But before I can act, the dream is filled with the sudden gong of church bells. I startle awake.

She’s farting again.

Body confidence

Mrs H-W is thrashing around in the big bed she used to share with Mr H-W before he ran off with an estate agent he met at the gym. This evening she’s been out with friends and got to bed late and a bit drunk. The drinking and/or the late-night pancakes at My Old Dutch have disagreed with her, and now the room is stifling and foetid thanks to Mrs H-W’s overactive gut flora.

I shift in the armchair beside Mr Haugh-Wombaur’s now-empty wardrobe. This is where I work. My debilitating narcolepsy has certain advantages, and one of them is that I can fall asleep anywhere. I have to get back in the dream because I promised Mrs H-W we’d find a way to beat this thing, and I sense she’s growing impatient with our lack of success. But holy guacamole, Batman, the room smells revolting. Gagging, I stand and creep out into the hallway, listening carefully for any sign she might be waking. The hall air isn’t much better, so I pad down to the lounge and crack a window. A cool shaft of night air falls into the room and I suck it in greedily. Ah. It’s the little things.

My earring’s internal display is discreetly informing me I have new messages. I’m kind of hoping that my next client will cancel. It’s a new client who booked me for 3 a.m. on the other side of town, for a sex dream. I hate doing these – scraping together an induced orgasm out of someone’s personal kinks isn’t therapy and it’s rarely even fun – but I’ve taken it out of financial desperation. I don’t think I’m going to be so good at this after Mrs H-W. But the first message is just a check-in from O, making sure I’m OK. I start to compose a reply to the effect that we need to charge danger money for olfactory hazards, and then a little flag in my visual field informs me that the second message is from Antonio Silva. O has forwarded it from the business line. My pulse starts flying north.

I go to the foot of the stairs and listen. Mrs H-W’s breathing suggests she has fallen into a deeper sleep and is probably dreaming again. I need to get in there and do what she’s paying me for. Damn. What does Antonio want? Why do I care? Well, we know why I care, that’s obvious, but I don’t want to care. I start up the stairs and open the message on a small internal screen in the corner of my vision. I decide I’ll read one line. Just one line.

Hi Charlie

That doesn’t count as one line, OK?

How are you? I am fine. I need a favour and I hope you will forgive

That’s it? He’s so formal. Where’s the TLDR? He hasn’t told me anything. Forgive what? Forgive him for being such a jerk? I mean, seriously, I’m not interested in Antonio’s alleged condom phobia.