‘And cats?’ What would Sybil say about her, Tara wondered – or Phil, her supposed owner? What had she noticed about them?

David seemed to be giving it proper thought. ‘Cats are more objective than dogs. They’re not as invested. I mean, they like their owners but they’re more … observers.’

‘Figures.’ Sybil was a flatmate, not a pet. A flatmate who didn’t care for her late nights. ‘I don’t want to think what my cat would be saying about me. She’s very … aloof.’

He shrugged. ‘They’re hunters.’ He thought for a second, then his face lit up. ‘Like you!’

‘Me?’ She frowned, not understanding. ‘I’m not a hunter.’

More like stupid easy prey.

‘Tara Hunter.’

‘Oh. No, I don’t think so. My dad maybe. Not me.’

‘Really? How so?’

Tara opened her mouth, then closed it. Too much. Her head was thick with a purplish drunkenness, and although she wanted to tell David – she had a funny feeling he’d understand – it was just too complicated. ‘Nah. Don’t talk about stuff like that at work.’

‘OK.’

She turned to him, and was distractingly shaken by how beautiful David’s oak-brown eyes were. A gingery warmth flowered in her chest. Tara reached out a drunken finger and touched his nose, calmly, first time. ‘I never, ever mix work and home. Firm lines.’

He removed her finger from his nose, kissed it without thinking, and placed it back on her knee. ‘OK.’

They sat in silence for a few moments that stretched into longer moments. Tara wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. Had he just kissed her finger? Had she imagined that?

Without warning, an overwhelming hopelessness swamped her, so sharp that tears sprang into her eyes. Forget mixing work and home – she didn’t have any ‘home’. Phil was a disaster waiting to happen. Toby, the only person who truly understood why she was as she was, had run hundreds of miles from her. Mum was gone. Dad was here, but she didn’t know why, and she didn’t trust herself to enjoy his company for fear of what might go wrong. And at work everyone thought she was so competent, so in control, but right now it would only take one tricky client, one bad morning, to reveal that she was flailing round in a bigger mess than any of them.

She felt David’s hand on her arm. Was she crying? A tentative squeeze. Then his arm around her shoulders. It was strong, and warm. Comforting.

If I turn my head, she thought, he might kiss me.

Then a more startling thought: I might kiss him.

‘Come on,’ he murmured. ‘It’s not that bad.’

‘It is.’ She bit her lip. The pebble of guilt that lay permanently at the pit of her stomach was swelling into a boulder, crushing and indefinable. It usually did when she drank. ‘It’s much worse than you think.’