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Henry Wellby spinning in his grave. Then she frowns. “But you must admit it’s a bit weird that the phone is always off the hook.”
    God give me strength. “I’ve knocked it off the hook, that’s all. It’s nothing sinister.”
    She doesn’t look convinced. “It’s really cold in here though, isn’t it?”
    Is it cold? I suppose so, but it is November after all and – unlike Dawn, who usually sports short-sleeved crop tops from beneath which her pallid midriff ripples like Viennetta – I’m wearing a polo neck.
    “We’re in a building that’s over two hundred years old,” I point out. “When Henry Wellby’s family purchased it to house his private collection they weren’t really thinking about whether or not it was centrally heated.”
    Dawn rubs her arms. “But your office is way colder than all the others.” She huffs a great lungful of air at me. “I can see my breath!”
    “Dawn, was there a reason you’re here? Or do you just want to chat about the lack of central heating?”
    “I do witter on, don’t I?” Dawn giggles. “Natter, natter, natter! That’s me!”
    I fix her with my sternest stare, the one that usually makes Susie confess to eating my chocolate/using up the milk/borrowing my perfume. It’s never failed yet and Dawn instantly pulls herself together.
    “Anyway… Look, I’m really sorry, Cleo, but I’ve just had a call from my Gary. He’s caught in a big traffic jam on the Westway and there’s no way he’ll be on time to pick our Ellie up from school. I’ll have to leave now or I’ll never make it.”
    I glance at the clock. It’s one fifty. “But aren’t you supposed to be doing a school tour at two?”
    She nods. “There’s thirty Year Eights downstairs and they’re really excited.”
    “You’ll just have to let them down gently,” I tell her.
    Dawn looks shocked. “We can’t do that; they’ll be gutted! And anyway we’ve got that reporter joining us, remember? He’s waiting too.”
    I do remember because I was the genius who organised this. It seemed like a good idea at the time, in the abstract way that these things always do. It would raise our profile, tick all the right boxes for funding initiatives and hopefully generate lots more educational visits. There’s no way we can put today’s tour off. I need to find another sucker, I mean volunteer, to dress up as an Egyptian and do battle with stroppy teenagers.
    “We’ll have to find somebody else then,” I say. “But who?”
    Dawn starts to unwind her costume. “You’ll have to do it.”
    “Me?”
    I’m an academic. There’s no way I’m dressing up and parading around the museum. No way at all. Nobody will ever take me seriously again. But by the time I open my mouth to protest Dawn is down to her knickers, tugging off her wig and pulling on her leggings.
    “You’ll be brilliant, Cleo!” she insists, two-thirds dressed now and on her way to the door while I stare at her, appalled. “Nobody knows more about ancient Egypt than you do. You’ve even got the right name!”
    The robes are shoved into my arms, followed by the wig and a bag of grotty make-up. I’m beyond horrified.
    “Dawn, I can’t!”
    “Of course you can,” says Dawn cheerfully. Of course she’s looking cheerful; she’s halfway out of the door isn’t she? “Just remember to stay in role and have fun! Bye!”
    Stay in role and have fun? I stare after her, lost for words. Fun? I hated drama at school and, as I recall, I didn’t much like the other kids either. I can’t imagine anything has changed significantly since then. There’s nothing else for it: I’ll have to cancel the journalist and the tour.
    I pick up the phone, which is somehow off the hook yet again, and dial down to reception.
    “Dr Carpenter! Thank goodness!” The receptionist sounds stressed. “We’ve been trying to ring up for ages! There’s a journalist here who says he’s supposed to be having a tour of the department.” She lowers her