was your name?”

“Helen. Helen Bailey.”

“Looking forward to meeting you, Helen.”

I put the phone done in a panic. I have no CV, except for that nonsense on the website, and no idea of what I want to do with the rest of my life.

I must rectify this immediately.

I write out my name, address, education history. Then I can’t think of anything else to put down. In desperation, I call my law school friend, Chris, who is an old hand at trading jobs.

“What should I put in my CV?” I wail helplessly down the phone.

“Whatever you like!” he laughs. “Everyone else does.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. No one tells the truth on their CVs. You should read mine – you’d never recognise me.”

“Can I?”

“Sure, I’ll e-mail a copy over. Why are you looking to change jobs anyway?”

“I’ve had enough of misguided management, unscrupulous colleagues and stupid hours,” I sigh.

He roars with laughter. “And you think anywhere else will be different?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve worked for five firms and they’ve all been exactly the same.”

“Yes, well, thanks for the warning,” I say prissily, “but it couldn’t be worse than here.”

“Don’t bet on it Helen.”

A few moments later his CV pops up in my in-box. It is riddled with embellishments. He introduces himself as a “corporate legal specialist”. He gushes about being a “proactive team player”, which I presume to mean he spends a lot of time on Facebook. He enthuses about his “proven ability to adapt to changing climates and markets”, which, of course, means that he hasn’t held down a job for more than 18 months.

My favourite is his description of himself as a “blue sky thinker”. Read: he’s a total fantasist!

I phone and tell him, “You should work for the News of the World. Your creative language skills are amazing.”

“That CV has landed me four jobs,” he says. “You won’t scoff when it’s done the same for you.”

For a laugh, I give it a go. “Ambitious, industrious assistant,” I write. Meaning: misguided, overworked drudge. “Proven ability to manage multiple caseloads.” Meaning: gets no help from her supervisors. “Proactive approach to marketing.” Meaning: avoids clients at all costs.

“Fabulous,” says Chris when I show him. “Add a few court victories and some exotic hobbies and they’ll be queuing up to employ you.”

“I don’t have exotic hobbies,” I say.

“Of course you do,” he scoffs. “Use your imagination!”

Ten minutes later, with “creative writing” and “amateur psychology” to my name, my new CV is born. Now all I need to do is figure out what to do with it.

Times Recommends

• The best legal yarns this Christmas
• Legal school 'earned £1m by exploiting bar course'
• Axe may fall on 5,000 more City lawyers