‘It will!’ Fenella handed him a bundle of newspapers she’d just gathered up and carried on clearing one end of the table. ‘Give Laura a cup of coffee while we make a list of everyone who needs to be convinced we’ve got the hottest literary date since – since – since some very big author did an event.’

Laura pulled out a chair, thinking rapidly. ‘Eleanora will know lots of the names. I know a few. This could be a very good idea, Fen.’ But secretly she was worried: Dermot would probably hate this, although he had rather forced them into it. Supposing it did make him back out, as Eleanora feared? ‘Maybe we could imply we’ve got J. D. Salinger coming.’

‘Isn’t he dead?’ objected Rupert, joining Fen in clearing the table.

‘Not sure,’ said Laura.

‘Well, if you don’t know, maybe they won’t either,’ said Fenella, ‘and think he’s coming.’

‘They could just check on the Internet,’ said Rupert. ‘And better not to promise anything we can’t deliver.’

‘I only hope we can deliver Dermot!’ Laura moaned, and then smiled to imply she was joking, although she wasn’t. ‘On a brighter note,’ she went on, seeing Fenella’s concerned glance, ‘Monica’s got a gig for Seamus. We should all go. Check him out for the festival. We did wonder about having his band playing, very softly, while Dermot reads.’ Laura had seated herself at the table and was making notes in the notebook she had taken to carrying around with her everywhere. If she was ant-like too, her real anxieties about Dermot might not show. She felt she’d got to know him quite well over the phone, but Eleanora was his agent – surely she knew him better than Laura did?

‘I think that sounds wonderful,’ said Rupert. ‘We want to try and do some things that involve the literary and the music festivals together.’

‘Dermot will probably refuse to do it though,’ said Laura, ‘but I will ask him.’

‘If it wasn’t for the fact that Jacob Stone has been such a generous sponsor and it was because of Dermot that he came on board, I’d say to hell with Dermot!’ said Fenella. ‘But I know you love him, Laura, so I’ll shut up about it now.’

‘It’s not that I love him,’ she lied determinedly, ‘it’s just that I really admire his work.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. So . . .’ Fenella looked at her companions. ‘Anyone else got any genius ideas?’

‘I think if we’re going to make the most of having a secret celebrity, we should offer a dinner with him, as a pre-festival treat, just for the important literary bods,’ said Rupert. ‘We’d make it really gourmet with decent wine.’ He paused. ‘Don’t tell me, Laura, you don’t think Dermot would agree.’