“Me too,” said Ellen. “Is he a newsreader or something? An actor?”

They watched as Luisa reached into her handbag and held something up to the man.

“I think she’s showing him the check I gave her,” said Ellen.

“Why did you give her a check?”

“It’s a refund,” said Ellen.

“A refund? You gave her a refund because you’re pregnant?”

“I’ll explain later. What’s he doing now?”

The man reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out something that appeared to be a business card. Luisa glanced at it and then smiled.

“Oh, God,” said Ellen. “Who is this man?”

“I’ll go and find out,” said Patrick. “They can’t just stand there chatting on your property.”

“No, wait.” Ellen chewed a fingernail and watched Luisa carefully put the man’s card in her bag, like she was filing away an important document, before walking off. The man lifted a hand to wave good-bye, and then came striding down the footpath, smoothly removing his sunglasses with one hand. He looked angry and determined, as if he was walking straight to the lost luggage counter at the airport.

“Right,” said Patrick. He set down the garbage bags and opened the screen door. “Can I help you, mate?”

There was an aggressive edge to his voice. Ellen tugged at the back of his T-shirt. “Patrick, don’t—”

“I’m here to see Ellen O’Farrell,” said the man. He didn’t smile. Most people couldn’t help but give at least a perfunctory smile when they walked to the door of a strange house.

“Have you got an appointment?” Patrick squared his shoulders.

“Nope.” The man lifted his chin as if to say, What if I don’t?

Patrick puffed out his chest, and Ellen thought, Look at him being all chivalrous. He said, “Why don’t you come back when you’ve got one?”

This was getting out of hand. Ellen stepped forward. “I’m Ellen. Can I—” The man turned to her with such hatred in his eyes, Ellen faltered. “Can I help you?” she said.

“I’m Ian Roman. My wife is a ‘patient’ of yours. Rosie. Remember her? You were helping her stop smoking, although funnily enough, she’s still going through a pack a day.”

That’s why she recognized him. Rosie’s wealthy husband. A “bigwig.” That’s how Rosie had described him. He was in real estate, wasn’t he? Or some sort of media tycoon? Ellen couldn’t remember which. She just knew she’d seen his face in the papers.

“I don’t care who you are,” said Patrick, although Ellen could tell by the subtle change of tone in his voice that he knew exactly who Ian Roman was and where he sat on the social hierarchy. “You can’t come barging in here without an appointment.”

“It’s fine,” said Ellen. “I have a few minutes.” She stepped in between the two men and gave Patrick a look that was meant to say, Thank you, my darling, but you can back off now. “My office is this way, Ian.” She put deliberate emphasis on his name. “I can see you for ten minutes or so.”

“I’ll be just down here,” said Patrick warningly.

“So this is where you supposedly hypnotize people,” said Ian Roman, after she led him upstairs. He glanced around her lovely office and his nostrils flared as though he was seeing something unhygienic and unsavory.

“Have a seat.” Ellen indicated the green recliner, and for some reason, perhaps fear, she said flippantly, “Have a chocolate too.”

Ian took a seat and didn’t even bother to glance at the chocolates. He pulled on his trouser legs. Ellen sat down in front of him. She was mentally replaying her last session with Rosie.

Ian suddenly leaned forward. “So, Rosie has her sister over the other night. I come home early and I stop in the hallway to look at some mail and I can hear them talking. I’m not really listening, but then it starts to register, and you know what I hear?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I hear my wife say that she discovered under hypnosis that she doesn’t really love me. Great! But you know what, that’s OK, that’s no problem, because now she’s being hypnotized into loving me. One hundred and fifty dollars a pop! Let’s forget about helping you stop smoking, that’s too hard, let’s help you love your husband. The one you married five f**king minutes ago!”

Ellen took a deep, shaky breath. What was in the air today? She tried to keep her voice detached and professional yet caring and empathetic. “Obviously, it would be unethical of me to discuss your wife’s treatment with you, however I do understand—”

“Oh, obviously, because you’re so very ethical.”

There was a thump and a crash from downstairs. It sounded like Patrick had dropped one of the boxes. Ellen’s cheeks felt hot.

I am not a quack. I have nothing to feel guilty about.

Except maybe she did.

“Have you spoken to Rosie about this?” she said.

“I have nothing to say to her,” said Ian. “Clearly our marriage is over. I don’t need a woman who needs to be hypnotized into loving me. For Christ’s sake. What a joke. What an absolute joke.”

His mask of controlled fury slipped for a fleeting second and that was all it took for Ellen to understand everything. He loved Rosie and he was desperately hurt, but overriding everything else was his shattered pride. That was what was driving him. His ego had taken a violent blow, and he was going to fight back until it stopped hurting.

“Never hurt their pride,” Ellen’s grandmother had once told her. “A man with hurt pride is like a wounded bear thrashing about in the forest.”

Ellen massaged her stomach. Before she saw Luisa, she’d drunk two glasses of water in preparation for this morning’s ultrasound. She desperately needed to empty her bladder.

“I had the pleasure of meeting another one of your satisfied clients on the way in,” said Ian. “Great little operation you’ve got going here. Regularly hand out refunds, do you?”

“You really need to talk to your wife about this,” said Ellen. She floundered; her professional identity suddenly seemed slippery and tenuous. She saw her mother’s face all those years ago: “Ellen, you can’t seriously be considering a career in this.” She thought of all the jokes and the sneers and the doubts she’d ever endured. It suddenly felt like she was a quack, a charlatan. “This is not the way it seems.”