He was a rescue. He had come to her unexpectedly – a little miraculously – after a friend at a shelter put out a Facebook call about a dog in need. He was a sheepdog mix, and he had committed the potentially fatal crime of biting a sheep. So they were both offenders of a sort, and both in need of a trusty friend, someone to love and be loved by, without question or judgement.

He was the love of her life. Unasked for. Undeserved. He saved her life, she sometimes thought. He got her through a rough patch, her early and mid twenties. She supposed they were difficult years for many people. Take any Oxford college, decant the students from its rooms and you would find many with eating disorders, anxiety, depression, you name it. Most people soldiered on, shouldering their burdens, or more likely suppressing them. That was her until Frank. And then, very gradually, bit by bit, she began to feel it was safe to take a breath and feel a little.

Encountering Danny Coalcliff in the office, she bravely took the lead. ‘Rose,’ she said. Conscious that her co-workers were looking on, she stuck out her hand. There was a suggestion of something Mick Jaggeresque in his features, with those deep horizontal lines that bracketed his mouth.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said carefully. Coolly, she might have said. But his next comment was genial. ‘Saw your name. It’s good to meet you.’ And with this exchange the tone was set. They were amicable new colleagues.

As the new Executive Director of the Centre for Applied Studies in Animal Welfare, Danny had big ideas. He put up the architect’s drawings of the new centre building on a whiteboard in the office. He served on the animal welfare councils of several large fast-food corporations, and at his first staff meeting he spoke of bringing clients on board with a new partnership model. Sitting at the long table, people listened and nodded, while several dogs lounged by the shelves of mud-covered wellies.

‘It’s a bit… corporate,’ said Ravi, one of the older hands.

‘Dirty word, I know.’ Danny held up his hands. ‘Mea culpa.’ The room laughed, appeased. It was hard not to warm to him. He had kept his Manchester accent. This was something Rose noticed because she had smoothed hers out. It was now a little more RP, a little more priggish. She put more air in her vowels. No way to drop the habit now.

One thing worried Rose: whether dogs would be allowed at the new centre. ‘Oh, definitely,’ said Danny, when someone asked the question. He sounded confident yet vague. Perhaps he was distracted. Rose tried to catch his gaze, but he was looking around the room, and she supposed that it must be overwhelming for him, facing everyone at once.