The sound of my phone ringing pulls me back from losing it completely. Ruth’s name flashes on the screen. I turn the keys in the ignition and as I pull away my tires squeal, which makes a couple of police officers look up. I glance at my watch. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s 2:52 p.m. I have eight minutes to get to Dr. Bunce’s before Ruth loses her shit. I answer, and press the speaker button on my phone.

“Jon?” Ruth’s beautiful, husky voice fills the car.

“Oh hi, love,” I say, not looking properly as I pull out of the estate, wiping my eyes.

“You sound stressed. Why are you stressed?”

There’s never any lying to Ruth.

“No, no, I’m just, um, the traffic’s just a bit tight.”

“Well, where are you?” I imagine her outside Dr. Bunce’s in her own car, peering down the road perhaps, hopeful that I’m about to appear. She thinks the sessions will help us figure out how we co-parent Jakey, but I’m hopeful they’ll make her realize how good we are together and bring her back to me.

“Just coming from an interview, sweetheart. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” The GPS says twenty-eight minutes.

“So you’re going to be late,” she sighs, as though me letting her down is inevitable, like I am the cross she has to bear. My stomach tightens.

“A few minutes late, and I’m sorry, but I am on my way. Why don’t you get started? I’ll be there before you know it.”

“Because this is supposed to be couples counseling, Jon, and when one half of a couple can’t be bothered to turn up . . .”

“I can be bothered, Ruth. I’m clearly bothered. I’m just a few minutes late because of work and I’m sorry. Look, the longer you talk to me the less time you have to tell Dr. Bunce what a massive pain in the arse—” but I know Ruth’s stopped listening because in the background she turns up the news on the radio. I catch a few words clearly: “body,” “Megan Nichols,” and “missing.”

“Ruth? Ruth?” I ask, but she’s not listening to me anymore.

“OK, see you soon, Jon,” she says, distracted by the news story. She hangs up as I move into the fast lane.

I’m twenty minutes late by the time I pull up outside Dr. Bunce’s Victorian terrace. My wrist smarts; I’ve been flicking the elastic band nonstop. I ring the doorbell and hear the shock of it reverberate throughout the house. Dr. Bunce likes to move slowly, not because she’s old—she’s only in her mid-fifties—but as if she wants to convey that life is something to savor, a fine wine. Hurry the fuck up. By the time she’s opened the door and I’ve kicked off my shoes on her cool mosaic floor I’m at least three minutes later. I apologize, which she accepts with a gentle nod of her fine, gray-haired head. The therapy room is sparsely furnished and always smells freshly vacuumed. Ruth is sitting in one of two armchairs opposite Dr. Bunce’s larger chair, a box of tissues in front of her. Her wavy blond bob curls behind her ears; the dimple in her chin is visible, which means she’s trying hard to stop her chin from wobbling. She pulls the sleeves of her red sweater over her hands as I bend to kiss her cheek, as I say, “Sorry, sorry I’m late.”