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her elbow while hanging her plastic apron on the hook outside the cage.
    ‘Not your fault,’ I say. ‘There’s hardly room to swing a cat.’
    ‘Of course, we’d have had a separate ward for patients with infectious diseases if it hadn’t been for Talyton Manor Vets. They called meetings and organised petitions to stop Emma getting planning permission for an extension at the back of the practice. Old Fox-Gifford spent a fortune on whisky – for bribes, allegedly – but why he bothered, I don’t know. A few extra square metres of floor space wouldn’t have hurt anyone.’
    Not for the first time, I admire Emma’s determination in setting this place up. Otter House used to be her family home. Her father ran a dental practice here before he died prematurely, struck by lightning on the golf course at Talysands when Emma was thirteen. Her mother passed away here, almost four years ago now, her body ravaged by a particularly aggressive form of pancreatic cancer. It was her dying wish that Emma should have the house converted so she could run a successful vet practice in her home town.
    ‘I’m sure Emma’s told you I’m more than happy for you to call on me if you need a hand out of hours,’ Izzy says, changing the subject. ‘Do you – oh, perhaps I shouldn’t ask —’
    ‘No, go ahead.’
    ‘Do you have a boyfriend, or a significant other? Only, if you want to go out for the evening, I’ll take the phones for you.’
    I shake my head, trying to suppress the image of Mike which appears in my mind – my Mike, not the one who screwed me over with his ex-wife, but the one I fell in love with, the man who made me feel special and loved.
    ‘The nightlife in Talyton won’t be what you’re used to – it’s more bats and owls than clubs, but if you want to meet up and make friends, you could take up rambling, or join the WI, or there’s an ad in the Chronicle for the Countrylovers Dating Agency, if you’re looking for someone special,’ Izzy goes on brightly.
    I swallow hard against the tide of embarrassment and hurt which rises inside me. ‘I’m definitely not in the market for a lonesome farmer,’ I say lightly.
    ‘But you are in the market?’
    ‘No,’ I say firmly. Definitely not. I couldn’t go through all that rejection again. I’ve been there, done that, not once, but twice in my life, and that’s enough for me. I give Freddie one last stroke, then discard my gloves. ‘Er, have you seen my stethoscope anywhere?’
    Izzy stares at me. ‘It’s hanging from your neck.’ She grins. ‘Emma did warn me you were a bit dippy.’
    ‘Did she?’ I say, a little upset by her comment. It’s a bit personal coming from someone I hardly know.
    ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Izzy says hastily.
    ‘It’s all right.’ It’s true, after all.
    ‘I guess you can blame the odd blonde moment on the colour of your hair. Is it natural, that peculiar shade of golden retriever?’ Izzy’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I?’ She giggles. ‘When will I ever learn to keep my trap shut?’
    Izzy’s like Marmite, I muse a while later when I’m in the consulting room, checking through the yellow Post-it notes Emma’s left on the drawers and cupboards to show me where everything is. With Izzy, there’s no middle way. You either love her or hate her. Luckily, considering I’m going to be working closely with her for the next six months, I suspect it’s going to be the former.
    I smile to myself. Emma did tell me Izzy was frank and straightforward. It isn’t surprising then that she had a chat with Izzy about me. And as for the golden retriever remark, I suppose it is rather amusing.
    As Izzy tops up the vaccine supply in the fridge, I return to my computer and the screen flashes to life:
Cadbury. Chocolate Labrador. 21 weeks. Entirely male. Vaccination status? Owner: Mrs L. Pitt of Barton Farm ***
    ‘Have you any idea what these asterisks mean, Izzy?’ I ask.
    She looks