As I sank into my sofa I’d noticed an old copy of .dot magazine on my very cluttered coffee table, under the half-drunk cups of tea and hardened porridge bowls, and flicked through to see that a colleague had written a feature on the ‘Ten best modern-day Reiki healers’. I’m at that point where I’m willing to try anything. I have always been quite cynical of Reiki (what exactly is it? How do they ‘heal’ you without even really touching you? Is it a rip-off?) but from scanning the article I gathered it’s an ancient spiritual healing practice, and it sounds fairly legit – so I’ve decided to give it a go. I also have very low expectations, so it’s always possible that I might be pleasantly surprised. I go with the recommendation at the bottom of the article: a woman named Seal. In the article it says she was trained by one of the ‘original masters’. I’m not sure what that means but it certainly sounds impressive. I don’t want to put all the pressure on this poor Reiki woman to heal all of my life’s problems, but it would be great if she could. Then the £65 price tag would work out to be quite reasonable. I text her. She happens to be free this afternoon so I have a quick shower and head off to her address.

Seal’s house-cum-health spa is a twenty-minute walk from my flat, in a very leafy residential area on Holyrood Road. I’m just turning the corner to her place when I spot an old school teacher, Mrs Rudd, walking up the road towards me. I squint. Is it her, here in London? What are the chances. She is wearing a velvet beret and a red Mac raincoat and carrying some canvas shopping bags. I haven’t seen her since I was about seventeen years old when she would tell me off for talking too much in English. She did acknowledge on the last day of term that I didn’t actually talk the most, but my voice was ‘the most distinctive’.

‘Olive … Stone?’ she says now, moving her glasses slightly, trying to place me. ‘Hi!’

Ugh, why do teachers always have to say full names?

‘Mrs Rudd – it’s been so long, what brings you here?’ I say, zipping up my coat.

‘Oh – please, call me Rachael. We’re both adults now! I live just around the corner, we moved about five years ago to be closer to Alistair’s sister when she was unwell. How is everything with you?’

‘Great thanks, I’m a writer now, I work at .dot magazine, do you know it?’

‘I don’t, but oh, that’s just fantastic, you were always a good writer. Even if you did distract the others in my class!’ Her laugh sounds like a honk.

‘How is your husband?’ I ask. Mr Rudd – Alistair – also worked at the school; there were always rumours that he was cheating on her with the new Biology supply teachers, but I always thought they seemed like a sweet couple, and I always hoped it wasn’t true.