The fact is, Daisy's terrified of pushing it. I know this because she's been with Nigel for five and a half years and we've been having the same conversation for three. 'I mustn't put him under pressure,' she said seriously. 'That's what the books all say.'

'The books also say that you should be a bit more detached. Don't be there for him so much. Make him miss you. Be mysterious. Move town if need be. Or even country, G.o.d knows.'

'Oooh-that's a very dangerous game.'

'Why?'

'Because,' she said, with an air of spurious authority, 'if I suddenly withdraw, and act all aloof, then he might think I don't really love him. And that would be disastrous, wouldn't it?'

I looked at her. 'I'm not sure. I think it might do him some good to feel a bit less secure.'

'No, I think it'll all happen in the fullness of time,' she added, with a slightly twitchy serenity.

'Hmmm. Well, it's your life.'

But I find it odd that Daisy's so scared of asking Nigel whether or not he intends to marry her, because in other ways she's incredibly brave. For example, she spends her days off bungee-jumping, hang-gliding, abseiling and rock-climbing-and she did her first solo sky-dive a few weeks ago.

'It would be catastrophic if I forced him to name the day and then he booted me,' she said sagely. 'Then what on earth would I do? I've invested nearly six years of my life in Nigel and to be quite crude about it I'd like a return. So I don't want to blow it all at this final-and very delicate-stage by not being quite patient enough.' I nodded, though, as I say, I've heard this line of argument many times before. 'I want to have kids,' Daisy went on calmly, 'and I'm now thirty-three, so if Nigel and I split up-' she gave a little shudder '-it would take me at least two, maybe even three years to get to the same stage with someone else, by which time...' she poured the egg mixture into a frying pan, '...it may well be curtains on the ovary front. And I'd never trap him into marriage,' she added. 'Men resent that. I want him to want to marry me.'

'Why shouldn't he want to marry you?' I said hotly.

'Oh, he's just the cautious type.' Too right. Nigel's very cautious; he proceeds as slowly as a three-toed sloth. They move so slowly-it would take them a day to cross a football pitch-that they actually grow mould on their fur. Anyway, when it comes to romance, I'm afraid Nigel's like that. And this dilatoriness is reflected in his hobby-growing bonsai trees. He once won a medal at Chelsea for one of his j.a.panese maples-he'd been tweaking it for twenty years. To be honest, I've never really been able to see what he and Daisy have in common, but she seems to dote on him. But she has a tiny flat in Tooting and he has a large house in Fulham; and she did once admit after a few too many that, yes, it was the 'security' which partly appealed. Though why a woman who spends her weekends throwing herself out of aeroplanes should be interested in 'security' is way beyond me. But, on the other hand, her father died tragically when she was nine so she's always been looking for someone 'steady' and 'safe'.

And Nigel's certainly that. He's a City solicitor-a partner in Bloomfields. Solidly competent, rather than effortlessly brilliant, he works incredibly hard; and though I'm sure he's very fond of Daisy, I guess he can't see any reason to rush. He's thirty-nine and has never been married, so what on earth would make him jump now? He hasn't even asked her to live with him yet. Daisy has jokingly suggested 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 c.o.c.king 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. 'Irish setters are normally incredibly lively. So when did this subdued behaviour first start?'

'About three months ago,' Mrs Green replied.

'No, it's not as long as that,' her husband corrected her gently. 'I'd say it was about six weeks actually.'

'No, it wasn't!' she snapped. 'It was three months. Do you think I wouldn't notice something like that-my own dog?' I discreetly wrote down 'child subst.i.tute' and 'marital tension'.

'Our dog,' he said. Sinead lifted her head and looked at them anxiously.

'It's all right, baby,' said Fiona, leaning forward to stroke her. 'It's all right. Mummy and Daddy aren't cross.'

'How old is she?' I asked. 'Two?'

'Just under. We've had her for about a year and a half.'

'And has she had any specific traumas? Did she get in a fight with another dog, for example? Or has she had a near miss with a car?'

'No. Nothing like that,' said Fiona. 'I work at home, so I'm with her all day. All I know is she seems constantly depressed and she just lies in her basket. It's heartbreaking,' she added, her voice suddenly catching.

'I don't wish to be personal, Mr and Mrs Green, but are there any specific stresses in the, well, family dynamics, to which she might be reacting?' This was a rhetorical question. There clearly were.

'Well, no, not...really,' Fiona replied, crossing her arms defensively.

I saw her husband roll his eyes. 'C'mon, Fi,' he said wearily. 'You know there are. And I think it's relevant. I've said so all along.' He looked at me. 'You see-'

'I don't want to discuss it!' she hissed.

'But it might be important,' Miles protested.

'But it's private!'

'It's all right, Mrs Green,' I interjected. 'I'm not asking you to tell me anything you don't want to. But I can a.s.sure you that I'm bound by a code of confidentiality which means that anything you do choose to tell me will go to my grave.'

'Okay then,' she sighed. She opened her bag and got out a tissue; her husband gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. 'We've been trying for a baby for four years,' she explained quietly. 'That's why we got Sinead, actually, to distract us from the stress. This year we've had IVF, but our first two attempts have failed.'

'Well, that would put a strain on any relationship, however happy,' I said. They both nodded. 'And dogs are incredibly sensitive to changes in atmosphere, and I think Sinead is simply picking up on that. So I think that you should try and protect her from emotional stress by having any sensitive discussions when she's out of the room.'

'But it's not just that she's depressed,' said Fiona. 'She's been behaving in a peculiar way. For instance, she's started stealing things.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Very odd things-Miles's shirts out of the laundry basket, for example.'

'She might find it comforting if he's out.'

'But she steals old egg-boxes too. And the other day she took five empty plastic flowerpots out of the garden, one by one, and put them in her bed. And she was arranging them so carefully, almost tenderly, as if she loved them. It was weird. We didn't know what to think.'

Ah.

I got up and went over to Sinead, pushed her gently onto her side, and lifted up the feathery fur on her underside. Her tummy was slightly bloated and pink.

'Has she been anywhere near a dog?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes-positive. And when she was last on heat we kept her in.'

'Then she's having a phantom pregnancy. That's why she's so subdued. Females that have never been mated can get very broody. They become listless, and they stay in their beds, which they carefully arrange, because basically they're making a nest. Then they look for objects which they can put in their "nursery" and "mother"-hence the egg-boxes and flowerpots. They even show some of the symptoms of pregnancy, just as she's doing. Look at her nipples.'

Fiona's jaw slackened.

'Good G.o.d.'

'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 pa.s.sed Alexander's road, heart pounding like a tom-tom, my mouth as dry as dust. m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tically, 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 pa.s.sed 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 fl.u.s.tered.

'Oh Trigger! You naughty boy! Come here! h.e.l.lo, 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 circ.u.mspect when I meet someone new, but I immediately took to her. She was thirtyish, with dark blonde hair sc.r.a.ped back in a ponytail, and she was attractive in a non-glossy way.

'I'm so grateful to you,' she repeated. As we went up the steps I inhaled the scent of the roses. 'I've been at my wits' end. You see, we adore Trigger but he's such a handful, and in particular he's horrid to my two Westies-Tavish and Jock.'

I looked at them, scuttling round her feet in the black and white marble-tiled hallway, casting anxious looks at the bigger dog. 'And they were here first, were they?'

'Yes. I had them before I got married. But then my husband decided that he'd like a proper "man's dog"-' she giggled '-and so I got him Trigger for his birthday, but sometimes I think I made a mistake.'

'He's certainly beautiful,' I said, as I followed her into the large drawing room. 'They're such individual-looking dogs, aren't they?' I gazed at his coat, the colour of pale pewter, and at his unearthly, intense, amber eyes.

'Oh yes,' she agreed. 'They're gorgeous-looking things.'

'But they're also strong-willed and need firm control.'

Caroline laughed. 'Well, that's precisely where we've slipped up.' She sank into one of the sofas and Trigger tried to clamber onto her lap. 'Stop it you naughty dog! Get down! Get down will you!' One of the Westies then jumped up at her, and Trigger snapped at it viciously. Her hand shot out and she smacked his behind. 'Oh do stop it you bad, bad boy! Do you see what I mean?' she sighed. 'I wasn't exaggerating, was I? It's hopeless. Anyway, let's have a cup of tea first.'

As she disappeared, all three dogs running after her, slithering on the marble tiles, I glanced around the room. It was gorgeous-twenty-foot ceilings with egg and dart coving, in one corner a baby grand; two apricot-coloured Knole sofas, a scattering of mahogany tables, and an enormous fireplace with a marble surround. There were gleaming oils on the walls, and on the mantelpiece were several photos in silver frames, including one of Caroline on her wedding day. I looked at it, then looked away, glancing into the flower-filled garden. A solitary magpie swooped onto the lawn, chattering loudly. 'One for sorrow,' I said to myself quietly. Then I looked at the photo again...

There was something strangely familiar about Caroline Mulholland's husband, but I couldn't for the life of me think what it was. He looked mid-to-late thirties in the photo, and his hair was receding and already quite grey. But he was certainly handsome-they made a good-looking couple. I found myself wondering what he did. No doubt he was a successful banker, or a captain of industry-perhaps I'd seen him on the news. Yes...that must account for my sense of deja vu, I thought: I'd seen him in the media somewhere. Caroline reappeared with a tray, then suggested that we had the tea outside so that I could see Trigger 'in action'. But I'd already identified the problem-he was an over-indulged alpha male. He felt he should naturally be number one in the pack. He needed to have his status reduced.

'He's desperate to dominate,' I explained, as we sat on the terrace, watching him with the other two dogs.

Caroline put her tea cup down. 'Is he?'

'Yes. This might sound harsh, but what he needs is to be knocked off his pedestal.'

'Really?' she said. I nodded. 'But how?'

'By you taking far less notice of him. He's a chronic show-off-if he's got your attention he's thrilled. And the more you shout at him, the more he likes it-because then he knows you're focussed on him. You're actually rewarding his "bad" behaviour by reacting to it.'

'I am?'

'Yes-you're inadvertently indulging him.'

'Oh. I see.'

'Every time you shout at him, he actually thinks you're praising him, so that's going to make him worse.'

'I see,' she said again, thoughtfully.

'I don't like to anthropomorphize animals,' I went on. 'But let's put it this way. If Trigger was human, he'd be driving round in a red BMW-which you'd probably bought him for his birthday-barging people off the road, ogling girls out of the window, then going to some party and getting horribly drunk.'

'How awful,' she said, with mock seriousness. 'Like some silly "It boy".'

'Exactly.'

'He'd embarra.s.s us,' she said, playing along. 'He'd bring disgrace on the family,' she added gravely. 'He'd be getting into fights.'

'I'm afraid he would. He'd be kicked out of school, he'd struggle to hold down a job and-I don't want to alarm you-he might even take drugs.'