I sublet half my office to a dietitian called Sarah. We share a receptionist and waiting area but have our own rooms. A hallway runs down one side of the building and Sarah’s room is the first on the left, my much larger room the second. Sarah works closely with a cosmetic surgeon, which means her primary client base is made up of people pre- and post-surgery. From time to time, the surgeon refers them on to me as well. It turns out surgery alone isn’t the answer to deep seated self-esteem issues. Who would have thought? Then there is Anna, our gorgeous young receptionist, who probably doesn’t help with all the middle-aged insecurity.

South Yarra brings in a mixed bag of clients, but it’s mostly garden-variety eating disorders, a few depressed housewives, blondes with menopause bobs more in love with their spoodles than their husbands, a few lonely self-absorbed bachelors, one woman who once a week needs to talk away her affair guilt. Then there are the borderlines: the narcissists, the addicts – usually gambling, cocaine, sex or social media, which bring a whole host of other conditions along with them.

Money can’t buy you happiness, or style – despite the efforts of the Louis Vuitton faithful – but it can buy you a good listener and sound psychological advice. It can buy you a safe place to air your darkest secrets. Good psychologists are objective, not overly empathising but seeking to understand and help their clients. They are always prepared to learn, they’re methodical and they save their notes to reflect on and help with similar cases in the future. For me the most important thing for the psychologist is a robust, process-driven, logical approach. It’s less about feeling your client’s pain, and more about understanding the mechanics of the human psyche. Your ego and your own life experience shouldn’t be factors, although sometimes they are, and I’m always working to be the best I can be.

At the moment I’m researching more about Sociopathy or ‘Antisocial Personality Disorder’ for my next guest lecture – how to diagnose it, how to treat it, the history of our perception of the disorder. I’m reading a study before my first appointment of the day arrives: Xanthe.

She’s there, sitting in the lobby at 10:15. Jeans torn at the knee, a long grey hoody. I know the things her clothes hide. Not the small kidney shaped birthmark on her neck, but those other pale lines on her skin, precisely placed inside the hem lines of her clothes.

‘Xanthe,’ I say. ‘Come on through.’

She sits, eyes weary, arms wrapped around her waist. Defensive body language. One hand rises to her lips. Her thumbnail, what’s left of it, is between her front teeth before she realises. She tears her hand away. She doesn’t keep my gaze, instead turning to the window and looking at the street outside, blinking rapidly.