And they start. Freya slowly opens out the bags of recycling, one at a time, recording everything coming out of the plastic and spreading it across the floor. Even though it’s supposedly clean, it doesn’t smell great, and Freya is glad of the protective mask covering her face, however hot and breathless it makes her. The admin woman makes notes as they go through it, itemising, detailing Freya’s thoughts.

And three hours later, Freya couldn’t feel more discouraged. This look into Jonathan’s life is both dehumanising and strange. An insight into the habits of him and his wife, trying to decipher what might have once been her lover, and what was Amy.

• Plastic milk bottles – from Waitrose, both semi-skimmed and skimmed. (Freya knows Jonathan had semi-skimmed on his breakfast.)
• An empty cardboard box of Special K. (Amy? With her, Jonathan always ate Weetabix.)
• Aerosol can of shaving gel. (Jonathan.)
• Two cardboard pizza boxes, one Hawaiian (Amy?), one Meat Feast (Jonathan).

Endless domestic rubbish that could have been either of them:

• Empty plastic bottles: lemon washing-up liquid, Tresemmé shampoo.
• Tin cans: chopped tomatoes, baked beans, pineapple.
• Two empty cardboard cartons and inner cardboard rolls of cling film.
• Three empty cans of Diet Coke.
• Envelopes, flier for Domino’s Pizza, the local newspaper.

And so, so much more. Freya stands up and looks at it all, her back aching. So what? she thinks. How can any of this help?

She feels a sudden gnawing hunger. She didn’t eat much for lunch, and she wonders how Robin’s getting on. The admin woman looks at her hopefully.

‘Shall we call it a night?’ Freya says, and the woman pulls off her white suit and scuttles out of the room before Freya has a chance to thank her.

Freya picks up the laptop, saves the notes, then takes off her own suit, leaving it in the room to pick up again tomorrow.

She closes the door and locks it, then goes next door to where Robin is working. She pushes the door open, and instantly realises how kind her boss has been to her.

The smell fills her nose, immediately making her gag. Like her room, brown paper is laid out on the floor. But unlike hers the items strewn across it are stained, wet, stinking, liquid.

And in the middle of it stands Robin. His white suit is stained with brown and red and yellow. He turns and looks, then points a finger in her direction. She knows he wants to say something, but he just points, his eyes narrow.

Despite everything that’s going on, or maybe because of it, Freya feels a bubble of laughter erupting from inside her. And then, before she can help it, she’s doubled over in hysterics.

‘Fuck you,’ she hears Robin growl, but it only makes her laugh more. He walks out of the mess, carefully manoeuvring round the disgusting, indescribable items. And up close, he stinks.