He unfolded his arms and turned to retrieve a pad and pen from his old leather-topped desk. ‘Just so I remember things . . . Nothing formal, don’t worry.’ Then he looked at me in expressionless silence. Waiting.

I didn’t want to think about it. Her. So instead, I wondered how old Dr Franco was. I’d always presumed he was in his sixties, but when I observed him closely, the skin on his face was smooth, line-free, and I suspected he was one of those people who’d always looked like an old man. Even as a kid.

His desk clock ticked like a bomb. Staring back down to my fiddling fingers, I thought I could play the game. Endure the excruciating awkwardness. But I’m ashamed to say he won. I told you they can get you to do anything.

‘She died in April. Cancer. What’s more to say? Life’s shit. It happened . . . No point talking about it . . . It won’t change anything.’ I glanced up to check his reaction. I’d said it so many times that even I believed it.

He twirled his pen like a baton, then scribbled words about me. It was unsettling. The scratching of the nib grated. In what other circumstance is it acceptable that someone writes secret notes about a person in front of them?

‘Look, I don’t know why I’m here, to be honest, Dr Franco . . . I was being polite because it was so kind of you . . . but I’d really rather not talk about it.’

He stopped writing and placed the pen in the crevice of his pad. Removed his glasses and folded the metal arms neatly inwards before laying them next to the pen. ‘OK, OK, Constance. I understand. You can leave whenever you wish. As I said, it was just a chat.’

That’s why understanding minds is so powerful, manipulative. He knew that part of me I didn’t even know myself. The part of me that wanted to stay.

A few moments ticked by.

‘What was your mum’s name?’

‘Angela . . . Angie.’

‘Like the Rolling Stones song?’ he smiled.

I looked at him suspiciously. He’d delved further with his mind worms than I’d expected. The song would often play on loop in our house. Dad would take her by the hand and they’d slow-dance in a way I’ve not yet experienced but hope to one day. Though back then, I’d pull out my tongue in disgust. Dive into the sofa cushions to hide my horrified yet excited face.

‘Yes, that’s right. It was played at her funeral.’

‘Oh . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.’ He returned his glasses to his face. Embarrassed. At least, I thought he was. But he carried on. ‘And what was she like?’

‘Like?’

‘Yes . . . Tell me about her. How would you describe her?’