David was scribbling furiously with a proper fountain pen when Tara knocked on his door and put her head round later that morning. He shouted, ‘Come in!’ but carried on scrawling notes, his brown hair falling into his face as his pen flew across the paper.

‘Sorry, forgive me. Have a seat. Just … one … second …’

Tara sat down on the chair next to the desk – not the couch; no therapist ever sat on the couch – and let her gaze roam around the room. A spider plant on a bookshelf filled with proper psychology textbooks, not He’s Just Not That Into You and It’s Called a Break-Up Because It’s Broken. A red oriental rug between the chairs, a brass lamp. Framed diplomas on the wall. The room looked as if it had belched out the previous therapist’s IKEA vibe and sided squarely with the original Victorian farmers. It even smelled more serious.

No, she corrected herself, her eye falling on the source of the leathery, library smell: it smelled of an expensive candle. Which she assumed, in turn, was to mask the aroma of the Border terrier that had just left, along with its owners.

‘Sorry about that.’ David clicked the lid on his pen with a snap, and looked up. The smile was mild and guarded at the same time. ‘How can I help?’

Something about the way he said it put her on the back foot. Wasn’t she meant to be helping him? ‘I thought I’d pop in and introduce myself. I’m Tara Hunter, relationship counselling and life coaching …’

‘I know!’ said David. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. In your absence. All very complimentary!’

‘Great! Well. Jacqueline mentioned you were between supervisors, so if there’s anything I can help with, until you get sorted out …’

‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’ He smiled. Tara hesitated and smiled back. There was something off-puttingly familiar about David Dalloway. Had she met him somewhere? At a conference? But then he had the sort of face that felt familiar from period dramas: the chestnut fringe flopping into shrewd brown eyes, the fine-boned, slightly academic features. The crumpled linen jacket, hanging on the hat stand. Maybe not the lead detective, but certainly the honourable young sidekick who might have Seen Terrible Things in the war, and always had a clean handkerchief.

‘Good. Good. Oh, and Jacqueline asked me to give you this.’ She passed him the card, and pretended not to know who it was from as he opened it.

‘Ah! It’s from Bernadette.’ He propped the card up on the desk: it featured a snoozy Dachshund.

‘Bernadette?’

‘Bernadette Richardson?’

‘She was always very much Mrs Richardson to me,’ said Tara.

‘To be specific, it’s also from Frank. Her Dachshund.’ David raised his gaze to hers with a glance that might have been faux-serious or just serious. ‘Short for Frankfurter.’

‘Because he’s a sausage dog?’

‘Exactly.’