‘Oh?’ says Verity Holmes, leaning forward. She looks really interested. Is the crystal about to come out? ‘Tell me more about that.’

I take another deep breath and I tell her. We had such a gorgeous series of dogs: Sunny and Milly and Folly. Sweet, loving and clever, each of them, in turn. Lifesavers, literally. They kept Dad afloat and because we had the dogs, we were happy in our little unit, in the life we had never expected. Dad adjusted amazingly. He cooked the tea, made sure my sister and I got up and dressed for school, that our faces were clean and our uniforms ironed, supervised homework, took us for days out and, most importantly – for us and for him – continued to take us and pick us up from school. Things were fine for a long time, at home, right up until I was twenty.

‘But Dad got severe asthma when he was thirty-six, a pet allergy, and there could be no more guide dogs,’ I say. ‘I mean, how unlucky was that? It was awful. He just went in on himself, like there was no point to anything any more. He just switched off.’

She nods solemnly, but her eyes are lit up. ‘Do you talk? Talk to each other? Air your feelings? While you’re in the flat?’

‘No, not really. Less and less, actually, over the years. We don’t really talk at all these days.’ And what I’ve just said in this room is the most I’ve spoken in decades.

‘What about your mother?’

‘She doesn’t feature.’

‘Feature? Has she passed?’

Passed? Passed where? Passed ‘Go’ without collecting her £200? ‘No. She’s just not in my life.’ I want Verity to move on.

‘And do you have friends around you?’

‘I don’t really have any friends.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say.

‘Do you miss having someone to talk to?’

‘Yes.’ I could have made friends at my various jobs, but I let any contenders drift away from me like minnows in a stream, while I have stayed stuck in the mud, weeds wrapped round me, safe. I stayed surface-level friendly only with Sally and Justine and Paula and Yvette. I batted away invitations from Jeanette and Diane and Stevie. Colleagues, acquaintances; people I have never let get too close to me …

‘Is that why you’re here?’ she asks kindly.

There’s a pause, then a rattle at the door. It opens and a sheepish face is there, framed by a giant dehydrated umbrella plant in the poky hall.

‘Sorry, wrong room,’ says a man with a doughy face. ‘I was looking for Martin?’

He scans the room, his eyes lighting on me and staying there too long.

‘I’m not Martin,’ I proffer.

‘Up the corridor,’ says Verity, with a pretty, businesslike smile. She turns her smile back to me. It is full of compassion, which makes me feel uneasy.