Lacy Clare is crying now, big, fat emotional tears, her belly moving up and down with the force of her pain and frustration. Dan grabs the box of tissues and proffers them to her. He tells her everything is going to be okay, which is number one on the list of things not to say to your client. It trivializes their problems and gives them false hope. Having walked the plank of professionalism and jumped off, Dan carries on making up new rules.

‘Here’s what we’re going to do, Lacy. We’re going to take control of the situation.’ Lacy looks up at his words, at the way he’s made them a team, and listens. Lacy Clare is going to go home that night and tell her husband that his mother is an interfering cow, and if she doesn’t back off, Lacy will move in with her sister until the birth. She’s going to tell him that cacti are supposed to be dry and that her breasts are more than good enough. They are bloody marvellous. They are bad-ass baby-feeders. She’s going to tell him to stop being a Mummy’s boy and start being a husband.

And Dan is going to pick up his phone the second she leaves and text Atticus: SEE YOU THERE.

‘Right, Fitz. Am I going or am I not?’ Dan says, hands out in front of him, fists closed. ‘Pick one.’

He’s holding a sausage in his ‘going’ hand, so the question is unfairly weighted.

‘I’m going.’

Fitz yawns.

‘I want to go, Fitz. I’m scared and shy and nervous, but I really want to go.’

Fitz eats the sausage and wags his tail.

‘I might make a twat of myself, but you’ll still love me, right?’

Fitz sits up and offers a paw.

‘Right. I’d best get ready.’

Dan washes his hair twice, until it looks like a fluffy duck on top of his head. The opposite of the look he was hoping for. He tries on three different pairs of jeans, two shirts and a jumper, and nothing looks good. He stands in his black pants and Star Wars socks, feeling sick as a pig, and now it’s seven thirty-five p.m. and he’s going to be late, even if he leaves as he is currently dressed.

A line of sweat drips down his back. Seven thirty-six p.m. Come on, Dan. He pulls on the first pair of jeans, a black pair, and a plain blue T-shirt. He adds a green belt, his high tops, and rubs a tiny bit of wax that smells of coconut into his fringe. He sprays Tom Ford on his neck and pulls on his Harrington jacket. He doesn’t look at himself as he passes the mirror.