‘He didn’t!’ Dan almost shouts. At last! Something he knows more about than Atticus does. ‘The tunnels were built after George got fat. He didn’t want to be spotted on his way to visit his horses. It was never about Maria.’

Atticus smiles broadly.

‘You already knew that, didn’t you?’ Dan says flatly.

‘Of course, but your knowledge is charming. Have you been down the tunnel yourself?’

Dan doesn’t know if Atticus intends the innuendo and decides he probably does. ‘No, I’ve not.’ Dan’s curt voice returns and cuts toenails. Clip, clip, clip.

‘Well, any time you want to go exploring, do let me know.’ Atticus is definitely flirting.

Dan is going to remain professional and not be sucked in. He writes, Focus Daniel, you utter twat, on his clipboard then asks, again, ‘So why did you come to counselling? You haven’t really answered me.’

Atticus sighs and says nothing for a while. His mouth makes the shape of words, but nothing comes out. Finally, he mutters, ‘Okay. Art imitates life, yes?’

‘Okay,’ Dan says, wondering where this is going.

‘So sometimes I feel like Tracey Emin.’ Atticus shrugs, as if he’s answered the question and there is nothing more to say.

Tracey Emin. A bell rings in a recess of Dan’s mind. Didn’t she do something about an unmade bed? How does this explain Atticus? Silence normally draws more words from patients, but Atticus won’t be played. Dan is forced to do the exposing.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know much about her work. Didn’t she do something about her bed?’ Dan feels his cheeks redden as he says the word. What is he – ten?

‘She did. Had a breakdown in it and didn’t get up for four days. Just lay in her own piss and blood among condoms and empty bottles. When she finally emerged, she crawled to the sink for water. On her way back, she looked at the bed she’d left and didn’t see a place where she’d almost died. She saw a place that had kept her alive. How fucking brilliant is that?’

‘You find that brilliant?’ Dan asks, trying not to look appalled. All he can think is how unhygienic it must have been, how repulsed it makes him feel.

‘Don’t you? It’s incredible. She’s amazing. She also sewed the names of everyone she ever slept with into a tent.’

Atticus shakes his head in wonder while Dan wonders why. How is that something that Atticus, who smells of cologne from an old-fashioned bottle with a French name, can relate to? He worries how many names Atticus could sew into a tent.