I follow her to the loo and place my hand on her back. It feels so good to have human contact. Her back is broad and strong. With my other hand I hold back the strands of her hair that have slipped forward. Her hair really is very soft. I feel good. I am a natural carer. I am a mother again. She pauses before heaving again and when she next pauses I flush the toilet, rid her of her spewing mess.

When she has finished, she slowly sits back on her thighs, shaking her head, wiping her mouth. ‘I am so sorry, Constance. I am so sorry, this is inexcusable.’ She is mortified with embarrassment, unaware that there is no need – bad behaviour is my comfort zone. ‘I thought we didn’t have a session today. The phone call woke me up . . .’

‘Ssshh,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. Are you going to be sick again?’ She shakes her head. She is unsure.

I leave her there and pour her some plastic-jug water. She rinses out her mouth and spits into the loo. She tries to get up.

‘You need to wash your hands.’ I stand her up; she is as meek as a little lamb. I take her to the shitty little sink and she washes her hands and splashes her face. Then I escort her over to my bed and tell her to lie down for a minute.

‘No . . .’ she murmurs. ‘I’m so sorry, this is inexcusable. I do apologize.’

‘I just hope the evening was worth it.’ She lets me lay her down on top of my bed.

‘I better . . .’ she says, the impropriety of the situation getting too much for her. She struggles to sit up. I lay her down again and she lets me.

‘Just for a minute,’ I say, ‘while I clear things up.’

She relaxes a little and I turn off the side light and take off her shoes (Russell & Bromley). I put them on the floor and then I tug out some paper towels from the dispenser and clear up the vomit on the floor and around the toilet. I wash my hands and run my flannel under cold water. I return to the bed and press it on to her forehead. She opens her eyes briefly and touches the flannel and makes a few mumbles of polite protest.

After a minute or two, when I think she has actually fallen asleep, she says, ‘It wasn’t worth it, no.’ Then, rather sweetly, she tries to carry on a normal session. ‘I got your next missive. Thank you.’

I spot a bit of vomit on her chin and wipe it off for her. She tries to open her eyes but decides against it.

‘Was it beautiful?’ she says sleepily. ‘The walk? What’s the countryside like around Bath?’

‘It’s stunning,’ I say. ‘If you haven’t been, you should go.’