Gareth says the hypnotist is dead.

In fact, murdered.

With the enticing lure of animal, one always smells Gareth before seeing him and so, greeting his scent in the hallway, I stiffened a little and entered the kitchen where my poise met his pose. He was holding a mug of green tea and staring out the window.

I think he's dead, he said.

Gareth continued to stare into the distance, as if seeing the whole tragedy unfold across the empty street. He was plainly trying to distract me from something. Was there a naked man in the cupboard? Was it Neil? Gareth placed his free hand over the top of the mug, as if concealing a weapon. And so it was I gathered myself into my own room feeling robust, ready to see a very famous client, and also hugely gratified to know there was another guilty conscience in the building.

He feels misunderstood, the poor dear.

Unable to take another second of this vanity, I cut to it. It transpires that even the father of my very famous client misunderstands him, not to mention the entire Anglo-American public. And so as he droned about life on the road, the drugs, the half minute blowjobs, the never ending horizon, I found myself listening not to the detail but the rhythm. This life of transience had stolen his soul, apparently, and left nothing, aside from the stain on a poor girl's skirt. The tenor of this vainglorious whine revealed a continual conflict between ego and his ego ideal and as I heard of yet another lost love I began to see the greatest misunderstanding of this man's life was that he had of himself. He was plainly homosexual.

After he'd gone, pushing aside a fleeting desire to call the tabloids, I decided to double my prices and keep him on. The slow dawning of authentic sexuality will be a pleasure to watch.