Leah wrenches the door open and turns to look at me. ‘I need you to…’ she starts, her eyes shining with fresh tears, then she lowers her voice to barely a whisper. ‘This is about the truth.’

‘Stay a little longer, Leah, please. I have some extra time this afternoon. It’s okay. Talk to me.’

She shakes her head forcefully and fumbles around in her jacket pocket with her right hand. She hands me a crumpled envelope with something solid inside.

‘Please come.’

‘Leah—’

‘I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…’

‘Wait, sorry for what? Leah, wait.’

But Leah is already running down the stairs, her footsteps echoing up the stairwell. I rush to the window and watch as she bursts onto the street and crosses the road to the royal palace park, where she becomes blurred and distorted in the crashing rain.

2

Kristina

As soon as I get home, I go to the kitchen and pour myself a large glass of Californian red. I walk through each of our large rooms steeped in autumnal darkness even though it is only four o’clock, and enter my walk-in wardrobe, placing the wineglass on a shelf. My reflection is mirrored back at me from several angles, sliver after sliver of Kristina. I look tired and pale. I take a big glug of the wine and run my fingertips across a long row of little black dresses, which are perfectly hung and grouped by fabric. Silk, then chiffon, then satin, cotton, jersey, merino wool, cashmere. Tonight will be formal and I need something special. It’s the Conservative Party’s annual autumn gala, held at the prime minister’s private residence. My husband is second in command of the party and many eyes will be on us this evening. I move toward the jewel-colored dresses, teal maybe, or a deep emerald; those colors tend to offset my dark hair. I select a beautiful ocean-blue silk Bottega Veneta dress and step out of my work clothes. I look at myself for a moment in the full-length mirror and take another big sip of the pinot noir. Woman, thirties, thin and a little drawn-looking, drinking wine in her underwear in a closet – that’s me.

I feel unsettled, like something is happening at the back of my mind that I can’t quite grasp; it’s the feeling of trying to recover a forgotten dream. My thoughts return to this afternoon’s session with Leah Iverson. There was something alarming in her level of intensity – in all the time she’s been coming to see me, I have never seen her in a state like that before. I know I’ll need to return to the session, write up some notes and consider whether to intervene further, but right now, I need to focus on the evening ahead.