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Schrödinger's Cat.

My week. My year. What I did not expect was, as I left the room, to see her disappearing into a small passage that led to at the back of the complex. I hung back, checked that no-one was looking (the regular employees were all involved in making on-air deals in the next room) and followed her along the corridor.

It was a short passage, and it was not hard to see where she had gone. Not, as I had expected, to a bathroom - they were at the other side of the complex - but into a small room with no door, presumably set aside for senior staff. I waited, listening for the familiar swishing sound that meant that tugging was taking place, but to my surprise I didn't hear it.

And what I did hear gave me even greater surprise.

She had been in the room for only a few seconds when the sound of muffled sobbing came from within. Curious, I walked towards the door and poked my head around it.

Phillipa was sitting at a table, her head down, sobbing bitterly.

I paused. Had there been anyone to see me, the puzzled expression on my face would have been plain. For her pantyhose to sag in front of the class (as she thought), while mildly embarrassing, could hardly have been enough to result in this outburst. Was she overtly sensitive about her appearance?

She continued sobbing as I approached, feeling like a total bastard. She looked up, streaks of mascara and shadow running down her face.

"Oh... oh Damian. I'm so sorry..." she coughed, wiping at her eyes.

"Hey, it's fine," I replied, reassuringly. "You just had a little trouble with your pantyhose." And even in my guilt, a thrill of sexual joy went through me. "I'm sure it could happen to anyone."

And then, in case she wondered at my presence. "I just came to see you were OK."

"Oh I feel such a fool," she moaned. "Breaking down like this. The faithless bastard just isn't worth it!"

She blew her nose.

The look of mystification on my face increased. She noticed.

"You're probably wondering what this is all about," she said. "It's my... my boyfriend. The slime!"

I sat down next to her, pulling out my own handkerchief, and offered it to her.

"Thank you," she said, through her tears. "You're... you're so kind. I know I'm behaving totally stupidly!"

"Of course not. You're just upset."

"I'll say I'm bloody upset," she shrieked. "What do you think of a guy that lives with a girl for three years, then last night calmly announces that he's leaving. No preliminaries, no warning?" The tears began flowing again. "And he had the gall.. the unmitigated gall... to describe her. The bitch he's moving in with. Eighteen years old. Redhead. 38C tits... the germ!!"

"What a cunt." I echoed. Meaning myself. But she didn't know that.

"Oh... you understand. Oh thank you."

She wiped her eyes again. "I could see that you were a sensitive kind of guy. I'm so sorry... I rang him this morning, and he refused to change his mind. When I got that phone call, back then, I thought it would be him. It wasn't... it was some damn telemarketer!" She half-smiled at the irony of it. "And then, on top of everything else, my damn pantyhose have to start sliding down in the middle of the course, in front of everybody, making me look like a total idiot!!"

I reached out and stroked her hair. She smiled up at me.

"I must look a sight!" she said.

"You look gorgeous," I replied. Even through her tears she flushed. "And I think wrinkled pantyhose are cute."

Again, a lie-detector wouldn't have picked up so much as a ripple.

"Oh, you're so sweet," she whispered. And then, as if coming to an instant decision, she pushed back her chair. "Well, I suppose we'd better get back. The rest of the hopefuls are waiting."

"Erm, Phillippa," I said. "You might want to check your make up first."

She blushed even more deeply.

"Damn, see what a mess I'm in?"

She got up and moved over to a mirror, attached to the wall. "As if I hadn't made enough of an idiot of myself already!"

"I know how that is!" I said, with feeling.

She stood in front of the mirror, applying lipstick, eye make up and fiddling with her

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