‘Now, this is only for a couple of hours,’ she told her as she lifted the basket out. ‘Try to get some sleep and please don’t vomit in my office.’

The mood in the reception area was glacial, with several people waiting for the first appointments of the day: a middle-aged couple, a teenager staring at the floor, and three people sitting together in a tense and barely contained way that suggested they’d arrived together to get a professional verdict on a family row. Out of the corner of her eye, Tara spotted a couple with a German Shepherd at the far end of the corridor and it jogged a thought loose from the party debris in her mind.

David. She stopped short, Sybil’s carrier swinging in her hand. David had told her at the party the previous evening that he talked to the dogs in his appointments.

He said what?

Through her headache, Tara had an unsettling flash of David gazing down at her from his seat on the fire escape: those clear eyes looking straight into her mind, the strange confessional impulse she’d had.

What had she said? Oh God. She’d admitted to David Dalloway that her personal life was a mess, and that she didn’t think she could help anyone.

Why had she done that? What was in the gin? Tara’s chest tightened with a stifling, knotting sensation. He wouldn’t tell anyone, would he?

‘Tara? Are you all right?’

She looked round: Chloe the receptionist was leaning over the desk to offer her a glass of water.

‘What’s that for?’

‘You just looked … like you might faint?’ Chloe lowered her voice. ‘Everyone looks rough today. Bryan’s called in sick, and Anji nearly threw up in my bin. I told Jacqueline she should have got more food to soak up the homebrew. Sandwiches don’t cut it with that stuff. You need serious carbs. Like, mashed potato or something.’

‘Good tip for next year. Thanks.’ Tara waved away the water and struggled to get her mind working.

She needed to talk to David. She needed to make it clear that she’d been speaking under the influence of mind-altering homebrew, and that he should disregard anything she’d said. And definitely not tell Jacqueline.

‘Is that your cat?’ Chloe made a cooing noise. ‘Hello, puss-puss.’

There was a thunderous rumble from the basket, then a flash of claw, and Chloe withdrew her finger rapidly.

‘That’s Sybil. She’s not well,’ said Tara.

As she spoke, an unnerving image of David’s face, very close to hers, on the fire escape swam into her mind and her cheeks burned. Well, at least he’d been talking equally embarrassing nonsense. He probably wouldn’t even remember what she said, if he was at the point of telling her he talked to dogs.

That was a small comfort.