The door to one of the double-fronted houses had opened at exactly ten past eight and two little girls had walked out. They could have been twins except that one carried an air of leadership. With their matching dark hair neatly braided, they reminded Kat of her own half-sisters and she’d had to clench her teeth to stop any of the old emotions spilling out. A moment later, Beth had appeared with an apricot cockapoo by her side. The photo on MyNeighbour implied that the dog belonged to Beth, but Kat couldn’t be sure, so she’d felt a jolt of relief at the sight; her plan was still on track. As Beth had paused by a black Mercedes to wipe a smudge from the back door handle, Kat had even managed to snap a few photos using her phone, something to fill the absence after the MyNeighbour post was taken down, and provide reassurance that Kat isn’t going mad; it really is her.

The rest had been easy. She always has Groom & Bloom leaflets knocking around at home, and she’d dropped one in her bag before she left that morning. Scribbling down a discount offer wasn’t a problem either because they do it regularly enough for local residents when bookings are slow. December doesn’t fit that description – everyone wants their pooch to look their best in Christmas photos – but Sally almost always forgets to include a cut-off date, so the discount leaflets drift in at any time of year. Kat waited until Beth and her two daughters were out of sight on their way to school, and then slipped the leaflet through the letterbox.

And then she waited, part of her praying that Beth didn’t take up her offer, and a much bigger part desperately hoping that she would. She checked the schedule when she arrived at the salon each day, and this morning, finally, she’d seen the booking. Mrs Packard was bringing in a 10-month-old cockapoo called Luna. She’d stared at the computer screen for a moment, then added Beth’s phone number to her own contacts when Sally wasn’t looking.

The bell of the front door jingles and Kat’s stomach completes a full somersault. She takes a deep breath in, listens to it shudder out of her then walks into the reception area. Beth Packard is stood there, just a few metres away, her dog held close to her on a navy lead. She’s facing Sally, who’s sitting behind the desk, so Kat can see her only in profile. Her dark hair settles below her jawline; her lips, nose and eyelashes are all perfect. She’s wearing one of those full-length puffer coats, like you see on professional rugby players or North London celebrities, with sparkly white trainers poking out at the bottom.