I press on with my work and before long it’s lunchtime. I can’t help but check my Facebook again. I can only get a limited view from my own profile, but I dare not check Monica’s from here. Lots of WTF comments under the picture. Christine Taylor (née Dearden) has over-explained that ‘we were at a party’ and ‘can’t everyone see that this is quite innocent’. I suppose it does look innocent in this picture – they haven’t seen the rest. But they’re picking up the clues. Her sister-in-law has helpfully told us that ‘Barry bought you that necklace so this must have been after you two got together’ and ‘what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

Every psychologist must have supervision. I’m no exception. If I want to practise, and I do, I need to go to a session with a senior colleague every month. Irritatingly, just when Monica’s picture comments are hotting up, a reminder flashes onto my screen. Supervision is this afternoon. Room G43.

I hide Monica’s laptop in a ceiling tile (you never know when people like DC Percy will take it upon themselves to pay a visit) and go to meet Eileen Simpson in G43. She always brings cake, and I haven’t eaten.

I open the door and she hasn’t let me down. A tray of assorted doughnuts glimmer on a low table. She’s typing away, but she turns and smiles.

‘Caroline, I can hardly believe it’s been a month.’

Her voice is smooth and soothing and puts me immediately at ease.

‘Yeah. Gone quickly.’

‘Have you seen your …?’

‘Children. No. His mother is still resisting. Not answering my calls. Social services keep making appointments, she keeps cancelling.’

‘God. How are you coping? It must be awful.’

Awful? It’s indescribable, the deep pain. The grief.

‘Not good. But I try my best to get through.’

It comes out much more jolly than the deep sorrow that I feel inside. She nods and sits at the table as I munch a chocolate doughnut.

‘So. How have things been?’

I smile a chocolate smile.

‘Good. Great, in fact. Except there’s been an incident with my ex-husband. Just yesterday, in fact.’

She picks up her notepad and flicks a switch on her Dictaphone. Good. I want everything recorded in multiple places. That’s where I went wrong last time. I didn’t drop any breadcrumbs. Or cake crumbs, I almost laugh, as I scatter remnants of doughnut on my lap. Eileen’s staring at me as I suppress a giggle.

‘Sorry. It has this effect on me. Severe stress. Humour. As we know. It’s a coping strategy.’

‘Yes. It must be very stressful. So what’s happened?’