‘All right. I think there’s some paperwork in the office that needs filing, if you don’t mind. We’ll run over our meet-and-greet policy again later. Thank you.’

Vicki had obviously been dismissed. Osaki stood up, anxious not to appear disrespectful to the man he hoped would have answers for him. The door opened.

A good-looking black man with designer stubble and a broad smile offered his hand to shake.

‘I’m Rune Maclure,’ he said. ‘Come on through to my room, it’s more private. I gather Vicki’s bringing you coffee. She’ll find us.’

Osaki followed Maclure up a short staircase and into a room full of photos of grand-scale landscapes and comfortable furniture. There was no desk, no office chairs, only bookshelves, plants and soft furnishings. He sank slowly onto a sofa and tried to put together a coherent explanation for why he was there.

‘It’s okay,’ Maclure said quietly. ‘The first few sentences are the hardest, so why don’t you let me start. Everything you say to me is confidential. We maintain notes, but they’re kept securely, the same as if you’d seen a doctor. If you don’t want to give your name, the notes simply record the time and date of your visit, and often they’re only referred to for internal training. It takes a lot to walk through this door, so whatever you’re going through, know that you’ve already been brave and helped yourself. Do you feel able to tell me what’s going on?’

Osaki nodded, lacing his fingers together on his lap and sitting upright, fighting the natural recline of the seat to do so.

‘I have failed,’ he said abruptly.

Maclure gave him a few moments to expand on the statement. When nothing more was said, he offered encouragement.

‘Failure’s subjective. It depends on the standards we set ourselves. If you judge yourself too harshly, almost anything can constitute a failure.’

‘If I had not failed, my wife would not have left me. I could not get a job or support her. She has to work long hours. It is not the life I promised her.’

He kept his eyes on his knees and spoke in a level tone. He’d already let himself down badly enough by crying in front of his wife. He couldn’t shame himself in front of the stranger, too.

‘Do you mind my asking how old you are?’ Maclure asked.

‘Twenty-five,’ Osaki replied.

‘And it sounds as if this is your second language, by your pronunciation, not your grammar. It’s impressive. Learning another language fluently is very demanding.’

‘I met my wife when she came to Japan on a student exchange three years ago. I could already speak English, but I made sure I was fluent before I came here when we were married.’