My fingers seek out the fidget toy on the keychain in my pocket, rolling the little spinner thingy around and around. I don’t usually take my Ritalin on the weekends, but I should have known better than to embark on a project like this without my study buddies. I wonder if I can get my interior designer to take on the kit-out. She has a great eye and I frankly don’t give a fuck which shade of ivory my on-deck sun loungers end up. Mark’s bored too; he just does a worse job of showing it. He’s still sprawled out near the reception desk, head on his paws and eyes doleful.

Once Vanessa and her pert little arse have disappeared around the corner in search of beer, I go to him and hike up the legs of my jeans so I can squat and pet his broad head, which is a legacy of the twenty-eight per cent American Staffy in his lineage. The DNA test I commissioned after I rescued him also showed six other breeds, all clues to his bizarrely perfect appearance.

As I stroke Mark’s sleek fur, I become aware of the woman behind the desk lowering her voice as she speaks on the phone. She’s probably a decade older than me, and I’ve seen her sneak at least two dog biscuits to Mark from the glass jar on the desk. I assume she’s responsible for the bowl of water that’s appeared beside him, too.

‘No, Will, I can’t—how am I supposed to get there?’ Her voice is a low hiss. ‘You’ll have to see if your mum can grab him. I don’t know—can she take a bus over there and Uber him to the doctor’s?’

I keep my head discreetly bent until she hangs up with a whispered keep me posted.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask, getting to my feet. My quads complain as I rise, thanks to a punishing weights session yesterday with my PT, Si the Sadist.

‘I’m so sorry about that.’ She blushes. I’ve flustered her on top of everything else.

‘I’m the one who should apologise for eavesdropping,’ I say easily. ‘Terrible habit. But it sounds like you’ve got a bit of an emergency going on there.’

‘My son’s twisted his ankle at football,’ she admits. ‘The coach called my husband, but he’s in the middle of a shift. He can’t leave, and he’s got the car. He dropped me here on his way earlier. I’ll have to sneak out and find a bus, I think.’

The words are out before I can take them back, though, for once, my impulsivity feels justified. ‘Sorry to hear that. My driver’s sitting outside, twiddling his thumbs. He can take you to pick up your son and drop you at a walk-in centre or something?’