I tune out for a moment and find my gaze resting on the recognisable shape of a man. A man I know. Cormac. This is his cafe. He works at Black Bean. Shit. He picks up two coffees from the barista, carrying them to a table. I’ve not seen him like this, hair tousled, pinned on one side behind his ear by a pen. Black jeans and a tight black t-shirt, so you can see the contours of his chest. It does happen, seeing clients outside of a clinical setting – supermarkets, the park, school pick-up: you never know where they might turn up. But this feels different somehow. I’m at his place of work. He smiles as he sets two coffees on a table for a couple. I watch as the woman’s gaze lingers on Cormac as he strides back towards the barista. We have a different waiter. We didn’t get Cormac, thankfully.

I feel something touch the back of my hand. I snap back to focus on Linda and see she has placed a napkin on my wrist.

‘What’s this for?’

‘To mop up the drool,’ she says.

I can feel my cheeks glowing. ‘No, I know him,’ I say, embarrassed.

‘You do? How?’

A wrong step: I shouldn’t have acknowledged I know him at all. I don’t speak for a moment. I just tilt my head a little and eye her.

She figures it out. Her mouth opens. ‘He’s a client of yours.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not saying that.’

She licks her lips. ‘He looks pretty normal to me.’

‘Mental health issues happen to everyone, including exceptionally good-looking young men. In fact,’ I add, ‘young men are one of the highest risk groups for mental illness, because they don’t ask for help.’

‘Well, you can let him know if I can help in any way, I’m more than happy to.’

‘Bit young for you,’ I tease.

When our coffees come, two trim lattes, the waitress puts mine down and I find the foam is shaped in a heart. I take a quick sip before Linda notices. Coincidence, I’m sure. I glance towards the barista. She’s busy; the lunch rush is gearing up into full swing.

We chat for a while, then Linda says, ‘Well, are you going to call your friend over for an introduction?’

I stare down at the coffee foam clinging to the interior of my cup. This entire situation is making me uncomfortable. Linda would never deliberately do anything to jeopardise my career, but she is careless, and you never know who might be listening. ‘I’d love to help with this midlife promiscuity, but obviously I can’t,’ I say, finally meeting her gaze.

‘Spoilsport.’

After our coffees, Linda gets up to leave.

‘I’m going to stay on for a bit. Gabe is meeting me,’ I say.