Angus had politely shrugged her arm off his shoulder and was now sitting at her kitchen table, looking at the kettle.

“Coffee?”

“You’re very kind. Thank you.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Cyril had an affair, you see.”

Domenica looked at Angus wide-eyed. “Well, I suppose that these things happen. But what’s wrong with that? Don’t you approve of his choice?”

“A very brief affair,” said Angus. “It lasted about four minutes. With a bitch he met in Drummond Place Gardens. I couldn’t stop it, really. And then she became pregnant.”

Domenica suppressed the urge to laugh. “Well, I suppose that’s what happens. People have affairs and… well, biology takes the shine off.”

“Well, the puppies have been delivered to me,” Angus blurted out. “In a box. Six of them.”

Domenica, who was in the middle of filling the kettle, stopped what she was doing. “To you?” she asked. “To the flat?”

Angus sighed. “They’re in my studio at the moment. I’ve put them in there. Cyril was delighted to meet them.”

Domenica reached for the coffee jar and ladled several spoonfuls into the cafetière. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have seven dogs in one flat, even in a flat the size of Angus’s.

“Well I don’t know what to say,” she said. “You’ll have to get rid of them. Obviously.”

Angus looked up from the table. “How? How can I get rid of six puppies?”

“Put them in The Scotsman. You see dogs for sale there.”

It was clear to Angus that Domenica knew nothing about the world of dogs. “Those are pedigree dogs,” he explained patiently. “Cyril is, of course, a pedigree dog, but the mother… well, she’s multicultural. Half spaniel, I think, with a dash of schnauzer and goodness knows what else. Nobody wants funny-looking dogs any more.”