‘Yes. Yes, we kissed.’

You blinked, long, drawn out. ‘Well, we can’t blame ourselves, I suppose . . . We were drunk . . . These things happen. But I am sorry for potentially jeopardizing our friendship like that.’ You held out your hand. ‘Still friends?’

There was a knock at the door.

I wanted to take my palm and slap you across your smiling face, but instead I placed it softly into yours.

‘Come in,’ you shouted.

The door opened to expose an uppity face.

‘Mrs Rose. Good to see you. Please take a seat.’

As she moved across to the chair, placed her beautiful tan Birkin bag on the floor, you picked up the coffee. ‘Constance, actually, you couldn’t remake this, could you? I didn’t like to say, but it’s a tad bitter.’

Back at my desk, after taking in the improved coffee, I appeared calm as I quietly inputted the notes that lay before me.

Inside, I was feral.

An alternative-reality film rushed my mind in which I burst into your office, threw the coffee over your head, told you what we really did, you did, smashed things, and before I left, stole Mrs Rose’s bag.

I remained in this state for the rest of the morning. So consumed that I’d forgotten about my meeting with Dr Franco at lunch.

The chair felt comfier this time, but I refused to allow myself to sink completely into the soft leather and tried to ignore the small box of tissues he’d positioned on the table next to me.

Once back in his seat, he shuffled papers, hitched up his trousers and crossed his legs to expose the small Superman emblem on his royal-blue sock.

‘So, how are we doing, Constance?’

‘Good. How are you?’

I’d hoped I’d keep him talking, use up the time, but he said, ‘I’m very well, thank you . . . So, you were telling me about your dad when you had to go last time.’

The fury I felt at my not remembering and cancelling the appointment escaped through my tapping foot. ‘You’ve definitely got the best room in the building, you know, Dr Franco.’

‘Thank you. It is indeed lovely when the sun streams in.’

I focused on the wall of floating dust particles, illuminated by the slice of light beaming through the window. That’s what happens in a room like that. Hidden dirt is exposed.

‘So, you were going to tell me about your father?’

‘I already did.’

‘You mentioned you didn’t know what happened to him?’

‘No.’

‘Well, why don’t you tell me about the last time you saw him?’

‘I was only six.’

He eased back into his chair and placed his pen on his pad.

‘I mean, I was only six, so . . .’

‘So you don’t remember it?’

‘Well, I . . . I suppose I do . . . I . . .’

He paused again. This time removing his glasses, expressing his willingness to wait.