‘What is it that brings you to my practise then, Mrs Gresham?’
   ‘Cats,’ the woman replied, instant and serious.
   ‘Cats?’
   ‘Yes dear, cats. My husband can’t stand the poor things, he’s been telling me so for the past twenty-three years.’ Dr Marsden’s glasses hung in suspense on the far end of his nose.
   ‘You mean to say… cats are responsible for the problems you feel are surfacing in your marriage?’
   ‘Not quite, I’m afraid dear. I mean to say that my husband is an irrascible, contemptible ass.’ Having retained the best part of her youth’s Edinburgh accent, Mrs Gresham’s articulatory organs gave particular stress to the short vowel in her final word.
   At this, Dr Marsden decided to remain silent. In his not inconsiderable experience of marital difficulties, the initial consultation did best not to try and fight back the usually high amount of chewed-back complaints husbands and wives withheld from each other out of a false sense of kindness – and this one certainly seemed no exception.
   Mrs Gresham continued. ‘He doesn’t trust them, that’s the problem. Thinks just because they’re smart they won’t stay pets for any longer than you let them.’
   ‘So,’ interjected Dr Marsden. sensing an opportunity, ‘what does he think they’ll do?’
   ‘Run away. There’s no evidence of it, of course. Oh he likes to quote statistics – he’s a banker, it’s what he does – but it’s not as if I’m likely to buy one that’ll fly off. And anyway, I’m fifty-seven for pity’s sake. I’ve had enough to know which ones are keepers.’
   ‘You’re a “cat person”, then?’
   ‘Oh yes. Had twenty-eight of them, the blessed things. Got my first when I was nay twelve – my daddy bought him me. It was scary at first, you didn’t know what to do. But then you find your way, like with everything.’
   ‘And what led you to make this appointment, at this point in time?’
   ‘Well it was last Thursday. Gracie’d past away that last week before, the poor thing; got ill taking food off the plates before we washed them. Took her to the dentist, and in the end… well, that was that. But I’d found this lovely grey, her last owner’d passed away himself. She’d been called Pebbles, the man said, but I didn’t fancy that for a housecat – bit parochial, no? Anyways, I take him back home with me from the charity people and John just flies off the handle. “Why must you always have more, Liz?” “Wbat’s the point?” “Don’t you know they’ll just keep dying anyway?!” The man just doesn’t get it. I like cats.’
   Surrogacy, Dr Marsden mused inwardly, breaking eye contact and sucking momentarily on the frame of his spectacles. ‘How many do you have, then?’
   'Well it would have been three, wouldn’t it? I never keep any less – two isn’t company, not really!’
   'Would have been”, you say?’
   'John wouldn’t let her in the house, the poor dear. Throws the spare keys over next door’s fence and slams the door on me, the silly man. He must’ve known I could just go and ask for them back if I wanted, it’s not like he hasn’t had his tantrums before. I just popped off to the Travelodge for a few nights. Yesterday he still hasn’t rung me up on the mobile to make amends, so here I am with you.’
   'I wouldn’t have imagined Travelodge allow animals?’
   'Not normally dear, no. But they know me. I did say, John’s had his moods before now.’
   'So am I to take it this is a regular occurrence with you and your husband?’
   ‘With my husband, yes. I’m just the accessory for his ego.’
   ‘And you came to me because it’d never gone on so long before?’
   ‘Mmm, that’s right.’ A bemused half-smile. ‘Clearly he’s got more of a temper on him than even I knew about.’
   ‘Well then it sounds like he’s the next person I should have a talk with.’ Noting the slight twitch in Mrs Gresham’s eyebrows, Dr Marsden added hastily, ‘That’s usually how things go.’
   Mrs Gresham looked for a moment as if she was about to speak, but then simply gave a nod. ‘We have your details, of course. Perhaps you could mention a convenient date to Karen on your way out? Mean time we’ll look into contacting… John.’
   ‘That sounds agreeable, Doctor. Thank you.’ Dr Marsden noted the newfound clippedness of Mrs Gresham’s speech patterns, as if her sentences had become caught in her throat and she was attempted to spit them out in the politest possible manner. In recognition, he simply returned his own nod, somewhat curtly, before opening the nearby biro-gridded notebook in the obligatory fashion to signal the end of the appointment.
   As Mrs Gresham rose out of the padded leather chair to exit the room, Dr Marsden could not help but notice the myriad of small, white hairs cascading downward onto it from her thick, khaki jacket. Obviously another adulteress, he thought to himself.