‘You get into bed, hoping he won’t . . . but, oh, he does, he makes a slight advance, just a touch, more of a nervous hand reaching out, nothing more, but you know where it’s going, what he wants, although even he has almost given up these days. Yes. Tonight is the night I really ought to make the effort, you say to yourself. So you roll over to signify that he may continue and you let him do it. And it’s not nearly so bad once you get started. I should do this more often, you think as you feel him inside you; it’s even quite pleasurable (although you’re ready for it to be over pretty soon) . . .’

I pause. She is staring at me; her facial muscles seem to have gone a little lax. I lean in a touch, whispering in my strange new rasping voice that I’m beginning to rather enjoy. ‘But fucking is easy, isn’t it, Doc? It’s kissing that you can’t fake; kissing is the real intimacy. It’s kissing that’s unbearable. When did you last kiss Si Hubby? Not a peck on the cheek kind of kiss, no – a real melt-in-the-mouth kiss. Think about it, that mouth of his: the disgusting way it eats, the stupid things it says, the idiotic expressions it pulls . . . that mouth you’re stuck with for the next forty years. But you try not to think of it like that because . . . well, a lifetime without passion?’

I sit back and look into those steadfast unblinking eyes. Then I start to laugh – really laugh. She’s not quite as cocky as she was half an hour ago. ‘I think all of us use avoidance tactics, don’t you, Dr. Robinson?’

Chapter 2

Emma sat on the bus. It was a horrible evening. The clocks had fallen back an hour and winter had arrived like a smack in the face. She wiped a clear smear in the condensation of the window so that she could see out on to the slippery streets of Wood Green beyond, the lights of consumerism reflected on the glistening pavements, the uniform, disgruntled people piling out of the tube station with such purpose, an army of wet misery marching onwards in this hour when people rush. The bus stank of damp bodies and fusty clothes, like a charity shop. The rain had magnified the senses and Emma was bombarded by sounds: tyres through puddles, footsteps, engines, voices, tinny thumping headphone noise.