Her full name is Emma Elizabeth Davis. As I thought, she is English through and through. She’s forty-seven. I find her date of birth and try various combinations of it in the phone. Nothing. I take out her iPad mini and try a few combinations of her birth date and bingo, I’m in. There’s no wifi so there’s little I can do. I check out her Safari history – which is interesting, and I look at what she’s been watching on BBC iPlayer – which is not. I sit like that for a while, in her clothes with the contents of her bag strewn across my lap, and I imagine that I am her, with her successful life and her inner sorrow. I imagine I am someone else, a normal person capable of managing my misery. But who is a normal person? And what exactly is the difference between them and a mentalist? One of us is drowning, that’s all. One of us has slipped beneath the surface, unable to bear the load any more. I feel afraid. I want to do something but there is nothing I can do. My mother would know what to do. I miss her so much. I will ask Karl to bring her here; she will be worried about me. Maybe she’s visiting David in Australia. Yes, that must be it.

I should wake Dr. Robinson up now, but I like watching her and it seems almost cruel to snatch her from this sweet slumber. I have put her things back in the bag and moved my chair beside the bed again to watch her for a while longer. It’s been an unusual session, to say the least. But the hour is up.

‘Dr. Robinson?’ I say gently, my face very close to hers.

She opens her eyes and looks at me. For a second she has absolutely no idea where she is, or who I am. Then she remembers. I see the panic set in. It must be confusing; I am wearing her jacket.

‘You’re wearing my jacket,’ she says guardedly, climbing off the bed, the intimacy we shared an hour ago all gone. I take off the jacket and put it at the end of the bed. To be honest, I’d totally forgotten. I hope I haven’t made it smell.

She takes the jacket and goes to her bag. She pauses there; I know what she’s thinking. I see her check her phone, the time, the code, her driving licence; she gathers her things, crosses to the bathroom and tries to smooth her face in the metal smear of the mirror. She doesn’t look me in the eye. Then she goes straight to the door, clutching her bag tightly. She wants to get the hell out of here. She stops and turns around.