‘Well,’ said Laura, ‘I’m not going to say much, but firstly, well done for getting a place on this course. You probably know there were a lot of applicants and you were all picked because of your talent.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘But now may be the only time you feel talented because I know this course is going to be fairly tough—’

‘Can I just ask – er – Laura?’ It was Gareth Ainsley and Laura stiffened. ‘We all know who Dermot Flynn is, but who are you? I mean, what are your qualifications for assisting on this course?’

Dermot moved forward from where he’d been leaning against a desk but Laura put up a hand to stop him. She was going to deal with this herself. She felt she should. She didn’t want them thinking she had no experience at all. ‘I’m here to help Dermot. I used to work in a bookshop and because I’ve spent so much of my life reading, I’m now setting up a literary festival and I helped Dermot make the selection. So if any of you aren’t up to it –’ she glared at Gareth, trying to make him feel he might not be up to it ‘– it’s my fault you’re here. OK?’

Gareth glanced at Dermot and possibly sensed something protective and maybe threatening about his stance. ‘Oh yes, fine.’

‘Well then, I’ll hand you over to Dermot.’

Sweating slightly in spite of her brave front, Laura withdrew to the second desk and sat behind it, arranging her pile of student notes and putting a secret mark on Gareth’s.

‘Hello,’ said Dermot. ‘Nice to see you’re all here. As Laura said, there was very stiff competition to get on this course, but I’m afraid it’s nothing to the competition of the real publishing world. Later in the week my agent is coming to talk to you. If I haven’t managed to convince you of this, then she will. Now, I’d like to kick off with a question-and-answer session and general chat. Feel free to comment if you want to. We’re not kids. And this will give us an idea of what you’re expecting to gain from the course, and it’ll give you lot a chance to find out more about each other. Who’s first?’

A young man put up his hand. Dermot looked down at his pile of papers. ‘John? You have a question?’

‘OK,’ said the young man who Laura remembered wrote literary, autobiographical, rather navel-gazing fiction. ‘Obviously, I entered for the competition, but I started writing when I was a student. I mean, so much of the stuff we had to read was crap. I knew I was better than that.’

‘Nice to have confidence,’ said one of the older women dryly.