It’s all business as usual for Lucie, though. She just nods. Or tilts her head. Or sometimes – in extreme cases, when I’ve said something out loud that almost physically hurts to utter – she says a supportive ‘yes’.

This time she asks me at the end of the session how I think I’m getting on. I start with the usual stuff – ‘oh, this has been so great, honestly, thanks so much’, like when the hairdresser asks if you like the cut they’ve just given you. But Lucie just stares at me for a while, so then I think, how actually am I getting on? A couple of months ago I couldn’t face saying no to Justin taking me out for a drink. I was expending most of my mental energy keeping memories at bay. I wasn’t even willing to acknowledge that he’d abused me. And now, here I am, talking to Someone Who isn’t Mo about how what happened with Justin wasn’t my fault, and actually believing it.

I listen to a lot of Kelly Clarkson on my way home on the tube. Facing my reflection in the glass, I throw my shoulders back and meet my own gaze, just like that first train journey from Justin’s place to the flat. Yes, I’m a little teary-eyed from counselling, but this time I’m not wearing sunglasses.

You know what? I am extremely proud of myself.

*

The question of how Leon feels about the photos in Femail is answered on my return to the flat. He has left this note for me on the fridge:

Didn’t cook dinner. Too famous for that now.

(i.e. got Deliveroo to celebrate Katherin’s/your success. Delicious Thai food in fridge for you.) x

Well, it seems he’s not let it get to his head, so that’s something. I stick the Thai food in the microwave, humming ‘Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)’, and reach for a pen while it whirs. Leon’s working until Wednesday, then off to his mum’s; I won’t see him in person before Richie’s trial on Friday. He’s keeping busy – he’s off on his last Johnny White visit tomorrow morning, planning on taking the earliest train he can to Cardiff and getting back in time for a nap before he’s back to work. I’d point out that that’s not enough sleep for him to function on, but I can tell he’s not sleeping well even when he’s here, so maybe it’s better for him to be out and about. He’s finally finished The Bell Jar, a sure sign he’s awake in the daytime, and seems to be surviving on caffeine mostly – at this point in the month we are not usually running this low on instant coffee.

I keep it brief.

I’m glad you’ve taken well to your new life of celebrity. I, on the other hand, am now embarrassingly jealous of about a hundred women on the Internet who think you are ‘so yummy lol’, and have decided I much prefer it when it’s just me that gets to stare at you.

I’m crossing my fingers that Johnny White the Eighth is The One! xx

When the reply comes the next evening I can tell Leon’s exhausted. It’s something about the handwriting – it’s looser than usual, like he couldn’t muster the energy to hold the pen tight.

Johnny White the Eighth is not our guy. Is actually very unpleasant and homophobic. Also made me eat a lot of out-of-date fig rolls.

Richie says hi. He’s OK. Holding up. x

Hmm. Richie may be holding up, but I’m not convinced that Leon is.

56

   Leon

Late for work. Talked to Richie for twenty minutes he couldn’t really afford about PTSD. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve talked to Richie about something other than the case, which is strange as appeal is in three days’ time. Think Gerty has spoken to him so often he actually wanted a change of topic.

Asked him about restraining orders too. He was clear on the subject: it’s for Tiffy to decide. Would be bad idea for me to seem to be imposing decisions on her – I must let her come to that conclusion on her own. Still hate that the ex knows where she lives, but must remember it is not my place to say.

Late late now. Button up shirt on way out of building. I’m an expert at efficient flat departure. It’s all in the shaved-off seconds and the foregoing of brinner, which will come to haunt me at 11 p.m. when day nurses have eaten all the biscuits.

Strange man from Flat 5: Leon!

Look up as building door slams shut behind me. It’s strange man from Flat 5, the one who (according to Tiffy) does energetic aerobics at 7 a.m. sharp, and accumulates banana crates in his parking space. Surprised to discover he knows my name.

Me: Hi?

Strange man from Flat 5: I never believed you were a nurse!

Me: Right. I’m running late for work, so—

Strange man from Flat 5 waves his mobile phone at me, like I should be able to discern what is on screen.

Strange man, triumphantly: You’re a famous person!

Me: Pardon?

Strange man: You’re in the Daily Mail! Wearing a poncey famous-person jumper!

Me: Poncey is no longer a politically correct term, strange man from Flat 5. Got to go. Enjoy the rest of Femail!

Scarper as quickly as possible. Decide, on reflection, not to pursue life of celebrity.

*

Mr Prior is awake for long enough to see the photos. He’ll drop off again soon, but I know this will amuse him, so make sure to take the opportunity and get pictures up on phone screen.

Hmm. Fourteen-thousand likes on a photo of me staring into distance in a black T-shirt and enormous crocheted scarf. Odd.

Mr Prior: Very dashing, Leon!

Me: Why, thank you.

Mr Prior: Now, am I right that a certain fine young lady persuaded you to humiliate yourself in this fashion?

Me: Eh. Umm. It was Tiffy’s idea.

Mr Prior: Ah, the flatmate. And . . . the girlfriend?

Me: No, no, not ‘girlfriend’. Not yet.

Mr Prior: No? Last we spoke I got the impression you were rather smitten with each other.

Check Mr Prior’s chart, keeping face carefully blank. Deranged liver function tests. Not good. To be expected, but still, not good.

Me: I’m . . . yes. I’m that. Just don’t want to rush things. I don’t think she does either.

Mr Prior frowns. His little beady eyes almost disappear under the folds of his eyebrows.

Mr Prior: May I offer you some advice, Leon?

I nod.

Mr Prior: Don’t let your natural . . . reticence hold you back. Make it clear how you feel about her. After all, you’re something of a closed book, Leon.

Me: Closed book?

Notice that Mr Prior’s hands tremble as he smooths down the bedspread, and try not to think about prognostics.

Mr Prior: Quiet. Brooding. I’m sure she finds it very attractive, but don’t let it be a barrier between you. I left it too long to tell my— I left things too late, and now I wish I’d just said what I wanted when I still could. Think what my life could have been. Not that I’m not happy with my lot, but . . . you do waste an awful lot of time when you’re young.