‘My God, I can’t believe you dress up!’ Ness cried, shaking her head, laughing with disbelief. ‘Not me, no way, I can’t bear any of that stuff. I’d just feel utterly ridiculous dressed as a schoolgirl or . . . or . . . what do you wear?’ she asked, an uncomprehending grin on her face, the whole concept unfathomable to her.

I started laughing. ‘Well, I used to have a kind of bunny girl thing . . .’

She burst out laughing now. We both did – we were pretty wrecked. We got up and started hopping about pulling our best fuck-me bunny faces. Which reminds me, Dr. R, some free sex advice you can pass on to your clients: if you’re on all fours, taking it from behind, never ever turn around and try to look sexy. It’s not going to work. Ness and I proved it: we tried every angle we could and it really is impossible to look good. But it is hilarious to try.

We laughed until the jokes slowly petered out, and the birdsong and the buzz of the insects took over. Then we thought perhaps it was time to carry on our walk and we started getting our things together, without much success: I found her intently studying the map upside down. She pointed out that I had two socks on one foot. Eventually we did get our acts together and headed off again.

‘So,’ she said, after a little while; we were walking alongside the lake, ready to veer off. ‘What was his name, this professor?’

I wonder what percentage of happily married people still have a small place in their hearts reserved for someone other than their partner. Not in a real way – they would never do anything about it, their lives are good – but in a fantasy way. Are you any good on stats? I’ll tell you a secret: this man was capable of reducing me to nothing, to just an essence of being. You lot probably have a name for it, a condition, don’t you? Or is it just falling in love? I was glad I wasn’t that person any more. I did not want that kind of love again. I had lost myself in him. And then, when he went, he left a hole in me. I filled it up with concrete. I hardened up. I have rock in me now. Everyone tells me that.

‘Jonathan Hapgood.’ Saying his name was like lifting a buried artefact out of the mud into the light. Not necessarily a good thing – think of the curse of Tutankhamen.

‘Jonathan Hapgood,’ she repeated. How exciting to hear his name on her lips. The spliff had made me indulgent, for you must understand I was very happy with my life, with Karl, with my kids, with the choices I had made. That soft melting love was no basis for rearing a family. Families needed solidity. I had a past – that was all.