I shrug. Some of our sessions are a bit of a blur, to be honest.

‘Well, I do. And believe me, I’m pleased with what I see before me today.’

‘Oh.’ I feel a tiny glow of pride, which is pathetic. I mean, I didn’t do anything.

‘How’s the film going?’

‘It’s OK.’ I nod.

‘Have you interviewed anyone from out of the house?’

‘Well.’ I hesitate. ‘Not yet. Not exactly.’

Dr Sarah waits. This is what she does, like a cop waiting to catch out a criminal. And every time I say I won’t crack first, but I always do.

‘OK, there’s this boy, Linus,’ I hear myself saying.

‘Yes, you’ve mentioned him.’ She nods.

‘He used to come round to see Frank, and I was going to interview him. Only now he doesn’t come round any more. So I thought . . . I mean . . .’ I trail off, not sure what I do mean.

‘Maybe you should ask him,’ says Dr Sarah, like it’s no big deal.

‘I can’t,’ I say automatically.

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . .’ I lapse into silence. She knows why not. It doesn’t need saying.

‘Let’s visualize the worst that can happen,’ says Dr Sarah cheerfully. ‘You ask Linus to come over and he says no. How does that make you feel?’

Trickles of anxiety are running down my back. I don’t like this conversation any more. I should never have mentioned Linus.

‘How does that make you feel?’ persists Dr Sarah. ‘Audrey, work with me. Linus has just said, “No, I won’t come over.” What are you feeling?’

‘I’m totally embarrassed,’ I say miserably. ‘I’m dying. I’m, like, oh my God. Like, I’m so stupid . . .’ I screw up my face in agony.

‘Why stupid?’

‘Because – because!’ I look at her almost angrily. Sometimes Dr Sarah is deliberately obtuse.

‘Linus won’t come over.’ She gets up and writes it on the board:

Then she draws an arrow from it and writes Linus’s thoughts in a circle.