“And, finally,” Malcolm announces, “could all those assistants who attended the IT training session on January 22 please assemble in the foyer at 10am to have their photographs taken.”

“What? This morning?!” Liz asks, aghast.

“It would appear so.”

“No! I can’t! I’ve got Marge Simpson hair!”

“Wear a hat.”

“I don’t have a hat!”

“You can borrow mine,” says Alex, no doubt referring to his South American farmer’s bonnet.

“I’m supposed to look efficient and professional. I can’t turn up looking like a Peruvian tribeswoman,” she says, trying to smooth her unruly curls. “God, why didn’t they warn us?”

“Perhaps they’re aiming for the unkempt look. It might be a marketing statement.”

“What, like: 'See how distressed and tired our assistants look, it proves how hard they work'.”

“Yes.”

If this weren’t so close to home, it would be funny.

“Don’t worry,” Alex soothes, seeing her panicked face. “The photographer made the partners look like film stars. If he can do that, then taming your hair will be a breeze.”

“The Boss doesn’t look like a film star,” she protests.

“He does,” Jane disputes. “Boris Karloff.“

“Yeah,” Alex laughs. “But that was deliberate. He didn’t want clients thinking he was some namby pamby soft-focus wimp.”

He prefers them to think he is evil personified.

“They made Miranda look like Grace Kelly,” he points out. “That must have taken some airbrushing.”

“True,” she agrees. “But, but I’m not taking any chances!”

An hour later, we’re assembled in the foyer.

“Where’s Liz?” Alex asks.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since she went to Boots.”

A leather-clad biker approaches us. “Hi,” he says, removing his helmet.

“Hi” Alex says. “Reception’s over there.”

He shakes his mane of tousled hair. “Thanks, but I’m Eduardo, the photographer. I assume you’re here for your close-ups?”

“Yes, we certainly are!” Alex says, with, sudden, ill-concealed glee.

Just then, the lift doors open and a sultry, sleek-headed woman steps out.

“Ta-da!” Liz says, showing off her tamed and beautiful hair.

“You look great," Alex says. "Did you iron it?”

“Almost. Straighteners and Frizz-whiz."

Eduardo asks if everyone is present, then leads us to the conference room, where his equipment is already set up. “I’m not going for traditional head shots like the partners have,” he explains. “I’m looking for more candid, organic pictures.”

“What does that mean?” Jane asks, not one for arty nonsense.

“It means that you’re going to pretend I’m not here and I’m going to capture you in your unprocessed, natural state.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I don’t think clients will want to see Tarquin picking his nose or Fergus scratching his backside.”

“Or Jane and Helen flashing their knickers,” Fergus adds.

Eduardo ignores this and sets about arranging us into our “unprocessed” and “natural” states.

Tarquin is positioned at the head of the table. “Make the most of it,” Jane warns, “it’ll be the only chance you get.”

“You won’t be saying that when I’m Senior Partner,” he sniffs.

“I won’t be working here if you’re Senior Partner!”

“Good!” Eduardo says, “Anger is good!”

Jane gives one of her most withering looks as he takes the first frame.

I have the misfortune of being seated next to Fergus.

“Can’t keep away, can you?” he winks.

“Just get on with doing what you do best,” I snipe.

“Which is?”

“Telling stupid jokes and asking fatuous questions.”

Liz is next to me, ram-rod straight.

“What’s the matter?” Olivia asks.

“I don’t want to ruin my hair.”

“But you don’t look very natural like that.”

“Natural is Wild Woman of Borneo. This is fine!” she hisses.

“Come on guys! Work it!”

“We’re not sitting for Vogue,” Jane says

“Speak for yourself!”

“OK folks,” Eduardo says, and springs to his feet. “Follow me!”

We trail behind him as he skips out of the building.

“Stand over there and chat naturally,” he orders.

“What’s natural about this?” Liz moans.

A sudden gust of wind ruffles her hair. “Oooooh,” she wails.

“It’s fine,” I soothe.

Then it starts to rain.

Seconds later, it explodes into a mass of chaotic curls.

“I don’t believe it!” she fumes.

“Great!” says Eduardo, “Really organic!”

“Organic? I look like Worzel Gummidge!”

He keeps shouting as the wind whips up and the rain lashes down: fantastic! Spectacular! Amazing!

But Liz has had enough. “I’ve got work to do!” she shrieks. “I’m not staying here a moment longer!”

Before he can protest, she storms back towards the office.

“I’ll e-mail the proofs through,” he calls after her.

“Don’t bother!”

But he does. And they are the most unflattering pictures ever taken. Jane scowls murderously. Olivia stares vacantly. Alex poses shamelessly. I fume indignantly. And Liz is almost entirely obscured by hair. We look like The Addams Family. So much for our moment of movie stardom.

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