He gives me a quizzical look and I notice his penetrating deep brown eyes. They’re searching for something inside me and I quickly look away.

“Right,” he says. “OK, so imagine you’re all sitting at home eating, but one of you is missing”

“Mum.” It slips out so fast I don’t have time to stop the word from leaving my lips.

Again, I get the questioning eyes. They’re unnerving. Though not as terrifying as this conversation. I need it to stop.

“So you’re sitting there eating,” he says quietly. “And your mum enters the room. There’s a subtle shift in the air. Now it could be because you’ve been waiting for her and you’re all pleased she’s arrived, but maybe it’s because whatever she’s feeling, whatever emotional state she brings into the room changes the atmosphere. When you look at her you see your mum, but you also have a sense of her internal essence and it’s somehow emanating from her. Maybe that’s her aura.”

My body has started shaking and I can feel sweat dripping between my breasts. I’m gripping the armrests so tightly my fingers are cramping, but I have to act normal.

“Interesting,” I croak, my gaze dropping to his shoes.

Nike sports shoes. Black with grey stripes. Very strait-laced for a guy who says things like “internal essence” and “emotional state” as if they’re terms used to describe a rugby game.

The man gently begins to pry my fingers loose from the armrest closest to him, his touch so tender it makes my skin tingle. In horror, I glare at the caramel-coloured skin on the back of his hand. Fleetingly, I wonder about his ethnicity – is he part Maori? Samoan?

He wraps my hand in his and squeezes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Damn him. Tears flood my eyes. What the hell is going on? Then I’m suddenly crying and he’s got an arm around me and I’m lying heavily against his chest. And it’s completely bonkers that I’m crying – which I never do, by the way – in the arms of some stranger who smells not only of lavender, but also something muskier, like cloves. I can’t believe I’m noticing the scent of this guy. I feel like I’m outside my body, looking down at the freak who is me, and I’m shaking my head and saying to my other blubbering self: Stop this, Trish. Snap out of it. This isn’t who you are. People in the aisle across from us are asking if I’m all right and the strange man stroking my hair is telling everyone I’m fine, and I’m sure he genuinely believes it.

But it’s not how real life works.