She shakes her head, looking down at her drink. The staff room is dim and smells damp this evening.

They discuss the practice’s footfall, whether they need to advertise. Joe tells everybody that they need to stop underestimating surgical time taken, which he addresses – kindly – to the room, but he means it directly to Cathy. She never bills even half what she should. That shouldn’t have taken three hours, she will think of a simple cruciate knee op. I’ll bill an hour and a half. That’s how long it would take an expert. Someone better than me. She does it all the time, shaving time off here and there, passing on the lab results only at cost. Feeling sorry for families who can’t work but who still want pets, families dealt bad hands with Labradors with arthritis and insurance companies who exploit loopholes. Families who want to do the best for their animals – most of them do – but can’t. Cathy bears the cost herself. Chipping away at the business. Putting them less in the black than they should be.

‘That means me,’ Cathy says, raising a hand, trying to dispel the atmosphere.

‘Bill them for everything,’ Evan says. ‘It’s the only way. Why wouldn’t you get the most out of a situation?’ he says lightly. He’s leaning back on the rear two legs of his chair. His gaze strays to Maria.

‘I know,’ Cathy says quickly. ‘I will – I just. Too much heart, I suppose.’

Goosebumps break out along her arms, but she ignores them. Tries to ignore this interloper in her family’s business that they sold out to in exchange for his silence. Evan must surely know Maria doesn’t know, and Cathy watches him smirk as he looks at her, but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

Cathy’s eyes light on Frannie, and maybe she is thinking something similar, because she’s staring straight at Cathy instead of taking notes. Cathy ignores the chilly feeling across her arms and back, and grabs a pad from one of the desks to distract herself.

They discuss profit margins and efficacy of drugs. They discuss how the conjunctivitis drops are never in stock. Frannie says she will chase it up.

They keep it short, Evan’s first ever meeting. Cathy’s shoulders sag in relief as Evan leaves. Another bullet dodged. The rest of them file out in silence, coffee cups placed in the sink and the doors locked up. In the carpark out back, Maria and Evan gone home, the hot bins making it smell of Verona, Cathy looks at Frannie. She’s so striking. That wide nose, those cheekbones.

‘I can’t believe it’s come to this,’ Frannie says softly to Cathy. Joe, smoking again, looks up sharply. Macca sits at Cathy’s feet, just waiting.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I just mean – it was foolish. The whole thing.’ Frannie takes his cigarette. ‘It was foolish to attempt anything other than to hand ourselves in.’ She straightens up as she says it, a strange jerk of her body that Cathy finds impossible to read.