At the end of the session, once Tara was on safer ground talking Grace through practicalities – did she need help dealing with insurance? Was she in contact with the flood support team? She showed her out of the consulting room and into the long corridor.

Down the hall, the Centre’s new counsellor, Dr David Dalloway, was also saying goodbye, to an emotional middle-aged couple with a tubby Labrador. The dog was soft and golden, as if he’d been moulded out of shortbread dough, and he turned towards Tara while his owners carried on talking over his head.

Tara blinked: not just because there was a dog in the Centre (Jacqueline, the Centre’s director, was vigilant about airborne allergens) but because it was the spitting image of Branston, her childhood confidante. The Labrador gazed straight back at her. Was it her imagination, or was he trying not to roll his chocolatey eyes? As if he despaired of his humans’ madness but loved them anyway?

That was probably too subtle a communication for a Labrador. Branston had had two expressions: ‘Give me toast’ and ‘I’m sad that you’re sad’. Both resulted in a cuddle, his heavy head leaning carefully against her small neck, his warm, biscuit breath in her ear. He always smelled of biscuits. Usually because he’d just stolen a packet of digestives.

The Labrador wagged his tail, and just as poor Simon had popped up out of nowhere in her mind, Tara suddenly had an almost physical memory of Branston nosing open the bedroom door to lie by her side, loyal and comforting, when her parents were arguing in the kitchen below. Her throat tightened.

It had been a really, really strange few weeks, coming right on top of a miserable few months.

This was Tara’s first full day back, after a sabbatical spent talking constantly about the floods and the emotional wreckage they’d caused, and she couldn’t concentrate at all. Usually her emotions were laid in careful, protective strata like a well-packed suitcase, but the floodwater seemed to have forced its way through them too, pushing up memories she’d packed away years ago.

‘… really helped us, David, thank you so much.’ The lady was grabbing David’s arm as if he were a vicar, not a relationship counsellor. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever said this before to a marriage guidance therapist, but I’m almost looking forward to our next session!’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said David. ‘But that’s just a reflection of your hard work, Gillian.’

‘Yup.’ Tara watched the husband scratch his stubbly chin. He seemed stunned. ‘You’ve got us bang to rights, I’ve got to say.’

David Dalloway raised a modest hand. ‘Think about what we discussed and we’ll pick it up again next week. Thank you, both.’

The dog wagged its tail and he bent to give it a friendly pat on the flanks.