As she gathered her bags and made her way to the main entrance she asked herself why she had let so many attractive young women on to the course. Knowing his fondness for the female sex she could have arranged things a bit differently without compromising her position as an editor. The whole question of writing courses was fraught with controversy anyway. Many writers thought they were a complete waste of time, declaring that you could only learn to write by writing. Because of this, Laura didn’t feel guilty about some of the young men who didn’t get places on the course. She was confident they were well on their way already.

But the real reason she’d picked so many writers of women’s fiction, women themselves, was because she felt this sort of fiction needed support in the literary world. Also, these writers were the most promising; they had given her the most fun while she was reading. And in a perverse way she wanted to test Dermot. If he succumbed to these women she’d know she shouldn’t pursue him in a Monica-like way. No point in making a complete fool of herself, after all, or in allowing herself to fall in love with him – if she hadn’t already – only to have her heart broken by his wandering eye.

Of course the photographs they’d sent in could all have been produced with a good dollop of Photoshop but Laura doubted it. Until you could apply Photoshop in those booths in the post office for taking passport photos, you got what you paid for. She was fairly sure in a couple of hours she and Dermot would be meeting someone her father would have referred to as ‘crumpet’. And Laura had brought it on herself.

She had actually confessed all this to Monica, on the phone the previous evening. Her friend had been very brisk.

‘For goodness’ sake, Laura! You’re mad! You don’t believe he fancies you so you surround him with gorgeous women so he can prove you right. What sort of skewed thinking is that? Anyway, he does fancy you. He took one look at you and asked you to come to bed.’

‘It wasn’t quite like that and anyway, he was drunk. Probably.’ This incident was still a matter of huge shame and even huger regret that she hadn’t slept with him when all her normal defences were down. She’d rerun it in her head so many times she didn’t trust her memory of it.

‘You were drunk; I don’t think he was.’

‘Must have been, but even if he wasn’t, he’s probably one of those men who’d go to bed with anything with a pulse.’

‘I think to be fair, any female thing with a pulse, in his case.’