I give her back her empty Kleenex box and leave, clutching the last of the tissues in my damp hand.

Obviously, I’m testing out my dog-worthiness at David’s house. I’m wearing a nude mididress, because that’s the way I feel, as if I’m missing a layer of confidence. I’m standing outside the red front door between two olive trees in terracotta pots and he’s waiting inside for me – the perfect incentive.

I’m mustering up the magic mantra the hypnotherapist has given, that when a dog jumps and barks, it’s just being a dog.

I ring the doorbell.

The dog barks and David comes to the door. ‘It’s okay, Duncan’s in the lounge,’ he says.

I clutch his blue shirtsleeve. ‘Hang on, just checking – if Duncan does savage me, you’ll pull him off, won’t you?’

David takes me perfectly seriously; there’s not a hint of a smile in his eyes. And isn’t that what we all want, to be understood?

‘Of course, Fern. You can rely on me.’

I can. I know I can. I flex my shoulders. ‘All right then. I’m ready.’

David opens the door and goes inside the lounge first, with me following close behind him on the grounds that if there’s any savaging going to occur, the dog will get him before it gets me. Obviously, he’s a nice guy and I don’t want him to be savaged, but if it happens I’ll be in a good position to run for help.

The flat is painted white and it’s extremely neat.

Duncan, the shaggy brown dog raises his blond eyebrows to look amiably at us. He licks David’s hand and David scratches behind his ear with a rueful smile. ‘Sit.’ The dog sits.

So far, so good.

David looks up at me. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m not sure.’ On the other hand, I know what I’m not feeling – I’m not feeling scared to death. My heart rate is normal. I look at the dog and the dog looks at me with that expression of benign expectation that I recognise from before. And I’m not afraid. I could be afraid. The memory of fear isn’t far away and I could revive it with a snap of the fingers if I wanted, but currently I’m not. I’m just not.

‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

In the kitchen there’s an empty light box. I pick it up and look at the construction of the dovetail joints. ‘Will you always just make these?’

‘Well, I enjoyed making the chopping board. I might try making another one for someone who’d appreciate it,’ he says with humour. His eyes meet mine for a moment. He takes a cafetiere out of the cupboard and measures the coffee accurately with a scoop. He does it as carefully and precisely as he does everything else.