The room was dimly lit, some kind of Turkish rug slung over the window. It didn’t fit, and daylight streamed from the sides. Otherwise the room was lit by a series of lamps. There was a sofa so low to the ground, Irene worried about getting back out of it again, covered in a pale orange sheet and piled with cushions. Most of them had colourful prints that Irene thought of as Moroccan.

On various surfaces were remnants of half-melted puddles of candles. Along with the sweet drug scent, Irene could smell garlic and some sort of musky perfume from the woman.

‘Can I get you anything to drink? You look a bit peaky,’ said the woman, in that girlish voice. The dog panted in her arms, ham-like tongue lolling, giving it an even more unappealing look.

Irene carefully lowered herself onto the sofa, which gave even more than she’d expected. She tried to cover up her discomfort by smoothing her skirt over her knees and fixing the woman with a dignified stare. She wanted to decline the offer, but she really could do with a cup of tea. For a moment she worried that the woman might only have strange druggie tea, then said, ‘Yes please. Do you have tea?’

‘Only PG Tips, I’m afraid,’ said the woman and Irene felt relief flooding her veins.

‘Then yes please,’ she said.

The kitchen was behind a beaded curtain and Irene could see the woman (Rowan, was it?) collecting cups from a tree mug as the kettle boiled.

When she came back into the room, she was also carrying a few misshapen biscuits on a plate, along with Irene’s drink. Irene took the slightly chipped mug, which seemed clean enough, and eyed the strange biscuits now on the coffee table, which was otherwise covered in copies of a magazine called Spirit and Destiny and an almost full ashtray.

‘Have a biscuit,’ said Rowan, taking one herself and biting into it with a loud crunch. ‘They’re made from hemp and flax seeds. Really good for you.’

Hemp definitely sounded druggie. And this person looked very much like the sort who wouldn’t wash her hands after touching an animal. Irene declined, even though her stomach was rumbling, and took a sip of her tea. It was strong and milky, just how she liked it, and she could feel it restoring her almost straight away.

‘I’m Rowan,’ said the woman. She was looking at Irene in that way people do when you get to a certain age; as if you’re daft. The dog settled onto her lap and regarded Irene with the occasional nasal wheeze, like it had a head cold.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Irene and was taken aback to see the bright eagerness on Rowan’s face now.

‘Oh, did he talk about me then?’ she said. ‘Michael?’