They couldn’t just make things up, could they?

Well, of course they could. She thought about all those celebrity articles announcing that Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt were getting back together, when they clearly weren’t. But she wasn’t a celebrity. Nobody actually cared about her life, whereas everybody wanted Brad and Jennifer to get back together; that’s why they wrote those articles, because that’s what people wanted to hear.

(She herself was quite keen for Brad and Jennifer to get back together.)

Surely this Lisa Hamilton would have enough journalistic integrity to talk to clients other than Luisa. Or did she have no choice? Had Ian Roman called her up and said, “I want this woman’s reputation trashed or it’s your job”?

Maybe the poor journalist had an abusive husband and three small children, one of them requiring some sort of expensive transplant, and she had to keep her job at all costs, so Ellen would have to be sacrificed.

“Can you sleep?” said Patrick, his voice suddenly loud in the quiet room.

“No.”

“Me neither.”

He switched his light back on. “Should I get us some milk or something? Tea?”

“No thanks,” yawned Ellen. She sat up.

He said, without any real enthusiasm, “Should we have sex, do you think?”

Ellen laughed. “I’m not feeling especially amorous.”

“No,” agreed Patrick. He sat up. “I think I’ll go write an abusive e-mail to that client. Or punch something. Or run around the block.”

“Let me do you a relaxation,” said Ellen. She would be glad of the distraction.

“You’ve got enough on your mind,” said Patrick.

“It’s fine,” said Ellen. “I go into a trance too.”

“Oh, God, thank you, I didn’t want to ask.” Patrick lay down next to her. “I can’t believe how hooked I’ve got on this.”

Ten minutes later he was in a medium trance, and Ellen herself was in that lovely liquid state she seemed to reach whenever she hypnotized Patrick.

“I want you to go back to a time when you felt completely relaxed. A time long before the stresses of running your own business. Think of a time when you felt completely relaxed and happy. Are you there yet?”

He nodded.

“Where are you?”

“Honeymoon,” said Patrick. His voice had that stupid drugged quality.

Ellen went very still.

Stop right there, said Flynn’s voice in her head. She paused, considering, listening to Patrick’s deep, even breaths.

Ask him, said Danny. Ask him what you want to know.

“What are you doing?” she said to Patrick. There was nothing wrong with that.

In the soft lamplight Patrick looked ten years younger. The lines between his eyes had smoothed out and his cheeks looked plumper.

“We’re snorkeling,” he said.

“You and Colleen,” checked Ellen.

Who else? Julia snorted in her head. Oh, what a load of rubbish, said her mother. He’s just describing a memory to you. This isn’t time travel.

“Yes. It’s stunning.” Patrick smiled. “Col is wearing a blue bikini.”

“Is she?” said Ellen faintly.

“She looks gorgeous.”

“Great,” said Ellen. Julia was rolling about laughing in her head. You asked for it, you idiot.

Highly unprofessional, said Flynn.

“Describe what you’re feeling,” said Ellen, trying to get him back on track.

“I’ve never been snorkeling before. Everything feels slowed down and still and all I can hear is my breathing. The coral is—oh, but I have to tell her!”

His face changed. The lines reappeared, dragging down his cheeks.

“Tell her what?” said Ellen. Sometimes a simple relaxation exercise could bring up repressed negative feelings. It had never happened before with Patrick; it wasn’t meant to happen with Patrick. This wasn’t a proper session; this was just helping him forget about the horrible client so he could go to sleep.

And this is exactly why we don’t recommend hypnotizing your partner, said Flynn.

“To see the doctor! Now. Right now. We have to go and see a doctor and catch it, the cancer, before it’s too late.” Patrick’s hand opened and closed reflexively around the bedsheet. “She’s so stupid, so stubborn. She felt that lump and she never said a word, for months, just hoping it was nothing, hoping it would go away. Just like she hoped the oil light would stop flashing in her car. Jesus Christ. You idiot, I said to her. You idiot. I made her cry. I shouldn’t have made her cry. But she had a responsibility. To Jack. To me.”

Grief ravaged his face.

“It’s time to let this memory slip away,” said Ellen. Her voice did not have the appropriate level of authority. She sounded like a beginner: shaky and forced.

“I will never love another woman like her.”

“On the count of five,” said Ellen.

“I look at Ellen,” said Patrick.

Ellen froze.

“And I think: It’s not the same. It’s just not the same.”

After they walked in to have their ultrasound, I couldn’t stop crying. I had to leave. I was making a spectacle of myself. A woman came out from behind the reception desk and started walking toward me with a kind, purposeful expression on her face that meant: I sympathize, but please shut the hell up.

I guess people aren’t always crying tears of joy here. Ultrasounds don’t always mean good news. The woman probably thought I’d lost a baby.