I lock up, then walk up the street to my car and fall into the driver’s seat. I set the GPS for The Pearl.

It’s too late to change my mind. That’s what I think when I see that I am not meeting Cormac at a cafe, but a wine bar. The Pearl: I should have guessed from the name. Not many cafes are open this late. It’s all black steel and big windows, almost hidden, signless apart from the opaque ring decal on the window. You can still change your mind, Margot. But I can’t. Just like the home visits to Peter. No, that was different. That was a naïve young psychologist working as a case manager for the Melbourne Mental Health Service, a role that was more about checking in with patients who had left institutions then it was about administering psychological advice. Back then it was a rookie’s mistake; this is … somehow different. This is an experienced clinical psychologist about to engage in a potential breach of conduct.

I peer through the front door, scan the faces of the people in the muted lighting. I don’t see him. Good, not too late to make an escape. Maybe he won’t show.

But when I turn, I see his familiar shape, striding towards me. He’s so close, his gaze falls on me, and he smiles.

‘Cormac,’ I say, suddenly nervous. ‘Hi.’

There’s an awkward moment. Do we shake hands? Do we hug? In the end, he simply turns and opens the door for me. I choose a booth at the back corner, dark leather, and sandalwood. The type of place where men take their mistresses to drink cocktails. We sit and a waiter materialises.

‘Still or sparkling?’

‘Still,’ I say.

‘Still is fine,’ Cormac adds.

The waiter comes back with a carafe of water, he fills the glasses already on the table and places two menus in front of us, then leaves again.

‘Cormac, this isn’t a cafe.’

‘No,’ he says, as if realising this for the first time. ‘I guess not. I walk past this place a lot. I thought they did coffee.’

‘They only do wine and cocktails by the looks of it.’

‘Wine it is, then,’ he says.

‘Cormac, I can’t be here. I can’t be doing this. It was a bad idea to come.’ I reach for my coat, but Cormac touches my wrist so gently it’s almost painful. The voices are loud, filling the space, so I find myself leaning towards him to hear his words.

‘Just one drink, it’s not going to hurt. Remember I’m not a client anymore. It’s just me trying to say thanks.’