She gives me a sharp look. She has no idea how easy she is to read, how many tells she has. When she tried to open the window yesterday, her shirt rode up and I saw her belly. It was loose and as creased as a relief map, stretch-marked, just like mine: the scars of child-bearing that no amount of downward dog or sun salutations or whatever the hell she does will rectify. I always like that about Ness; she doesn’t care about her mum tum. I suppose the rest of her is so perfect it would seem ungracious.

For a moment I lose focus. When I look back at Dr. Robinson, I see a shaft of steel in those blue eyes.

‘DS Allen will be here this afternoon. Are you ready for that? I warn you, he’s not as nice as me. He’s not going to beat about the bush, Connie.’

‘Is that what you do? Beat about the bush? I don’t think that’s fair.’

She has a light glow on her skin; she is perspiring. It is too warm in here. Her lips are puckered with intent and too many cigarette inhalations.

‘Why do you think you’re here, Connie?’ she says.

I like her like this: hard, flinty. My respectometer goes up.

‘You mustn’t be so harsh with yourself,’ I say. ‘You mustn’t feel bad. Everyone fakes it. Maybe the lucky few feel it. I hope so. God, I hope so. I hope someone out there is leading a genuine life. But for the rest of us, faking is so important. I understand that now. I’d go so far as to say faking is vital. It is the foundation we build our worlds on.’

I glance at my leaf. There’s a silence. She’s thinking. Then she makes a conscious decision to go with me. ‘Are you saying that you believe there is no place for truth in relationships?’

It’s a good question and it takes me back a year. I’m in bed, our bed – I love this bed: it’s new, it’s huge, it’s so comfortable, it’s like a home in itself – on a Sunday morning. Karl has brought me a coffee and it’s a beautiful day outside. I’m utterly content. I can hear cartoons on the telly downstairs and the thud of Josh’s soccer ball hitting the wall outside.

‘One morning,’ I say, turning to look at her, ‘out of the blue, so it seemed to me, the Weasel woke up, sipped his coffee, and told me that he’d been unhappy for years.’

I pause; I can’t speak. I still find it shocking. How can one be oblivious to one’s partner’s unhappiness?

‘Go on,’ she says. She’s really listening to me. Forensically, you might say.