Dan wonders if Atticus is giving him something he can get hold of at last. His mind pirouettes with information. Questions line up, one behind another. He hears each one drop like the whir of a projector reel.

‘Is your relationship with your father affected by your lack of interest in playing sports?’ Dan asks, inwardly congratulating himself for sounding in control as he reaches for his clipboard.

‘Not at all,’ Atticus says airily. ‘He was gutted I’m queer, though. Lord knows why, when he raised me in an industry stuffed with fags and prima donnas.’ Atticus says this with jazz hands, but Dan is not going to be put off. Not this time.

‘So, you have a good relationship with your father?’

‘Yes. I just have to leave the pink loafers at home and not feel up Cousin Monty when we play pass-the-parcel at family parties. I’ve told my father I’ve no desire to pin my tail on that donkey, but he won’t believe me.’ Dan blushes and Atticus says, ‘Anyway, enough about me. Tell me more about you being a “tea man”.’ He says this with quote marks. ‘What’s your poison? Darjeeling, Assam, Earl Grey, Lapsang Souchong?’

Dan squirms in his seat. Anger at his body’s reaction to Atticus and a splash of shame make his voice snitty when he says, ‘This session is not about me, it’s about you. You were the one who booked counselling, Atticus.’

It’s the first time Dan has ever said his name out loud and the word is a wedge of lemon in his mouth.

Atticus sighs. ‘Oh, fine. I don’t sleep well, okay? Caffeine and I go way back. It’s an intense relationship. Not quite as passionate as your love affair with tea, obviously.’ He grins at Dan with a look that says, ‘You’ll forgive me for being audacious because I’m so bloody handsome,’ and Dan does, but refuses to make the eye contact Atticus is aiming for.

Instead he pretends to be writing a profound insight on his clipboard. He’s actually just written his dog’s name six times in a row. ‘How long have you had trouble sleeping?’ Dan asks, thinking of Atticus staring at a blank ceiling. It makes his heart thump once in sorrow.

‘I’ve never slept well. My mother used to drive me over humps in the road at three a.m. to try to get me to settle.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Nope, but it stopped me crying, or so I’m told, and I still like being out late at night, when the world isn’t watching.’ Atticus’s voice is matter-of-fact, but Dan’s heart rabbits again in sympathy at the idea of Atticus being out alone, with no one to admire him except the streetlamps.