‘GOOD LORD, I AM really, one could say…just slightly…’ The Doctor didn’t look like a remotely sensible man. His long legs were stretched out ahead of him, lazily crossed and filling Julia Fetch’s parlour rather more than seemed reasonable. He was still sandy and grassy here and there, and the knees of his trousers were heavily stained. His hair was responding to indoor air by being particularly active, as if it was trying to hide him from something, and he had to keep swiping it back from his face. And every time he waved his arms – and he didn’t seem able to speak without a good deal of arm waving – it seemed inevitable that he would wallop one or other of the exquisite glass figurines that balanced on every available surface. As these were all models of octopuses (or octopodes) and therefore masses of ingeniously sculpted and fragile legs, both Bryony and Putta were flinching roughly every four seconds in expectation of terrible breakages. They were both more than slightly aware that they weren’t looking quite their best.

Mrs Fetch hadn’t been at all fazed by the appearance of a gangly, grinning man with wild hair and wilder eyes, a more than slightly tattered (and probably fired) receptionist and a slightly chewed (and wholly in love) ginger young fellow, both in bathrobes. She had simply led Bryony into a pristine guest room and left her to pick out – as it happened – a cashmere sweater and tweed suit, cut according to what was once called the New Look. Bryony was not very secretly pleased with how good she looked in this, even if the arrangements she’d had to make for underwear were slightly dated and complex and the only shoes she’d been able to get her feet into were a pair of galoshes which didn’t quite complete the ensemble with the flair she’d hoped for.

She still took Putta’s breath away when she emerged looking brushed and fresh and almost sand-free.

Putta himself was rather more eye-catching. He’d simply been supplied with an ancient, rather mothy pair of plus fours, left over by a long-gone acquaintance, some long socks, heavy golf shoes which were rather too large and a shirt, an Argyll tank top and good, stout tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.

Putta hadn’t been at all sure – after Mrs Fetch left him alone in the kitchen to get changed – that his new outfit would impress Bryony and the fact that, once she’d reappeared, she snorted into her tea every time she glanced at him tended to make him think that trousers should probably always go all the way down your legs if you were going to look sensible in front of people you wanted to impress.

Just my luck, thought Bryony. The one chance I get to meet my reclusive boss and all I do is prove that I know some very weird people. And end up borrowing her underpants and – for goodness’ sake – the girdle that’s supporting my stockings which I actually think are silk…God lord, I can’t even look at Putta – I’ll start laughing and then not be able to stop. Then again, I’m hardly in much better shape. I suppose she’ll assume I generally look as if I’ve been battling monsters all morning and wander about in a bathrobe.

Bryony also pondered whether it had been an entirely happy coincidence that a thought-sensitive monster had ended up living in the grounds of a hotel owned by someone who was clearly obsessed with octopodes. Maybe that had made the thing become more like an octopus – even if it hadn’t started out that way. Bryony was aware that she had no idea if the usual kinds of thought-sensitive monsters looked like octopodes. (Or octopuses – Mrs Fetch had explained that they could be called either thing and that both were correct. She was very nice, but seemed really firm on the point that anything to do with octopuses should be correct.) Bryony thought again of the tentacles snaking round Putta – of the body that had been in the pool – and found that she didn’t want her nice ginger biscuit, or indeed her pleasant cup of tea, served in a cup and saucer that were so fine she was worried they might just crumple up while she held them.

The Doctor was being much less careful – of course – and was showing no curiosity about sea creatures. He was talking about food, reaching for food, asking for extra food, or cramming food gleefully into his mouth while still trying to discuss it. He was like a very tall toddler in a sweet shop. ‘Mildly hungry….’ He inhaled a small stack of elegantly crustless cucumber sandwiches and reached out for his sixth scone. ‘Not exactly starving…Not far off, though.’

Out in the little garden, Honor and Xavier were playing catch between the rosebushes and managing to look like any number of greetings cards depicting delightful children having lots and lots of Summery fun. While Bryony watched, Xavier leaped up and snatched a Frisbee out of the air with remarkable agility and speed. Just then, both twins paused and span round to look in through the windows. Something about their warm smiles and slowly extending arms seemed impossible to resist.

‘Ah, Doctor…Maybe we should give you a bit more room,’ suggested Bryony.

‘Yes.’ Putta was on his feet before her. He seemed equally keen to get outside and enjoy himself with this strange Earth disk-throwing game. To be honest, the combination of Bryony looking and sounding like Bryony and the snug fit of her new suit (and even the rubber boot thingies she was wearing were terrific) all in close proximity to so many tiny ornaments that he could break if he got nervous or overexcited was making him feel hysterical – as was the tickling of the odd, heavy tweed of his plus fours. ‘We should let you get on with eating everything else, Doctor.’ He realised this sounded quite rude after he’d said it – and braced himself to endure a spot of shouting, or the usual kind of complaint about insensitivity and being a waste of breathable gasses that he’d always get from his broodfather or his brothers. But the Doctor just nodded his sugar-and-cream-daubed face and waved goodbye.