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it a few times, but she says he never seems keen—I think he doesn’t want her messing up his stuff. She’s quite untidy and can be rather noisy, though I mean that in the nicest way. It’s not that she shouts, or is grossly opinionated, simply that she laughs a lot—she’s got this lovely, chortling giggle—and she always has plenty to say. Whereas Nigel just likes his evenings in with his bonsai trees plus a quiet dinner and the odd game of bridge. Don’t get me wrong. I like Nigel—he’s pleasant and he’s generous—but he’s also selfish, because he has Daisy entirely on his terms. But if he’s what she wants, then that’s good enough for me.
    ‘I think it’ll be fine with Nige,’ she said again, not very convincingly, as I ate the omelette.
    ‘I hope so. But I do think you’ll have to pin him down at some point, Daisy.’ If necessary, by stapling his head to the carpet .
    ‘Hmm,’ she said, anxiously. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
    After she’d gone, Herman went to sleep on his beanbag, curled up like a burnt cashew nut, while I turned my thoughts back to work. With all the stress and disruption I’d been unable to concentrate on it, but now I forced myself back into professional mode. I turned on the computer, and read my e-mails. There was one from my dad, who lives in California, in Palm Springs, where he manages a golf resort. He just wanted to know how I was. Then I logged on to my website, ‘PerfectPets.com’, where there were a number of outstanding requests for advice. ‘ My poodle terrorizes the postman ,’ said the first one. ‘ After his latest efforts to “defend us” (there was actually blood on the letters) we’ve been told that in future we’ll have to collect our mail from the sorting office—can you help? ’ ‘ I think my cat’s schizophrenic ,’ said the next. ‘One minute she’s curled up on my lap for a cuddle, purring her head off, then the next second she’s biting me—why? ’ ‘Can you tell me why my female spaniel insists on cocking her leg? ’ enquired a third. There were the usual complaints about dogs jumping up, or chasing their tails; there was a house rabbit which kept attacking its owners’ feet. There was a gay guinea pig, a sleep-walking Saluki, and a hamster which had eaten its mate. I sent replies to each one, with suggested reading, and as I was doing this, another e-mail popped in. It was from the woman Daisy had mentioned, Caroline Mulholland.
    ‘Dear Miranda, I met your friend Daisy at a fundraiser the other day and I happened to mention that I have a young Weimaraner which is being an absolute pain. It bullies our two other, much smaller dogs, and we don’t know how to get it to stop. I wondered whether you’d be kind enough to call me, as I’d like to arrange for you to come out.’ There was an out of London phone number which I rang. She picked up, and told me that she lived near St Albans, so we arranged that I’d go there the following day.
    In the meantime I had the depressed Irish setter to deal with. So the next morning I tidied the consulting room, then went round the corner—stopping to answer Russell the chiropractor’s polite enquiries about how I was settling in—and bought some biscuits and flowers. Then I put Herman in the kitchen—he doesn’t mix with the clients—and, at ten-thirty, Fiona and Miles Green turned up. They were about my age, good-looking, well dressed and clearly successful judging from their smart address in Notting Hill Gate. I made them some coffee, then sat behind my desk, observing the dog, which did look rather dismal, while they sat side by side on the couch.
    ‘We’re both very busy people,’ Fiona explained as she nibbled on a chocolate oliver, ‘but you see Sinead’s our pride and joy…’ Sinead was lying on the rug with her head in her paws,‘…and we felt it was important to get her some psychological support.’
    ‘She does seem rather dejected,’ I said, as I took notes.