As I finish speaking I plant the can firmly in the middle of the desk, reach for the ring pull and, with a cool smile, snap it back.
It's like a volcano erupting.
Fizzy cranberry-flavoured drink explodes in a whoosh out of the can, landing on the desk, drenching the papers and blotters in lurid red liquid … and oh no, please no … spattering all over Doug Hamilton's shirt.
'Fuck!' I gasp. 'I mean, I'm really sorry …'
'Jesus Christ,' says Doug Hamilton irritably, standing up and getting a handkerchief out of his pocket. 'Does this stuff stain?'
'Er …' I grab the can helplessly. 'I don't know.'
'I'll get a cloth,' says the other guy, and leaps to his feet.
The door closes behind him and there's silence, apart from the sound of cranberry drink dripping slowly onto the floor.
I stare at Doug Hamilton, my face hot and blood throbbing through my ears.
'Please …' I say, and clear my husky throat. 'Don't tell my boss.'
After all that. I screwed it up.
As I drag my heels across the concourse at Glasgow Airport, I feel completely dejected. Doug Hamilton was quite sweet in the end. He said he was sure the stain would come out, and promised he wouldn't tell Paul what happened. But he didn't change his mind about the deal.
My first big meeting. My first big chance — and this is what happens. I feel like giving up on the whole thing. I feel like phoning the office and saying 'That's it, I'm never coming back again, and by the way, it was me who jammed the photocopier that time.'
But I can't. This is my third career in four years. It has to work. For my own self-worth. For my own self-esteem. And also because I owe my dad four thousand quid.
'So what can I get you?' says an Australian guy, and I look up dazedly. I've arrived at the airport with an hour to go, and have headed straight for the bar.
'Erm …' My mind is blank. 'Er … white wine. No, actually, a vodka and tonic. Thanks.'
As he moves away, I slump down again in my stool. An air hostess with a French plait comes and sits down, two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return.
I don't know how other people manage their careers, I really don't. Like my oldest friend Lissy. She's always known she wanted to be a lawyer — and now, ta-daah! She's a fraud barrister. But I left college with absolutely no clue. My first job was in estate agency, and I only went into it because I've always quite liked looking round houses, plus I met this woman with amazing red lacquered nails at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she'd be able to retire when she was forty.
But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying things like 'a lovely aspect'. And I hated the way if someone said they could afford £300,000 we were supposed to give them details of houses costing at least £400,000, and then kind of look down our noses, like, 'You only have £300,000? God, you complete loser.'
So after six months I announced I was changing career and was going to be a photographer instead. It was such a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life …
Except it didn't quite happen like that.
I mean, for a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid?
Nothing. It's nothing.
Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer's assistant's job.
I heave a heavy sigh, and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well as everything else, my hair, which I carefully straightened with serum this morning, has gone all frizzy. Typical.
At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere. Out of the eight people on my course, one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue and stuff, one became a wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went travelling, one had a baby, one works at Snappy Snaps and one is now at Morgan Stanley.
Meanwhile I got more and more into debt, and started temping and applying for jobs which actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at the Panther Corporation.
The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me, and gives me a quizzical look. 'Cheer up!' he says. 'It can't be that bad!'
'Thanks,' I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better. I'm just taking a second sip when my mobile starts to ring.
My stomach gives a nervous flip. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.
But it's not, it's our home number flashing on the little screen.
'Hi,' I say, pressing green.
'Hiya!' comes Lissy's voice. 'Only me! So how did it go?'
Lissy is my flatmate and my oldest friend in the world. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.
'It was a disaster,' I say miserably.
'What happened? Didn't you get the deal?'
'Not only did I not get the deal, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry drink.'
Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the whole world knows.
'Oh dear.' I can almost feel Lissy trying to think of something positive to say. 'Well, at least you got their attention,' she says at last. 'At least they won't forget you in a hurry.'
'I suppose,' I say morosely. 'So, did I have any messages?'
'Oh! Erm … no. I mean, your dad did phone, but … um … you know … it wasn't …' She tails off evasively.
'Lissy. What did he want?'
There's a pause.
'Apparently your cousin's won some industry award,' she says apologetically. 'They're going to be celebrating it on Saturday as well as your mum's birthday.'