When I arrive at Cyril’s clinic in a posh bit of Central London, Adam Street, I stand awkwardly outside for a bit, checking my phone. I suddenly feel a little silly and exposed. I’d booked this on a real down, hungover moment, wallowing in the messiness of the Jacob situation, and now I’m wondering: why am I here?

I’m a little bit surprised when I step inside. I don’t know what I was expecting. Something a bit more … clinical? I suppose I was imagining some kind of doctor’s surgery, but this is very different. The walls are a bright coral colour, with framed photos of beaches lining them. Cyril’s awards and placards are also scattered around (‘Winner of The Family Future Awards, 2017’), but mostly she’s hung up seashells and old fossils. The reception table is in the corner of the room and it has dream catchers dangling over it, and there is an essential oils diffuser wafting out a light lavender aroma. There are books and magazines on the table with titles such as The Heart Manual and Your Spirit Guide, which have huge stickers over them saying ‘DO NOT STEAL THESE FROM THE CLINIC’. I go over to the water machine, fill up a paper cup and accidentally spill water over the carpet.

‘Hi hun, can I help?’ the receptionist asks, swooping in beside me.

It sounds a bit passive-aggressive and I feel as though I shouldn’t really be here. She has train-track braces and wavy hair.

‘Hi, it’s Olive Stone. Here for an appointment with Cyril Snow.’

‘Yes, lovely. Cyril is running a tiny bit behind schedule with another client but will see you soon. Please, take a seat.’

As I sit and wait, I scroll through my phone and pop Isla a message. It’s been ages since I’ve spoken properly to her, weeks since I’ve seen a message with the two blue ‘read message’ ticks on WhatsApp. I hope she’s OK.

‘Excuse me hun, but Cyril doesn’t like phones being used in her sacred space, the radio waves interfere with her practices. Do you mind switching it off? Thanksomuch.’

‘Oh, yes sure.’

‘Maybe you could read one of Cyril’s books instead? She likes it when her patients take an interest in her work.’ She nods in the direction of the books.

I notice the little pager clipped to the receptionist’s belt. It beeps.

‘Cyril is now ready for you, hun.’

‘Howdy! Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting there.’ Cyril appears in the doorway to the reception, dressed in a long white tunic with floral embroidery around the collar. She is wearing dangly earrings, mini dream catchers, has long blondish-grey hair up in a messy bun. She has multiple silver rings on each finger, big sandals, an anklet on both feet and unshaved legs.

‘Hi! Not at all. Lovely to meet you,’ I say, getting up from the waiting room sofa.

‘Come in, come in!’ She leads me down a short corridor, down some steps and into her room. ‘I replaced all the chairs in my office with these yoga balls because they are good for the hips and the pelvic floor! Please, do sit down,’ Cyril says. I feel a bit silly as I rock backwards and forwards awkwardly on the ball. Trying not to fall off.