I turn towards the voice. It’s the woman, the new one with the cropped black hair. I have never seen eyes like hers: they look black, too, though I know it’s an optical illusion, the merging of iris and pupil in this dark room, against the bright white of the sclera.

‘You mean self-indulgent.’

‘No. I know what I meant. I could see that did not come easily.’ Her voice is low, accented. Italian maybe? I heard it when she spoke in the session. She didn’t say much: that she had moved to the city, was looking for a group.

‘Did you find this morning useful?’

‘Maybe.’ She shrugs, it’s very Gallic, very nonchalant, so perhaps she’s French. I can’t stop looking at her eyes, which dominate her angular face. No one would ever describe her as pretty. But still, she’s so striking that I feel she should be on a movie screen, not here, in real life.

‘Will you come back?’

She smiles for the first time. ‘Will you?’

‘I’m part of the furniture,’ I say.

She’s older than me, I think, but not much. I have this sudden urge to know her story, what she struggles with and why she’s here right now, ready to make a change.

But even thinking that feels like I’m being disloyal to Kerry.

‘Well, until next time.’ She finishes her coffee, throws the cup in the bin and walks out of the conference room.

I realize I never asked her name, and I have no way of knowing if I’ll ever see her again.

I am stirring the risotto and sipping wine – Kerry and I have agreed that alcohol is not off-limits for me – when I hear the snap of the letterbox and the whisper of something landing on the mat.

It’s another card, in a silver envelope. The post came already this morning, a stack of birthday greetings ready for Kerry to open when she gets home from work.

I pick up the card. No stamp, but properly addressed. I open the front door and see a figure sprinting off into the twilight, as though they’ve just lobbed a grenade into the bungalow.

When I recognize him, an irrational irritation takes hold and I step out of my house.

‘Oi!’ I call out. He doesn’t look back, so I ram the card into my pocket and run after him. ‘Oi, Joel Greenaway, wait!’

Where’s it coming from, this roiling, acidic sensation in my abdomen? He’s only sending a card to the person who helped save his life.

Isn’t he?

The last time I saw him, the final time he sold me pills, he was so wrecked I wasn’t sure he’d survive the summer.