Margaret held up a hand. “Sorry, Maudie, could you repeat that? I don’t quite understand.”

I told her about the mirror mix-up, smiling as though it was a mildly funny anecdote. She didn’t smile, just gave me a crisp nod.

“Then I had a bad dream a few nights later, at home, and got up to get myself a drink of water. I saw her in the street - I mean, I saw her really for the first time. She was looking up at the flat, staring right at me.”

Margaret frowned. “And do you think she wasn’t really there?”

I chewed my bottom lip. “I don’t know.”

“And you haven’t seen this woman since?”

“No. Although I keep thinking I see a flash of blonde hair and tense up, thinking it’s her.”

“You don’t know who this woman is? Until recently, you’ve never seen her before?”

“No.”

“So you have no idea who she is?”

I looked down at my hands. Somewhere deep inside me, I wanted to answer in the affirmative. I couldn’t bring myself to do so. That would mean acknowledging what I knew to be impossible.

“No,” I said, again.

There was a short silence. I looked down at my hands, noting I’d chewed most of the polish from my nails.

“Do you have any thoughts?” I said, quietly, not sure whether I wanted an answer.

Margaret put a hand up to her face, rubbing a finger along her jaw bone. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I have to say this is a bit odd, Maudie. Now–” she held up a hand as I looked up in panic. “Now, I’m not saying there’s anything to be worried about. But, I have to be honest, I would be easier in my mind if you could confirm that someone else had also seen her. Although I’m sure there is a perfectly rational explanation.”

I nodded, miserably.

“But,” said Margaret, “I also think we need to ask ourselves the question that doesn’t seem to have occurred to you, just yet.”

“What’s that?” I whispered.

She smiled at me, kindly. “Well, what is it that she wants? Why does she keep appearing?”

I could feel my eyes widening.

Margaret went on. “Had you thought of that?”

I shook my head.

“Well, then,” she said. “It’s probably something perfectly explainable. I think you need to ask her what she wants.”

“But–” I struggled to find the words. “What if – what if I never see her again?”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

I thought for a moment and shook my head. “No,” I said.

Margaret brushed a lock of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “Maudie, what do you think of the woman? What are your real feelings? How does she make you feel?”

I gnawed at my thumbnail, realised I was doing it and put my hand back down in my lap.

“Scared. She makes me feel scared.” I thought some more. “And guilty. And I don’t know why I feel guilty, except that’s my sort of default setting.”

“Why do you think that is?”

I looked at her quickly. “You know why.”

“Jessica?”

I nodded.

I took a taxi home from Margaret’s house. I couldn’t face the streets full of people, or any form of public transport, although she only lived a mile or so from my flat. I always emerged from a session feeling as though I were missing a layer of skin; I felt peeled, my nerve endings exposed to the outside air. And I was always cold, huddling myself into the taxi seat, my arms and legs crossed and hugged together for warmth.

I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the end of the street. I needed to pick up a few things from the corner shop.

As I walked back along the street, I looked towards the flats, to the car park at the side of the building, hoping to see Matt’s car parked there but not really expecting it – I knew he probably wouldn’t be home until much later. His car wasn’t there. I sighed inwardly and looked towards the entrance to the flats and as I did so, a tall figure in a long black coat came out of the doorway. Their back was towards me but flowing over the collar of the black coat was a fall of bright blonde hair.

I felt my heart begin a fast and painful thudding. Laden as I was with carrier bags, I began to walk faster, then faster still. The blonde figure was walking quite slowly towards the pedestrian crossing at the other end of the street. I put on a final burst of speed and caught up.

I heard my voice say ‘excuse me’ in a high, breathless gasp but before the figure could react I saw my hand go out, the heavy bag swinging from my wrist. I grabbed at an arm, quickly and roughly.

The person I’d accosted gasped and spun round. Facing me, thinly plucked eyebrows raised high, was the face of a stranger, a middle-aged woman. I released my grip, stuttering out an apology. Close to, I could see the greying roots of her bleached hair.

“What is it? What do you want?” she demanded

“I’m sorry,” I said again. The carrier bags dragged painfully on my wrists. “I’m sorry – I thought you were someone else.”

I stepped back and one of the bags broke. A bottle of wine fell to the ground and smashed; a small tidal wave of merlot flowed like blood over the concrete. I let out a cry. The woman looked at me and looked at the wine that had just splashed her shoes and her face twisted in something that was almost disgust. She shook her head and walked away quickly.

I hurried back to the flat, holding the remaining carrier bag close to my chest. I was shaking. I pictured the wine puddled on the pavement, little rivulets running into the gutter. I had picked up the pieces of the bottle as best I could and cut my finger in the process. I was a mess.

Where was Matt? I missed him as much as I had ever missed him. I turned the heating on high, put on some classical music, lit some candles. I opened one of the remaining bottles of red wine and drank the first glass down quickly, wanting the anaesthesia. I needed to feel safe.

Matt returned home an hour later and I felt a rush of relief at the sound of his key in the lock.

“I’ve missed you,” I said, throwing my arms around him a minute later.

“I’ve missed you too.” He gave me a squeeze and his hands slipped down my arms to take mine. I winced and pulled away as my sore finger was touched.

He kissed my finger gently. “There. All better now?”

I laughed. “Yes, thanks.”

He went to the drinks cabinet and rooted about inside. He was wearing his tweed jacket and, for once, a tie with his shirt. “Could I have one of those?”

“Aren’t you already on the vino?”

“Yes,” I said and fiddled with the controls of the stereo, turning away slightly. I didn’t want to tell him I’d almost finished the bottle. “I just fancied a whisky, that’s all.”

He handed me my drink and sat down on the sofa with a long sigh of exhaustion, dropping his head back. I hesitated and then sat next to him. I told him about Becca coming for dinner, about seeing my therapist, about the new film I’d watched the other night on my own. I didn’t tell him about the blonde woman. Perhaps I should have, but I so wanted him to think of me as stable, and capable; not someone to be pitied.

“How was your session with Margaret?” he asked. “Do you think that new thing she’s got you on is doing any good?”

I picked up the TV remote and tapped it against my palm. It always made me awkward when Matt and I talked about my medication. I wanted to forget that I took pills.

“I think so,” I said, not really caring whether it was true or not. “I feel fine, anyway.”

“Don’t do that,” Matt said, taking the remote away from me.

“Sorry.”

For a moment there was just the sound of a violin concerto coming softly from the stereo in the corner.

“So how was the conference?” I asked.

“Oh fine,” said Matt, “Some quite exciting lectures, actually. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He had closed his eyes while he was speaking and I took the opportunity to study him. He really did look tired, his skin dull and papery. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, visible even behind his foggy glasses.