‘Sorry I’m late.’ Tom runs a hand through his hair. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt and he’s forgone shoes in favour of a pair of grey and navy stripy socks. ‘I got caught up talking to—’

‘Is this yours?’ Fran opens her palm to show him the key fob.

He squints. ‘What is it?’

‘A key fob. It lives in this dish.’

‘Nope.’ He lowers himself into an armchair, letting out a little groan of satisfaction as he settles back into it. ‘Our car key is in the bedroom.’

‘Oh.’ Fran places the key fob back in the dish, in the same position as she’d found it, piling the coins either side. Then she takes the seat opposite Tom. ‘The cleaner must have moved it.’

Tom laughs. ‘I’m not sure Kate would take kindly to being called “the cleaner”.’ He mimes quotation marks with his fingers.

‘There’s no cleaner?’

‘No. No, Kate’s the only one who comes in here other than me … and the guests, obviously.’ He indicates the table. ‘That’s why we have tissues, fresh water and glasses.’

‘Right.’ Fran glances back at the window sill. It’s dusty. Why move the dish unless you were cleaning? And why leave a key fob and a pile of coins in a house you’re renting when the rest of the place is uncluttered and pristine? She pushes the thought away. It’s a displacement activity, focusing in on a small annoyance in order to delay her session with Tom.

But as the session gets started and Tom begins delving into her past, Fran is continually distracted by the small, black object on the window sill. It’s pointed directly at her. Almost as though it’s watching. She shakes the thought off. She’s becoming paranoid. Kate is the threat at the retreat, not a small piece of plastic on a window sill.

She looks back towards Tom. ‘How’s your day been so far? Did you enjoy the aerial walk?’

He dismisses her question with a swipe of his hand. ‘Nice try. Let’s talk some more about your mother, as I think you have some unresolved issues there. How would you describe your relationship with her?’

‘Awful. How’s your relationship with your mother?’

He shakes his head. ‘Come on, Geri. You can do better than that.’

And on it goes, Tom pressing her to open up and her rebuffing his question with one of her own. Tom becomes more and more impatient as the hour ticks by: his sighs become longer, he shifts in his chair, he almost empties the jug he drinks so much water. Finally, he holds up his hand and says,

‘What is it, Geri? What’s this about?’

She shrugs. ‘I don’t know what you mean?’