I look around me. The room is less glamorous than Verity. The walls are wood-chipped beige, the carpet a sticky caramel. There’s an incongruous, slightly lopsided Betty Boop poster on one wall, one of those anodyne faded paintings of a bowl of fruit on another. A fly, over at the window, lazily trails its way up the dirty pane, fizzes a bit, then scoots down again. I randomly muse on whether Verity in her lovely shoes is going to stick any whale music on. Is that what counsellors do? Or is she going to make me hold a pink crystal in my hand for the duration?

The fly buzzes in an attention-seeking fashion. I idly wonder if it’s the same fly that was at the dentist’s. Is it following me?

Finally, she speaks. ‘Good morning, I’m Verity Holmes.’

I sit back on this too-soft sofa that smells faintly of tea tree oil and gone-off cinnamon. ‘Hi, I’m Prue. Prudence. Prudence Alberta.’ I’m trying to sound perky but my voice has gone a bit husky, like I’m on sixty a day. I clear my throat. I’m nervous. I feel as though I’m in a job interview, a terror I haven’t visited for a while. Having to pretend I’m something I’m not … In the case of job interviews: a hard-working ‘people person’ who sees the cashier position in the local bookies as a long-term career progression. Today: the authentic witness to a tragic suicide. Could I conceivably stand up and say, ‘Sorry, I can’t do this!’ like they do in films? Grab my bag from the sofa and flee, leaving Verity with a startled look on her face? I don’t have the courage to do that. It takes less courage to stay and pretend I have seen some poor woman take her own life by jumping in front of a train.

‘So, Prudence, how are you? How are you feeling? You saw something tragic on the underground last Wednesday? Or you saw the aftermath?’

Oh, she’s straight to it. Her romantic shoes belie her desire to get things cracking. I thought she might start with my school days, or something. I was ready with the story about the paper bag and the Tippex …

‘Er, yeah. I saw it. Both.’