I watch as she hangs her jacket over the back of the chair, which she then carefully pulls out from the table, before quietly sitting down in it and putting her hair back in place. Her phone beeps from the breast pocket of the jacket. She looks annoyed, slides it out of the pocket, bends over and glances at the screen. I can read it from where I am sitting because the text size is set to large. Yes, she’s late forties, like me. It’s a good age; our eyes might be fading but our powers are peaking. It’s a WhatsApp message from Si Hubby. Another flicker of irritation crosses her face as she reads the message, which she’s angled away from me now so I can’t read it. She turns the phone off and looks back at me with that stretched professional smile.

‘Sorry about that,’ she says, not sounding sorry at all, putting her bag down on the floor. Dr. Robinson very much lives in the land of rules and etiquette and she likes to pretend that I am with her there. She is very particular; she is not satisfied with the position of her bag and moves it to the other side of her chair. Then she gives me her full attention, cocking her head at that particular angle, a slightly alarmed expression on her face, as if she can hear the howl of a wolf some distance off. Her eyes bore into me. I fascinate her. I am like Sharon’s vagina: captivating but repulsive.

‘Right, Connie. Good to see you again. How are you settling in here at Tatchwell?’

I don’t like this attitude of hers. So bloody superior. Well, two can play that game. I slowly pick a hair off my tracksuit bottoms.

‘You remember what we were going to discuss today?’ she says. ‘We were going to talk about Ness . . .’

I yawn. I’m looking at the unostentatious ring around her wedding finger, next to the gold band. Everything she says is a question, which is rather draining. She is constantly trying to catch me out. Today I am going to try and answer all her questions with questions.

‘Ness?’

‘Yes. Vanessa Jones.’

‘Is she coming to visit me?’ I ask.

She pauses and shakes her head. ‘No, Connie. She is not.’

I am momentarily hurt by this news. And Dr. Robinson sees this; I see a little spark in her eye. Inside her head a crowd of idiots are whooping.

‘And why do you think Ness won’t be coming to visit you?’ she says, stretching the inch I accidentally gave her into a mile. She gives me the long stare and then takes a deep, changing-the-angle breath and puts her rebellious silky hair back in place. ‘I thought we could start at the beginning,’ she continues, as if the idea is stunningly original.