‘But you killed him,’ said Chance.

Yeah, alright, Mr Super Fan, thought Jemima. What he didn’t know was that when she’d sat down to write her second book it was just weeks after breaking up with Miles. There was no way Jemima could write about romance when hers had come crashing down around her, and so she’d turned Beverly’s complex and rich world into a strict procedural. Jemima focused all Beverly’s dogged determination on tirelessly unearthing insurance fraud and busting open criminal underworlds. Romance was a distraction. And though Eve did everything she could to steer Jemima back towards the passion and intimacy of book one, Jemima was adamant. Besides, who could argue with the five star reviews for her debut and broadsheet write-ups that noted the ‘Nordic sparsity of Abeson’s storytelling’ and ‘the stripped back single-mindedness of the lead character’?

‘They were practically telling me to remove the romance,’ Jemima argued, ‘but then Mysteries came out and those same critics said my “sophomoric offering was a let-down”. “Dry” was the word that hurt the most.’

Jemima looked away from Chance, remembering how crestfallen she’d been after her agent, Shaheena had forwarded the reviews. Mediocre write-ups were almost worse than getting panned. Having your book described by a Guardian critic as, ‘the worst use of paper since their nephew tried to print out the Internet’, at least made for entertaining dinner party conversation. ‘Dry’ was just awkward.

And so, after Jemima had killed off Beverly’s boss in Mysteries, Eve had ramped up her campaign to resuscitate Beverly’s love life to save the latest instalment, Beverly Blake Discoveries.

Prior to her LA trip Jemima had delivered a draft to Eve hoping the minuscule crumbs of amour she’d sprinkled on the story would be enough to satiate her. They weren’t, and Jemima bristled all over again just remembering Eve’s feedback.

‘Jeeeeeehm. It’s Eeeeeve.’ Eve had said as she’d inhaled on that bloody e-cigarette, ‘Darling, this latest draft is veh, veh good.’

Eve was so posh it was her assistant’s job to pronounce the ‘r’ in very.

‘Ummm… Latest?’ Jemima had asked. ‘It’s the final draft.’

‘Riiiiiight. Of course. Just got a couple of suggesteroos for a more final, final draft.’

Suggesteroos, Jemima snorted. They were demands masquerading as suggestions about as convincingly as a wolf in a sheepskin jacket.

‘Thing is, Boo, we love how you’ve upped the stakes. Powerful stuff. And her getting a cat, veh moving but, when I said Beverly needs more emotional intimacy, I meant, you know, man intimacy not cat intimacy. Without the boss, Beverly’s world feels small. All she does is work and you know, all work and no plaaaaaay…’

Every word Eve uttered had made Jemima’s blood boil.

‘We just want people to like haaah again,’ Eve had offered.

‘So, being brilliant isn’t likeable?’ Jemima had snapped.

Surely Eve wasn’t suggesting readers can only like Beverly if she’s fawning over some bloke? She’s Beverly Blake not Bridget-bloody-Jones! Jemima made a mental note to slip that in at the earliest opportunity. Witty ripostes usually took her a day to formulate so it was great to have one in the back pocket.