She shook herself. Not Branston. It was Lloyd, Molly’s dog. He was sitting in the garden by the picnic table, staring up at the studio as if the sheer force of his gaze might bring his people to the window.

Tara carried on encasing Free Wheelin’ Sindy in bubble wrap and when she looked up to find the packing tape, the dog had revolved on the spot and turned his attention to her.

His brown eyes were confused, furrowing the smooth space between his ears.

Where has everyone gone? his sad expression seemed to say. Why have they left me in this garden? Why does it smell of cats when there is no cat?

Tara got a grip of herself. What, she was now verbalizing dogs’ thoughts? Stop it. Too much time with David.

Tara scribbled a note to go in the envelope, then looked up and the dog was in exactly the same pose, gazing at her with even more mournful eyes, but fifty metres closer to the house, as if he had zoomed in on casters.

Sybil had assumed an upright position on the counter, glowering at the invader. Her tail flicked imperiously, a warning of hissing to come.

‘No need to panic, Sybil,’ said Tara aloud. ‘He’s not coming in. You stay there and glare at him while I get some more Sindys.’

When she returned with a 1984 Masquerade Sindy, complete with fan, mask and every ball-related accessory Sindy definitely wouldn’t still have had she been allowed to attend a bunk-bed ball with a nine-year-old owner, the dog was right up against the window, pleading silently to be allowed in.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Tara, and at the sound of her voice, the dog lay down, gazing at her from over his paws. He panted, showing a long pink tongue. It was hot outside. Tara forced herself not to wonder if there was a water bowl out somewhere. Surely Dad would have remembered to leave some water out for him?

She tried to ignore Lloyd as she photographed the boxed Sindy from different angles, and then started writing the description. But it was hard. Branston popped into her mind. How he’d sleep across her feet while she read. How soft his ears were, how his armpits smelled of hot digestives, how comforting it was to feel the weight of his head on her lap when she was sad …

Tara wasn’t even aware she was walking across to the bifold doors, but before she knew it, the dog was in the kitchen and Sybil, disgusted, was halfway up the stairs.

‘Lloyd?’