He was just good at lying, Job explains. “I’m quite an empathetic person, so I’ve got good instincts about what information I need to share with people. And I discovered that people tend to accept lies quite easily – it didn’t require a lot of effort.”

People don’t look for the right signs, he thinks. “We expect liars to be insecure, incoherent and indecisive. My lies were always well prepared, which allowed me to back them up with a lot of confidence.”

But in the end, his web of lies ended in a tangled mess, as the story of his life became riddled with plot holes. Being a professional liar is hard work, as Job’s book shows: “I had to make sure no one I knew was in the classes I claimed to be in, so I wouldn’t be found out.”

And what could he say to fellow students about the professors he never saw, or about the exams he hadn’t taken? He had to do research on the subjects he wasn’t taking, collect amusing anecdotes and put in an appearance at the faculty from time to time – all in all, a rather exhausting work schedule.

The first person you lied to about your studies was your mother, when she asked you if you had passed your exam. You hadn’t, but you told her you had. Why didn’t it stop there?

“Because I was embarrassed. First because I had failed my exam, and then about the lying itself. And the shame just got worse and worse, so I was too scared to tell the truth.”

You also write in your book that you had a history of lying before that.

“I did. When I first came to Leiden for my studies, I was already lying about my sexuality. So I was hiding a fundamental part of my identity – who I was attracted to. I was 18, a late developer and not the most masculine person, and I joined Minerva, a student union with a dominant masculine culture. I came from a troubled family with financial problems, whereas most of the other members came from upper-class backgrounds. It felt like there was no room to be different. Of course, I should’ve just said, ‘This is me, deal with it’, but instead I started lying to fit in. It also had to do with insecurity.”

This all happened 20 years ago, when it wasn’t as normal to talk about mental health as it is now.

“And we lived in a more homophobic society back then. There was also a cold wind blowing through academia. The consensus seemed to be: don’t blame society if you don’t make it, because it’s your own fault. I think that cold wind is still blowing today. I’m often asked why I started lying, but not how I was driven to lie by society and the education system, which I do find frustrating.”

What do you mean by ‘cold wind’?

“When you start, you’re immediately told that you have to get enough credits. And if you don’t, you’re out. The way they communicate is very formal and harsh. When I realised that I wasn’t going to make it, I didn’t feel like I had anyone to turn to.”

Fake students have received a lot of attention in recent years. Do you think that has helped?

“We don’t have exact figures, but I think there are more of them now than there used to be, so that’s why we’re hearing about them more often. There’s a stronger focus on mental health, but you also hear that a lot of students feel lonely. And loneliness breeds fake students.”

Things have changed in those 20 years: a few weeks ago, you spoke about your experiences at a mental health awareness day organised by your old student union.

“That was really special, and it’s a positive sign. There’s no way a day like that would have been organised during Minerva’s pledge week 20 years ago!”

Your book ends with a number of tips for students and educational institutions: talk to each other about your problems, keep an eye on each other...

“They’re open doors, but unfortunately they’re still relevant.”

... but you also think that educational institutions should call students who have dropped out to check in on them. And that they should reach out to students who keep switching programmes.

“I understand that educational institutions have limited resources, but I got almost no credits for two years in my medical programme, switched to history and then to law, and barely passed any of those classes either. You hope that someone’s going to notice, but that’s where the educational institutions are really falling short.”

At the end of his unsuccessful studies in Leiden, Job landed an internship at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs – thanks to a lie. But it was also a fresh start. Not much later, an administrative issue forces him to come clean to his mother about the fact that he hasn’t been studying. She demands that he confess his lies to everyone else he knows.

After that, Job gives it another go as a law student, this time in Amsterdam. And without the mental pressure of lying, having to keep up appearances and shame, studying doesn’t seem as hard. After graduating, he spends 10 years working as a lawyer in Amsterdam’s Zuidas district, before joining a company that helps finance lawsuits.

You could have put all of this behind you. Why do you want everyone to hear this story, which is often painful?

“To help others who are in the same situation. I used to hear gossip about fake students sometimes, and I’d think: that’s how they’ll talk about me when my lies come out. I think it would’ve helped me a lot to have an example of someone in the same situation who still landed on their feet.”

You even considered ending your life at one point.

“Yes, that was one of the options. Telling people I’d been lying seemed impossible, and emigrating seemed like a lot of hassle.”

A while back, there was a documentary about another fake student in Leiden, who did end up committing suicide.

“Which is awful, because you can get through it. That’s why I say: talk to your housemates, try to avoid making room for so many lies. Talk about your grades, including the bad ones – especially the bad ones. Maybe you can save someone from falling into a dark hole. Basically, you could save someone’s life.”