Elizabeth scrolled down. ‘I work in a person-centred way, drawing from various modalities, depending on your needs. Being human is difficult for all of us. Life is tough and we are often faced with challenges that seem difficult to surmount. My goal is to help you to explore your difficulties and develop a new outlook on life. I offer a safe and non-judgemental environment, a dialogue between you and me. And then there’s a lot more, but it all looks like a bunch of hippy-dippy shit. Oh, and it says she’s currently expecting her first child, so maybe she’s not a good choice.’

‘Why not?’ asked Nelson.

‘Maternity leave. You don’t want a therapist who’s going to bugger off for six months while you’re swinging from a lamp-post, do you?’

‘She really is very beautiful,’ he muttered, staring at the screen.

‘And presumably taken, if she’s having a baby.’

‘I don’t want to have sex with her,’ replied Nelson. ‘But if I can talk to her, then maybe that will help me talk to other women. Dr Oristo is nearly seventy, after all. Maybe the reason I wasn’t getting any better was because I wasn’t intimidated by her. Dr Gosebourne looks much more daunting.’

‘So give her a try,’ said Elizabeth, stepping away from the laptop but clearing her history this time. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

A BUSINESSMAN

A television was on in the pub, its sound muted, showing a repeat of the previous weekend’s episode of Cleverley. Achilles glanced up at it and saw his father in conversation with Mick Jagger, both of them laughing like a couple of puffed-up old peacocks who knew they were richer, more famous and had far brighter plumage than any of the mere mortals watching them.

When he was a child, his father’s celebrity had confused Achilles. By the time he was twelve, people had stopped wanting autographs and were brandishing smartphones instead. He’d always hoped that George would tell them to leave him alone, that this was his private time with his son, but he never did, maintaining a broad façade of bonhomie in the face of these unsolicited intrusions.

‘It’s important to keep the punters happy,’ he said whenever Achilles complained. ‘To you, I’m just Dad. But to them, I’m George Cleverley off the telly. Without them, there’d be no fancy houses, no expensive schools and no luxury holidays.’

Achilles liked the first, tolerated the second but could have done without the third. When he was thirteen, the entire family had been photographed by a paparazzo on a beach in Spain and one of the tabloids had run pictures of a nearly naked Achilles, who, already feeling awkward with the onset of puberty, had felt utterly humiliated when he saw his scrawny body, clad in a pair of ill-advised yellow Speedos, spread across several pages of the paper. He’d been bullied mercilessly for it at school, but the embarrassment had provoked him into joining a gym, where, with very little effort, he’d put on some muscle and developed a six-pack. Within a few months, he’d grown into his looks and the teasing ended as a succession of girlfriends began showing up at his front door.