Mary was unmoved. ‘See how easy that was. You’re a doormat, a classic victim. You’re: I don’t matter. You matter. The type who says to your more-significant other: I don’t mind, what would you like for lunch? Of course, you go out and have fun, honey. I’ll see if I can get enough hot water to take a bath! Or Come and live with me, Daddy. I’ll cook for you.’

‘Dad’s a great cook.’

‘You’ll do the cooking because it’s dull, and you don’t matter and he does. Why on earth are you still in this big house on your own? In these rooms filled with hatred and death? I can feel it. It’s yours now, not his. Sell it. Get out of here. Go live in Auckland, or Peru. You don’t even work, do you? Don’t even need to? Buy a one-way ticket somewhere. Leave.’

Holly may well have been taking this in. Hard to tell. She’d sat back down and was staring at the complaint form, not writing anything.

‘What’s scary is the I don’t matter type of person snaps in the end. The wife takes it and takes it, then one night she finds herself drugging her man’s hot chocolate and chopping his dick off when he’s sleeping. The girlfriend takes it and takes it, then one night she’s washing and he’s drying, and she’s smashing him over the head with a Le Creuset.’

Holly looked up, finally. ‘A what-say?’

‘A really heavy saucepan.’

‘I do matter.’ Holly stood up again. ‘And I need you to leave.’

‘Then behave like you matter.’ Mary began packing the large number of items she’d deposited around her in the last fifteen minutes. ‘Your life not miserable enough? What do you do besides smoke bongs? Yes, I can smell it. It’s not like you’re Catholic. You don’t have to forgive him.’

Holly signed the thoroughly completed complaint form and took on her stare. ‘I’ll be requesting a different worker.’

‘I’m not your worker.’

Holly shooed her to the door, tried to shepherd her out. ‘Hopefully not, but what you are – definitely – is damaged, dated, and a bigot.’

Holly hadn’t looked at Mary once since they took their seats in the ICM suite. Her hatred had obviously matured over the last six days.

Mary’s, on the other hand, had evaporated. Holly was just a vulnerable young girl, drowning here in a sea of testostefuck. Mary should never have done the home background interview in the mood she was in, but there were good reasons for her straight talking; it was tough love. Could the girl not see they were on the same side?