Do the process! she says again, taking his hand in hers with so much tenderness that he finds himself fighting an inappropriate urge to kiss her. No, no, not that, but what? Under the wash of emotion he cannot think, only feel. And what he now feels is that Gabrielle Salmon, against the fatal tide of his losses, is somehow pumping, through the portal of his hand, love. Love that, like a blood transfusion, races up his arm, pours into his heart. An overloaded heart which beats harder, faster, distributing the antidote through his blood vessels until every cell, every atom of his body, is suffused with her warmth. Breathing slows. Heart slows.

What did you do? he asks, not daring to look up at her.

Held an intention, she says.

That’s twice, he says. That’s twice you’ve brought me out of—

He cannot name it.

Yes, she says.

Now his hand, awkward again, wants to withdraw into a pocket, so excuses itself to go hunting for his e-cig.

Do you mind? he asks.

Propylene glycol, she says. Why should I mind? She, too, needs to move, leaving her seat to set the coffee-maker to its business. I didn’t know you smoked, she says with her back turned.

Not for years, he says. Not since smokes were tobacco. Bought this last week. Find it calming.

It’s mostly the breathing, she says. The calming effect. Studies show—

Not now, he says. Please.

They listen to the rain, and again their intimacy feels, to him, post-coital.

Gabrielle, he ventures. I think you may have met an old friend of mine. Simon Merriweather.

How so?

She is shepherding black liquid into mugs decorated with the word SHINE and the explanatory small print: Stop Harmful International Newt Experiments.

You spoke to a group he attends. Life After Death. In Southwark.

Yes, I remember. The group, I mean. Not your friend, particularly. Not great at names.

Really? But he would have come here. He signed up as an experimental subject, I believe. A leading question, he knew. Not the kind that would stand up in court. But this wasn’t for any court. This was for him. And if he was mistaken, she could correct him. She comes to him bearing their coffees; places his down slightly away from the table’s edge, as though he is a toddler and might scald himself.

I’ve no idea, she says. That was a double-blind randomized control job. Sign-ups went through my postgrad, Alice. And the processing too. I just crunched the data.

So you don’t know if he signed up?