Back at my desk, I check Brendan’s emails one last time. I’ve added a few new rules this week, and it’s helped to streamline the ridiculous, relentless tide of crap that streams into his inbox. It’s in pretty good shape now—good enough for me to close it up and head out, in any case.

I suddenly remember that, in all of my handover discussions with my parents this week, I’ve neglected to nag them about Tabby’s supplements. Vitamin C isn’t going to magically enlarge her pulmonary valve, but keeping up her overall health is of vital importance going into a gruelling operation. I pick up my phone and message my mum, hitting the dictation button as I absently close out of Brendan’s email.

‘Hey, can you get Tabs to take her supplements before you give her dinner, please? They’re on the counter by the sink. Thanks. Love you.’

‘Who’s Tabs?’ a deep voice booms behind me, and I swear I almost fall off my chair in fright. It’s fucking Brendan. Mark is next to him. How the hell did I not hear him and his dog sneak up behind me?

‘Uh, what?’ I ask, my brain spiralling in blind panic. I bend to stroke Mark and massage his jowls, playing for time.

‘Tabs? You said something about Tabs and dinner.’

My initial reaction is to lash out. Tell him it’s none of his business. But that’s not the way to speak to your boss, and it would also sound seriously shady. ‘Tabs. Oh, yeah, Tabs. She’s, uh—she’s my dog.’

Thank you, God—and Mark—for that timely moment of divine inspiration. I exhale shakily and keep my head down. The main problem with this entire plan I’ve hatched is that it involves a great deal of deception and I’m a totally useless liar. Like, a red-faced, shaky-voiced, deer-in-the-headlights kind of liar.

‘Your dog?’ he asks, and the sheer delight in his voice has me glancing up at him. He’s positively beaming.

‘Yeah.’

‘You have a dog called Tabs?’

‘Well, Tabby, but yes.’

‘Tabby’s a cat’s name, not a dog’s name.’

Seriously? He’s really going there?

‘Most people would argue that Mark is a human name, but here we are.’

He grins. He looks so unreasonably handsome when he grins, but I really wish he would drop this. Unfortunately, and appropriately enough, he’s like a dog with a bone. He pushes his hand through his hair. ‘What kind of dog is she? Can I see some pics?’

‘Absolutely!’ I say with a perkiness I do not feel. ‘You know what—let me just send one final email and then I’ll come through with my phone in a sec. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ He gives me an easy smile and turns. ‘Come on, Mark. Let’s give the lady some space.’