Obsession: The bestselling psychological thriller with a shocking ending. Amanda Robson

does not want to listen any more.

      And the children. I cannot bear to think about the children. Seeing them every other weekend is difficult. They treat me with distant politeness, as though I am a stranger.

      So this week on Tuesday morning, when Jenni interrupted my breakfast by texting me about Relate, it was a no-brainer. And now on Friday evening, an hour before I need to leave for our first appointment, I am ready to go, wearing my interview suit, grey silk tie and a pink shirt, shoes so highly polished I can see my reflection in them. Mum said I had put too much aftershave on so I have doused it off with a sponge, and now I am pacing about my childhood bedroom. The bedroom in which so much has happened. I had my first girl in here, one heady weekend of my youth when my parents were away. It was where I used to sing, too. Sixteen years old with a second-hand karaoke machine, singing my heart out, psyching myself up for band auditions that never happened. I used to really care about it. These days, I don’t feel like singing any more.

      I look at my watch. Fifty-nine minutes before I need to leave. I might as well go and sit in the lounge and watch TV with my parents. That seems to be all my elderly parents do these days. Prepare meals and tidy up, drink tea and fall asleep in front of the TV. I have so little to do at the moment; half the time when I’m not on shift, I join them. Today, as usual, I find them semi-comatose in front of the early evening news. The lounge is too hot; stifling, and as soon I am sitting down with them, I join them in sleep. When my iPhone alarm goes off I pull myself into wakefulness. At last it is time to leave.

      Jenni is waiting for me outside a primary school, in the centre of town. A primary school between the police station and the post office, the place Relate use for their evening sessions. Jenni, mouth in a line. Jenni, wearing her best suede boots and the coat I bought her last Christmas.

      ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says, without curving her lips.

      ‘That’s OK,’ I say.

      We walk in silence, side by side, into the red brick Victorian building, which needs a lick of paint. This red brick building is impersonal, uncomfortable, draughty and cold. Everywhere we walk our footsteps echo. Not quite sure where to go, we hover in the entrance hall. I pass time by reading the notice board. I try to admire the children’s paintings Blu-tacked to the walls. But surrounded by clumsy brush strokes, the cardboard smell of poster paint, and the endlessly wounded look on Jenni’s face, I am not appreciating them very much. Eventually, when we’re wondering whether to give up and go back to our respective homes, a woman puts her head round a door at the end of the entrance hall and calls us into her office. She is about fifty with a cosy, ‘come and sit with me in the front parlour’ sort of smile. We follow her into her office and close the door behind us.