Dr. Robinson actually blushes. And her hair slips. Oh, yes. I know I am right. ‘That is good news,’ I continue. ‘It’s great to think that our little chat had such a positive effect.’

She has gone scarlet. She has that sort of colouring. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,’ I say. ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it, how our bodies give us away.’

I leave a therapist pause in case she wants to join in with the topic, because it is a fascinating subject and she will be trained in spotting body language. But no, she is frozen in a parody of control, head cocked, pencil held out for effect, and rather sweetly she is still trying to maintain the eye contact that she prides herself on. She’s unsure how to get back on track, so I plough on. ‘Well done you, for putting in the effort! A little bit of Dutch courage and off you went? I like that about you: you’re a real trier, aren’t you, Dr. Robinson?’ I’m hoping she notices my parroting of her questioning technique but now she’s busy pretending to rifle in her bag for something.

‘You know nothing about me, Constance,’ she says with a tight-rectum smile.

Gosh, she called me Constance; she must be annoyed. Yesterday she was trying to be so pally. ‘It’s just it’s surprising to me,’ I say, looking out of the window at my leaf, which is flopping around like a drunk this morning, ‘given your line of work, that there you are expecting the truth from me, almost demanding it, and yet you yourself are content to be . . . well, there’s no other way of putting it . . . a bit of a fraud.’

I want to get a proper grip of this woman who has been sent to assess me. I want to admire her; if her opinions are to have such sway, I do at least need to respect her. And I’m not quite convinced yet.

‘I’ll tell you what is interesting,’ she says, cool as a cucumber. ‘How you feel the necessity to transfer your own feelings on to mine.’

‘Oh, it is interesting,’ I agree. ‘It’s fascinating . . . but not unusual in female relationships. We’re always looking for links, connections . . . And I do believe you and I have some.’

‘We are not here to discuss my private life,’ she says, shifting in her seat. Her hair has slipped out of place again and she hasn’t corrected it. She’s not looking quite so perky now.

‘Not essentially, no. Yet it might prove fruitful. I think we need to get to the bottom of why we – you, I, so many of us – feel the need to be fraudulent. I doubt your reasons are very exceptional. It’ll be the usual trappings: safety, financial security, better the devil you know, mortgage, kids . . .’