Charlotte Square was busy with sun, wind, tents and people of all ages. Having traversed such a wide distance (metaphorically speaking), I was suddenly filled with a sense of urgency. I had to immediately find you. I walked into the Authors Tent. You were moving the first time I saw you. A buffet was laid out and you whisked through it, stabbing your choices, knowing exactly what you wanted, filling your plate with efficiency. You were as beautiful as I had imagined except for that extra energy, a fire that didn’t show in photographs, almost a jerkiness. I went up to you as you were twisting away from the table, greeted you like a friend. You stopped as if I were blocking you, you stiffened at my familiarity, my presumption. ‘Are you a writer?’ Before I could answer, your eyes scanned my face, flickered over my clothes. It had seemed to me a miracle that I managed to get myself out of the house without a child’s grubby hands leaving a mark on my new skirt or a splatter of Ribena. But faced with your effortless elegance, my new Marks & Spencer outfit felt clunky. And all too soon you had already judged me. I said, ‘I am your fan from Aberdeen. I write to you …’ You noted my accent, your novelist’s eyes picked up the signs of early marriage, abandoned university degree, rampant fertility. ‘This is the Authors Tent,’ you said moving away not to join a group or to be claimed by someone else. I was shaken by only one thought – all the letters I had written to you over the years, all the emails, meant nothing to you. You’ve never read a single word I’ve written.

I walked out to the deckchairs and ice creams, the good-natured crowd who knew how to behave. They had read more books than me and met more writers. I almost headed to the train station but common sense prevailed and I decided to attend your talk as planned.

During the event you made me proud, speaking with intelligence and a vulnerability I had not expected. The audience was mainly female. As you were being led outside, I heard one of them say, ‘She’s very attractive.’ I immediately wanted to tell you about this. I imagined us sitting at one of the tables that were scattered over the grass, our coffees between us. I imagined your relief that your session was over. But I knew even as the fantasy formed clearly in my mind, that it wouldn’t happen. You would not sit with me. I bought your new novel but I did not queue for the book signing.