‘Is that why you’re here? To talk to someone?’

‘To talk to someone about my trauma,’ I add lamely.

‘You didn’t really see anyone jump, or the aftermath, did you?’ she asks softly.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You came here just to talk to someone, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

She looks at me for a few seconds. I reach behind me to my bag. As I’ve been sitting, a packet of Extra Strong Mints and a tube of concealer have rolled out. I stuff them back in.

‘I’ll go,’ I say, my back still to her. When I turn around, she suddenly stamps the heel of one of her pretty shoes down on the carpet.

‘Spider,’ she says.

‘Oh,’ I reply. Why do people always save the ladybirds and never the spiders?

‘Please don’t go yet,’ she says. ‘Can I ask you something else? I hope I’m not being indelicate, and please say if you think it isn’t pertinent but, your birthmark, is it something that adversely affects you?’

Hold the crystal, people, I don’t like where this is going! ‘What about it?’ I am suddenly curt, dismissive. Actually, I’ve already dismissed myself from this session, haven’t I? There should be no more questions now. I am out of here. I stand up, pick up my bag and I walk to the door.

‘Do you shy away from life because of it, Prue?’

I turn in the doorway, blushing furiously. ‘Yes, of course I shy away because of it! I hardly go skipping through life like a bloody unicorn!’ She is kind, but I am angry, although not at her. ‘I’ve had it for a really long time, I’m more than used to it, but there’s no getting away from it, is there? I have a monstrous great birthmark on my face and although I cover it in thick make-up, sometimes it makes me want to hide away for ever and never see another living soul ever again. How about that?’

She ignores my tantrum and nods sagely. ‘So, your father’s blindness and your low self-esteem have become tremendous barriers you can’t see past?’

‘Well, he can’t see past them …’ I retort.

‘You don’t go out and you don’t even communicate now, so much so that you have fabricated witnessing something you haven’t in order to receive an hour’s free counselling? In order just to talk to someone?’

Her tone is so gentle that I mumble, ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ like an overgrown schoolgirl.

‘Look,’ she says, leaning back in her chair, ‘I’m going to dish out some advice. You and your father sound like you’re stuck in a horrendous rut. If he can’t see, why don’t you become his eyes?’

‘Become his eyes …’ I repeat dully.