Come along then, she says, come to my lair, and leads him through double doors into the heart of her department. No student-infested coffeeshop this time, he notes: she has slept in his house, eaten his wife’s preserves. Thus he follows her shapely calves into a maze of grey-carpeted corridors where the doors to professors’ offices can be distinguished from store cupboards and toilets only by a subdued level of personalization. On the door of one Professor Andy Spinoza, a Blu-tacked postcard reads ‘To Save Time, Let’s Just Assume I Know Everything’. On the door of one Dr Ali Fanshaw, an A4 poster advertises a one-day seminar on ‘The Holographic Body’. Gabrielle Salmon’s door is decorated with a snipped-out cartoon of two scientists by a blackboard. Two sections of complex formulations separate the phrase ‘… then a miracle occurs…’ and one scientist is saying to the other, ‘I think you should be more explicit here in Step 2.’

It’s not much, but it’s home, she says, recycling the phrase with a half-American accent as she ushers him in.

The room offers shelter to a desk, three chairs, a small coffee-maker and a single, half-empty bookcase.

I thought you university types had rooms full of books, he says.

All online these days, she says. Why kill trees? She motions to one of the chairs. Park yer bum.

The slangy familiarity: an attempted antidote, he thinks, to his newly stiffened frontage. Two adoptions of alien vernacular in less than a minute. He is determined not to descend into mateyness.

Dr Salmon—

She laughs disconcertingly.

You’ve really got your hackles up, she says.

I don’t know what you mean.

You do, Logan, you do. But okay, not a problem. Adopting a dash of Received Pronunciation, Do carry on.

Perhaps, he thinks, I am making a mistake. What he really wants to know is whether Merriweather was one of her guinea pigs: information she may be more likely to share with a friend than a prickly professional.

I’m sorry, Gabrielle, he says, I just feel a little awkward about—

How should he phrase it?

She: Your panic attack?

He, rapidly papering over the top of her suggestion: Our last conversation. He adjusts the knot of his tie distractedly, saying, Being here on a professional matter, I wanted to establish a more professional tone. I apologize if it seems—

Arsey?

Stiff.

Look, she says, leaning forward and placing her hand on his knee, entirely out of line with his stated wishes, none of it really matters. We’re all human. Relax, you’ll live longer.

I suppose you’ll tell me you have figures, he says.

What?

That relaxed people live longer.

She withdraws her hand.

There’s a fascinating study on baseball players— she begins, but Logan cuts her short.

Dr Salmon, Gabrielle, sorry, but we have to talk about April Smith.