“Caterpillars is actually an excellent debut,” said Susan, “and it follows in a glorious tradition. You have Herbert’s The Rats, Hutson’s Slugs, Guy N. Smith’s Night of the Crabs, Halkin’s Blood Worm… Caterpillars stacks right up there with the best of them.”

“I’m sure it is esteemed company indeed. I apologise, Gordon, I didn’t wish to insult or belittle you. I’m sure you have enough critics belittling you without me judging you by my own standards.”

Gordon frowned. “That’s an apology?”

“It is nevertheless a pleasure to meet you,” said Fawkes, smiling again, “and thank you for coming. Stick around – I have a feeling it will be a memorable night for you both. If you’ll excuse me…?”

He walked away.

“You’re excused,” Gordon muttered.

Susan looked at him. “Wow.”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“So that was Sebastian Fawkes, eh?”

Susan gave a small shrug. “If it’s any consolation, whenever I meet him, he’s lovely to me. Always calls me ravishing.”

“He didn’t call me ravishing.”

“I noticed that.”

“Maybe he has something against Irish people.”

“He probably just hates you,” said Susan.

“I think he’s racist.”

“Are Irish people a race?”

Gordon frowned. “Aren’t we?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Damn. Maybe he just hates me, then. It’s probably because I’m better looking than him.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Susan.

“What? You seriously think he’s better looking than me? He’s old!”

“He looks great.”

“He’s been around forever!”

“Doesn’t look a day over fifty.”

“Fifty is old,” said Gordon sullenly.

“You won’t be saying that when you’re fifty.”

Gordon peered at her, making sure she was telling the truth. “You really think he’s good-looking?”

“I really do.”

“So why does he hate me?”

“I don’t know. Did you sleep with his wife?”

Gordon looked around. “Which one’s his wife?”

Susan laughed. “Hey, I think you’re a great writer, and I loved the hell out of Caterpillars, and every book since just gets better and better, and I’m a ravishing young lady. So who are you going to believe – me or him?”

“Well,” Gordon said, “you do have better taste.”

“See? Now quit your bellyaching and dance with me, you subaquatic fool.”

Gordon stopped drinking halfway through the night. He had a longstanding policy – never drink too much in front of rivals and colleagues. Also never drink too much when you don’t know where the zip is on your costume. That was an important policy, too, but it was a new one, with limited applicability. Still, what these policies allowed him was the chance to stand back and watch as fellow authors got drunk, and the drunker they got, the funnier it all became. Petty jealousies reared their heads. Comments got snippier. Compliments became barbed. There were many backs behind which many things were said. It was all highly amusing.