The greyness outside is oppressive. I’m looking at my leaf for comfort. It is immobile. I feel so incredibly sad for everything that’s gone, everything that’s lost. I look down at Dr. R, lying there, breathing deeply through her parted lips, finding respite from her own losses. How much younger she looks when asleep, now that the frowning and fretting has left her face. I stroke her silky hair, noticing that she dyes it – expensively. Right at the roots I can see the thinnest line of grey. She begins to snore gently.

I shouldn’t waste this time. I get up and go over to the chair and look at her things. I pick up her jacket and try it on. She’s broader than me. I put on her shoes; they are a size too big. I walk around the room feeling professional and dapper, organized and successful. She is in a deep sleep. I do a little tap dance; my grandmother taught me to tap dance in nothing but her tights. The shoes seem to come to life. I sling her Mulberry bag across my shoulder and give it some jazz hands. It’s amazing what clothes can do. I could walk out of here. I could slip past the moron outside the room and make my way down the corridor. They’d stop me at the door though; it’s like Fort Knox down there. But I don’t leave. I don’t want to leave. I need this little hiatus in my life.

So I move the chair back to the table and I sit down and begin to go through her bag. No keys or sharp objects – she would have had to hand them in at reception. There are a few gluten-free oat-bar wrappers folded neatly at the bottom, her Xtra-strong mints, a couple of Tampax in a case, the usual things. I find a couple of receipts: Wagamama (chicken ramen £9.95, smoothie £4.75 – eating alone), Boots (ah . . . to get that silky look she uses a John Frieda intense treatment for brunettes £9.95; Braun toothbrush £74.95 – wtf? They’re paying her too much.) Her bag is neat and tidy, not like mine. Where is mine? I am not a handbag person any more. Handbags are not for asylum dwellers.