‘Of course, in the Middle East, hostage-taking has always been a popular political pastime, and suddenly the militias think there might be mileage in capturing a few foreigners. They start with Americans, obviously, but that soon spreads to other nationalities. And in the slums of south Beirut you’ve got poor buggers chained to radiators in God knows how many basements. And some seriously stupid things happen – particularly when that idiot, that sententious scoutmaster Terry Waite parades himself asking to be captured and …’

She stopped herself and looked at me with a crooked grin. ‘Sorry. You didn’t come here for a history lesson, did you, Ellen?’

‘No.’

‘It just all comes back to me so vividly. It was completely lawless on the streets of Beirut. Thing that stays with me is that you were always walking on broken glass. Never forget that sound of crunching underfoot. Everywhere you went, there had just been some atrocity. Mind you, the lawlessness on the streets was matched by the lawlessness in the place where the foreign correspondents hung out. The Commodore Hotel, of course, just near the Hamra shopping centre. And then some people liked to drink in the Pickwick Bar at the Mayflower Hotel. God, that was a bizarre place, an English country pub with imported keg beer, stuck in the middle of Beirut. Run by that former Spitfire pilot Jackie Mann, who, later, of course, in 1989, became a hostage himself and was held for two years in …’

Again, she curbed her tongue. ‘Sorry. From the glaze in your eyes, Ellen, I detect that I need to work harder to make my account riveting to the average reader.’

‘I apologize,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry about it. Sad fact of life – or perhaps actually a rather encouraging fact of life – one cannot simulate interest in something that doesn’t interest one.’

‘No,’ I said honestly. ‘I’m afraid not. I have to confess, if I were reading the book, I’d be much more interested in the personal than the professional side of your life.’

‘Ah. Maybe that’s a gender thing.’

‘I don’t know. Do you think it is?’

‘Yes. It’s like women enjoy reading romances, because they actually care who ends up with who. Men don’t give a shit.’

‘Easier being a man, do you think?’

‘Not sure. I just know I never wanted to be one. All that tedious conversation you have to have with other men, talking about football and Formula One, rather than saying what you’re really feeling. God, it must be boring. I’ve loved being a woman.’

‘Me too.’

There was a silence. We both sipped our Jameson’s. Then Ingrid said, ‘You’ll still have to buy a copy of my memoir when it comes out, Ellen. You can skip the political bits. I promise you there’ll be plenty of personal stuff to keep you interested.’

‘I look forward to it.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Ingrid Richards, a roguish smile developing around her lips. ‘When the memoir’s published, it won’t only be from my cupboard that the skeletons come rattling out!’