‘Well, my boy,’ said Bruce, putting away the puzzles, closing the cupboard and turning the key in the lock. ‘What’s your pleasure?’

I saw the genuine excitement on Tate’s face. I was embarrassed for him. He had a habit of getting swept up in other people’s enthusiasms.

An example: a particularly wealthy client had once described to Tate the healing benefits of dog saliva. He said dog saliva contained a unique bactericidal composition which, as a healing agent, was unparalleled. This man had a rottweiler named Wagner. Wagner was encouraged to lick any cuts or abrasions his owner suffered. But it didn’t stop there. Because this man believed that the dog was perpetually trying to optimise his wellbeing, he allowed Wagner to lick him wherever he liked, whenever he liked. He thus was able, he claimed, to absorb the full benefits of dog saliva, including its ideal pH, the proteins and nitrites it contained, and most importantly its ability to manage human body weight through the presence of Lactobacillus reuteri, which upregulated oxytocin levels.

Tate had relayed all of this to me. I was not sufficiently impressed.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘This guy does no exercise. He eats what he wants. But his abs are diamond-cut.’

‘Sounds kind of crazy to me.’

‘You haven’t seen his abs.’

We couldn’t have a dog in our apartment, but after that Tate went out of his way to visit our dog-owning friends at home. He would allow Beau and Shadow and Lurch to crawl all over him, licking his face and toes and hands, behind his knees. He would then step on the scales at home, watching to see if the miracle had occurred.

Merry, I realised, was tugging my sleeve.

‘Best we leave them to it,’ she said. She gave a conspiratorial little expression, wriggling her eyebrows in a way that made a strange feeling crawl down my spine. ‘Secret men’s business,’ she added.

We went into the kitchen and sat on stools at the marble-topped island. Merry poured out two large glasses of chardonnay. She asked me if I’d like ice.

‘No thanks,’ I said.

She dropped a cube into her own glass. I heard the plop and crackle. I saw it start to melt, saw the icy water scribbling paths through the oily, viscous wine.

I felt an illicit thrill in drinking so liberally. Tate rarely drank, as he considered it a social crutch. Now, for me, it was a rare treat, something I looked forward to when he was out of town for work or dining with a client. I would buy a bottle of wine or a bottle of vodka, or both, and get slowly, extravagantly drunk on the couch or the bed or in the bath – sometimes all three. I would watch reality television and eat empty calories and let the unproductive hours roll away out of sight.