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some of the symptoms of pregnancy, just as she’s doing. Look at her nipples.’
    Fiona’s jaw slackened.
    ‘Good God.’
    ‘If she’d been smooth-haired you would have noticed it, but her long fur covers it up. That’s what it is. A phantom pregnancy. I used to see this when I was a vet.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘So you don’t have to worry that she has psychological problems, or any kind of depression—she doesn’t. She just wants to be a mum.’
    Mrs Green dabbed at her eyes. ‘Maybe she’s doing it in sympathy with me.’
    ‘We were going to have her spayed actually,’ said Miles.
    ‘Can I make a suggestion?’ They both nodded. ‘Don’t. Or, at least not yet. Why don’t you let her have puppies?’
    ‘Actually…that’s a very good idea,’ said Miles slowly. He suddenly smiled. ‘We hadn’t thought of that.’
    ‘No,’ Fiona agreed. She stroked the dog’s head. ‘We’ve been so caught up in ourselves.’

    ‘And it’s nice for girl dogs to be allowed to have at least one litter,’ I pointed out, ‘otherwise, well,’ I shrugged, ‘they can feel a bit sad.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Fiona. ‘I see. We could have puppies. That would be fun, wouldn’t it, darling?’ Miles nodded. ‘Maybe we won’t have a baby, but we’ll have some sweet little puppies.’
    ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s what I would do if I were you.’
    ‘Well, that’s very good advice,’ Fiona said as they stood up. ‘I feel quite overcome.’ She gave me a watery smile. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Not at all.’ I felt slightly emotional myself.

CHAPTER 2
    Maybe Sinead was picking up on Fiona’s frustration, I thought, as I prepared to set off for Caroline Mulholland’s house half an hour later. Maybe she was even trying to have a baby for her, who knows. I mean, dogs do imitate us, because they love us—they want to do all the things that we do. We sit—they sit. We sing—they howl. We vacate the driver’s seat—they jump right in. We get broody—maybe they get broody…? That’s the thing about being a behaviourist: you have to work out what’s going on with the owners before you can begin to sort out their pet. I checked my appearance in the mirror, retouched the concealer below my eye—I need less now—then ran a brush through my hair and left. Daisy was right about the Mews being friendly, I realized, as Joy, the osteopath, gave me a cheery wave. Caroline Mulholland lived in a village called Little Gateley, five miles from St Albans; I guessed it would take an hour and a quarter if the traffic wasn’t too bad.
    As I drove through Archway I passed Alexander’s road, heart pounding like a tom-tom, my mouth as dry as dust. Masochistically, I glanced down Harberton Road—for the first time since ‘it’ happened—and felt a wave of distress. But, once I’d got through the queues in Finchley and Barnet,I was soon coasting down lush country lanes; and as I wound down the window and saw the intense yellow of the rape and the fields of green corn, I relaxed—Daisy was right. This was a turning point; the start of a new phase in my life and I was determined to make it work out. Fifteen minutes later I came to St Albans, where I soon spotted the village sign. I passed the green with its horse chestnuts, laden with fading pink candles, then just beyond the church I saw gates. ‘Little Gateley Manor’ was carved on one of the pillars and I turned in.
    The house was just as I expected—straight out of Country Life . Georgian, painted white, and with a circular drive sweeping up to an imposing, rose-smothered front door. As my wheels crunched over the gravel, I heard a deep throaty barking, saw a silver flash, and the Weimaraner came bounding up. Then a woman appeared, running after it, visibly flustered.
    ‘Oh Trigger! You naughty boy! Come here ! Hello, I’m Caroline,’ she said slightly breathlessly as I got out of the car, and the dog jumped up at me. ‘I’m so grateful to you for coming out.’
    I’m normally