Deep breaths, Charlie. It’s OK. See? Aromatherapy bath oil. Fair Trade shower gel. I fix my attention on the calligraphy of the labels so that I don’t have to remember the sound of Martin Elstree’s boss’s croaking voice as she apologized to him for being a nasty authoritative bitch. So I won’t smell her flesh burning as he—

My stomach clenches and the curry comes up in a yellow-brown roar. Vomit hits the water and spreads in clouds, like really ugly watercolours. I spit, flush, rinse out my mouth straight from the tap. Keep the water running. Splash my face with my eyes closed. I want to hide somewhere inside myself, but everywhere inside is the sense of Martin Elstree’s revenge-porn dream. I thought revenge porn was just being a jackass and showing people naked pictures of your ex. I never realised it could be about taking revenge on someone you hated. With a hedge-trimmer and a blowtorch. The human imagination— No, I’m not going to think about it.

At last, to steady myself, I look up at the mirror.

There we are, love. You idiot, look at you. Bloodshot eyes. Wet, scruffy eyebrows that shadow dark green eyes. Your skin’s normally sienna but in this light it looks more like mustard, and the violet headscarf that hides your alopecia is none too flattering – remember to wear the green one next time. Earring looks OK, discreet and simple. Remember, we’re supposed to be professional. When you’re a professional dream therapist, you might vomit but then you carry on.

And you don’t talk to yourself in the mirror, OK?

I’m not sure if I said any of that aloud. Maybe a little. Things get blurred. Always takes my brain activity a while to stabilize after I’ve been working on someone.

There’s a soft knock on the door and I jump several kilometres into the air with a squawk, then glance at myself sidelong in the mirror as if to make sure I really heard what I heard.

Knock-knock.

‘Charlie? Are you OK?’ Martin Elstree has a posh accent and one of those deep, scruffly radio voices, the kind that people instinctively seem to trust.

I try to answer but nothing comes out. I clear my throat repeatedly, putting my palm against the door even though it’s locked.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

The headache is starting. It doesn’t usually come on so quickly; but then, I don’t usually upchuck. I flick open my contact window and check the time. I’ve got maybe twenty minutes before the narcolepsy hits, and there is just no way I can risk going down with Martin Elstree in the room. I might wake up with a power saw up my vaj.

I open the door and he’s still standing there, in his jimjams and bare feet like a normal guy. I don’t want to see his feet.

‘That was fantastic!’ Martin Elstree blurts, pumping his fists in that repressed middle-class way, like he’s cheering for a football match in a phone booth. ‘So very very empowering. I don’t know how you did that but you’re a genius.’