‘I only gathered this morning that I would be needed today,’ she says, seemingly by way of explanation. ‘Oh, those fumes!’ She languidly waves her hand in front of her face. ‘They’re unbearable.’ I watch her go over to the windows and attempt to open them herself. She knows they’re locked. I see the impatience in her body language. Something’s not right with her today. She sighs, smooths back her hair and cautiously crosses the room to sit down in her usual place. As she bends down to put her bag on the floor, I get a whiff of her. And it all makes sense. She is a drowner of sorrows. It is a much stronger smell than the paint. When she looks up, something about my expression makes her nervous and she leans over to get something out of her bag. She pops an Xtra-strong mint into her mouth. It won’t do the job; she reeks of wine. It’s seeping out of every pore. I rather like the sweet sickly smell; it’s reminiscent of those 1970s candies – cherry drops. Karl used to smell of it regularly, every time he’d come back from a bender. He’s a harmless drunk; stupid and boring, but harmless. I wonder what Dr. Robinson is like when she’s drunk. I bet she’s a bit feisty.

She’s trying to smile that professional smile but it’s not really working any more. And her skin is going a strange colour.

‘Constance,’ she says, clinging to a semblance of control. ‘I want to talk about your hair. When did you notice it starting to fall out?’ She really is very pale; it occurs to me that she might be about to throw up.

‘Dr. R,’ I say. I have never called her this to her face, but I am nothing if not opportunistic; she’s weak and vulnerable right now.

‘I think I’ve eaten something that has disagreed with me,’ she says, a light sweat breaking out on her upper lip.

‘Either that,’ I say, ‘or possibly the vat of vino.’

The mere mention of wine and all is undone. Suddenly she clutches her hand to her mouth. She, the forensic psychiatrist, is going to puke in the Loony’s room. It is quite marvellous. I gesture magnanimously towards the snazzy, shiny, silver, suicide-proof toilet like an airy hostess and she gets up. Even in her hour of need she does not appear to rush and therefore does not quite make it across the room. A little vomit slips through her fingers on to the lino floor. Poor Dr. R, she is on her knees, clutching the rim of the lunatic’s toilet, heaving like the wino she evidently is. I think I like her more right now than I have ever done before.