Tara found her way into the IKEA car park and parked in a space miles away from the entrance to avoid scratching the Mercedes’s paintwork.

They sat for a moment while the car turned itself off. It was ten to eleven. Tara took a deep breath and ran through the coaching she’d have given a client facing the same situation: set your intention, calm your breathing, visualize …

‘Before you go – I think you should keep the cat, Tara.’ Keith’s voice broke the silence, and she turned in surprise.

Keith was staring out of the car at something she couldn’t see, and didn’t seem to want to turn back.

‘Why?’

‘Because you look after her properly, and this Phil sounds like the kind of selfish bastard who doesn’t.’

‘And how do you know that?’

Keith gave a heartful sigh and shook his head. ‘I left Branston.’

Tara was about to say, Stop making this about you! when she saw the expression on Keith’s face and the words died on her lips.

It had been awful, Branston’s broken heart after Keith left. It didn’t matter how many slices of toast Tara slipped him, or how often they let him sleep on their beds, Branston was sad for ages after. At least Dad had taken her and Toby to the Hard Rock Cafe a few times, offering them vague explanations about how he and their mum were ‘better apart’ until they’d decided they didn’t want to see him.

‘He used to walk backwards and forwards from the studio to the back door constantly,’ she said, twisting the knife. ‘Looking for you.’

Keith wiped a hand over his face. ‘Tara, I didn’t want to leave him. I loved that dog. I often thought about him. I don’t get the impression this bloke has the same kind of attachment to Sybil.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Tara stared at her father, choked. She’d never really considered that leaving Branston might have been a wrench for him. ‘Why are you doing this? How can you even talk about this, about Branston, when you know what I’m about to go and do?’

He seemed genuinely remorseful. ‘I’m sorry, Tara. I know it’s bad timing but … when else could I say it? Please. You’ll only worry about her.’

‘OK.’ She let out a long breath. The unexpected flood of memory had winded them both. ‘I won’t give Sybil back.’

Tara turned to look over to the carrier on the back seat. David had raised her expectations; she half expected to see Sybil’s grateful face pressed up against the bars, pleased at having successfully transmitted her wishes to a human. But there was just a quilted expanse of fur pressed against the wires – the cat’s curled back rising and falling with a faint snore.

She spoke without turning back. ‘We loved Branston. He was a good dog.’