I waited for him for ten minutes in the reception area until finally an intern arrived to take me up to a conference room on the fifth floor. I hoped I might find him there but when the door was opened and I was shown into a square, windowless room, there was no sign of him. Instead, four people sat waiting behind a long table with coffee, tea and ‘family favourite’ biscuits on a plate. They looked at me, then past me. They were unable to hide their disappointment.

My editor had been sitting at the head of the table but he got up when he saw me. ‘Where’s Hawthorne?’ His first words.

‘I thought he’d already be here,’ I said. ‘He’s probably on his way.’

‘I assumed you’d come together.’

Of course, he was right. We should have. ‘No,’ I said. ‘We agreed to meet here.’

Graham looked at his watch. It was quarter past eleven. ‘Well, let’s give him a few minutes. Take a seat . . .’

I still wasn’t sure what to make of Graham Lucas, who had only recently joined Penguin Random House as a senior editor. He was about fifty, slim, with a narrow beard that made him look like an academic. He was wearing a blazer and a roll-neck sweater that might have been cashmere and certainly looked expensive. He had a gold band on his fourth finger and as I sat next to him I detected the flowery scent of an aftershave that didn’t really suit him. I think it’s fair to say that we had a close relationship, but only professionally. I had no idea where he lived, what he did in his spare time, if he had children and – more importantly – if those children read my books. When we were together, all he ever talked about was work.

‘Have you started the second book?’ he asked now.

‘Oh yes. It’s going very well,’ I lied. I’d already told my agent, Hilda Starke, that I would probably be late delivering.

She had arrived ahead of me but she hadn’t got up when I came in. She was sitting at the table, puffing on one of those vape devices, which was odd because I could never remember her actually smoking cigarettes. I knew she didn’t want to be here. She seemed agitated, slouching there bare-armed, with her jacket on the back of her seat, sipping coffee. She had left a bright red crescent moon on the side of the cup.