‘So . . . Mel . . . tell me what’s going on. Antonio hasn’t explained anything properly.’

‘I like your voice,’ she says. ‘It’s lovely. Have you ever thought about going on the radio?’

That catches me off guard.

‘My mate Shandy says I sound like I just smoked a cigar and killed some big game.’

‘Yes! Exactly. It’s wonderful. I have this squeaky little-girl voice and nobody takes me seriously.’

She isn’t at all what I expected. I feel an urge to reassure her, so I reach out and put my hand on hers, which is trembling.

‘I’m here to take you completely seriously,’ I tell her. ‘Everything you say I keep in strict confidence. Just go ahead, whenever you’re ready.’

I remove my hand and she takes a shaky breath.

‘OK.’ She lets the breath out. She laughs nervously. Then she stands up and starts pacing back and forth, talking very very fast.

‘See, I’m the kind of person who attracts stalkers and creepers and stuff like that. It’s been happening all my life. You know, I get a lot of flowers and anonymous gifts, I get weird stuff online. Sometimes people wait around to try to catch me when I leave the theatre. I had to take out a restraining order once on a guy in Rome. They’re men, usually, but one time I had a death threat from a female musician who was jealous of me. She said I slept my way into my job even though I only got into the orchestra on a blind audition – I know for a fact the director would have preferred a guy from Malaysia, but never mind. She didn’t do anything in the end. At least not to me; I heard she had some other trouble with the law. I think she married a furrier. Anyway –’ about here, she pauses for breath and then hurtles on ‘– what’s been happening lately is that I seem to have a creeper in my dreams. And I know it isn’t a real person, not really. I’ve even read that every character in your dreams is actually an aspect of you, which I find a little disturbing, but I digress. The point is, he’s there almost every night. He hasn’t tried to . . . do anything bad to me. Yet. But . . . well, OK, I’m looking at your face and you probably think I’m crazy already. Should we forget it?’

All of this comes out so fast that I find myself blinking and going, ‘Uh . . .’ into her sudden, loaded silence. I can’t keep up.

‘No! We shouldn’t forget it!’ I say as quickly as I can. ‘That’s fine. I’m just taking in the information.’

‘Because, I mean, I know I sound loony—’

‘You don’t. Not at all. Is it OK if I ask you some questions?’

‘Sure. Hit me.’

‘Tell me what you can remember about the dreams.’

She sits back down and from her supple leather satchel she draws out an exquisite leather-bound journal. She starts flipping through the smooth, creamy pages. The sound is pure ASMR and it triggers me. My scalp begins to tingle and my eyes go half-lidded before I remember that I’m supposed to be calming her down, not the other way round. I step on my own foot, hard, to jolt myself awake.