She was trying to say: The fact that he chose someone ordinary-looking like you means that he saw something extraordinary in you, and that means maybe there is more to him than you think.

She thought of Patrick’s words: You think love is black and white. All women think that.

Rosie frowned. Something flickered in her eyes. She looked down at her hands and kicked her legs. Then Ellen saw her face close down as she made her decision. No. She lacked the self-esteem or the courage or the something; her marriage to Ian Roman died in that instant.

“Whatever,” said Rosie. “He’s cheated on me now anyway. We’re done. Don’t worry about it. I’m not. As I said, I came here to apologize and to let you know that he won’t be coming after you. I told him that if I ever saw anything negative about you in the papers, I’d do a tell-all interview about my marriage to Ian Roman and that I could probably come up with some really interesting sexual fetishe she’d never live down. You’re safe.”

“Thank you,” said Ellen.

“He doesn’t have any strange sexual fetishes, by the way,” said Rosie, as she stood and picked up her bag. “Actually, the sex was quite good.”

It was illogical that Ellen felt sad about the end of this marriage. Rosie didn’t love Ian Roman, and the horrible Ian Roman was probably out on his yacht right now, drinking champagne with his supermodel. Except that maybe Rosie and Ian could have been happy together if it wasn’t for their pride.

Rosie held out her hand. She smiled. She really did have a very pretty smile. “Back to my average life.”

As Rosie was leaving, Ellen’s father was coming down the footpath. He stopped to hold the gate open for her.

“Patient?” he said, as Ellen ushered him in.

“Client,” Ellen corrected him. “We don’t call them patients.” She watched Rosie walking off, and said, “With hindsight I would have treated her completely differently.”

“Hindsight,” said her father. “It’s always just a fraction too late.”

“Well,” said Kate. She paused, looked around the room for inspiration. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. “Holy shit.”

She hadn’t said a word the whole time I’d been talking. She just kept knitting, nodding her head occasionally and sometimes lifting her eyebrows. I had no idea what she was thinking. I told her everything that had happened and everything I’d done. I didn’t try to mitigate myself in any way. If only I’d had a terrible childhood, I could have put it down to that, but I couldn’t actually blame anyone or anything. My guilt, I told her, was absolute.

“You didn’t know you were visiting a crazy person,” I said at last.

It had felt so good telling her. I couldn’t stop. It was like I was tearing away at a horrible scab with my fingernails, but now I’d done it, and I was sitting in front of her, red-raw and exposed, I was filled with regret and a terrible sense of loss. I’d really liked her. We could have been friends. Now I’d ruined everything.

“Oh, well,” said Kate. “I’ve done some pretty crazy things.”

“Really?”

Kate put her head to one side, considered. “Well, no, not really. Not compared to that. I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“Thank you.”

She kept knitting.

“I bet you’re a Scorpio, hey?” she said without looking up.

“Well, yes, actually, but I don’t—”

“You don’t believe in astrology. Scorpios never do. But anyway, you’re very passionate, you Scorpios. All brooding and mysterious. I always wished I was a Scorpio. Or a Leo. I’m a Libra. We’re indecisive.” She kept knitting. “I don’t really believe in any of it either.”

She unwound some wool around her wrist. “You must have really loved him,” she said. “And the little boy.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I guess if I really loved them I should have ‘set them free,’ or whatever that stupid line is. Loving them is no excuse.”

Ever since that night I kept seeing a recurring image of Patrick’s face when he saw me standing at the end of his bed. It wasn’t just that there was someone standing there, it was that it was me. I was his nightmare. I’d made myself his nightmare.

“You know what I think you should do?” said Kate.

“You think I should get counseling,” I said tiredly. She and the hypnotist were right, of course. “Professional help” was required.

“I guess, if you want,” said Kate. “But I was just going to say, I think you should stop it.”

“Stop it.”

“Yes, that’s my extremely wise advice. Stop it.”

“Just … stop it.”

Kate began to giggle. “That’s what I’d say if I was your therapist. Saskia, just stop it. Take up knitting instead.”

I picked up my needles again. Kate smiled. “That’s it. See, you’re cured. That’ll be two hundred dollars please.”

It seemed that the universe had seen fit to send me a brand-new friend. I wondered if my mother had arranged it. I imagined her in the afterlife, dancing with my father in a starry ballroom. Maybe they’d been talking about me, shaking their heads at my shocking behavior. Maybe after Jack and I went crashing down the stairs, my Mum said, “I told you she wasn’t going to grow out it! What she needs is a brand-new friend.” Then she’d had an inspiration: “I know! A knitter! I always wanted her to learn to knit.” And she’d rushed off to fill out the appropriate paperwork.