As a professional approach, this was now really difficult. She’d imagined a cool, collected visit to his surgery, wearing one of her remaining decent suits, pulling her hair back into a twist that made her look almost as old as her twenty-nine years, maybe even wearing glasses. Handing him her card.

It hadn’t happened like that. She hadn’t been able to afford cards. She was aware that she looked about twelve. Her overalls were disgusting. Her long blonde hair was hauled back into two pigtails to keep it free from paint, and she was wearing no make-up. And he was angry and confused.

She had to make things right. Somehow.

‘I’m not a dentist,’ she told him. ‘Urk. All those teeth.’ She grimaced and hauled the ladder along past where she’d been working so he could see what the final sign would be.

After the huge, blue sign-DR A. J. WESTRUTHER-was another, as yet only faintly stencilled in pencil.

MASSAGE THERAPIST.

‘You’re a masseur,’ he said blankly, and she nodded. There was something in his voice that warned her to stay noncommittal. Let him make the judgements here.

‘You’re setting up professional rooms as a masseur.’

That was enough. ‘Hey, we’re not talking red-light district,’ she snapped. There was enough disdain in his voice to make it perfectly plain what his initial reaction was. ‘I give remedial and relaxation massage, and I do it professionally. By the way, I’m a masseuse. Not a masseur. Get your sexes right.’

‘Let’s get the qualifications right.’ Anger met anger. ‘You’re calling yourself a doctor?’

‘Yes!’ Her eyes blazed. Heck, she was committed to this profession. She’d fallen into it sideways but she loved it. She loved that she was able to help people. Finally. And she didn’t need this man’s condemnation. It’d be great if he supported her but she’d gather clients without him.