‘Oh, for God’s sake, Dermot! You are so bloody precious! What the hell does it matter if some poor student of creative writing blogs about you, revealing your not very interesting secret to the world! He didn’t tell everyone you were gay! He didn’t declare you as a secret heroin addict! Or a paedophile! All he said, in among a lot of sycophantic rubbish, was that you’d be appearing at a tiny little literary festival no one has heard of!’

His eyes blazed and if she hadn’t been so angry herself she’d have been frightened. Part of her was, anyway. ‘Well, they’ve heard of it now, haven’t they? This has put it on the map well and truly!’

‘And is that such a bad thing? Does it really matter, in the scheme of things, that people know that Dermot Flynn, the “greatest living Irish writer”, might appear at a literary festival?’

‘It matters if you’re Dermot Flynn! Have you any idea how destructive all this attention is to a creative person?’

‘No, because, thank the Lord, I’m not a creative person! I’m just the little Jane Eyre character who makes it all possible for you pathetic, irritating, solipsistic, up-themselves “creative people”!’ She took a breath. She was on a roll now. She’d had enough. ‘Well, I’m fed up with creative people. I think they’re a myth. I think you’re a myth! A self-created myth who pretends he has writer’s block so he can spend the rest of his life doing sweet FA! I think—’

His arms came round her, pushing the breath out of her body, and before she could inhale again his mouth was on hers.

Laura didn’t know if she nearly fainted through lack of oxygen or desire. Every feminist part of her should have been kicking, screaming, biting and scratching him, but every womanly part of her refused to do more than moan faintly.

His lips captured hers as if he was going to devour her, the ferocity of his feelings clear. His hands gripped her clothes, pressing her to him, crushing her, making her legs buckle.

The table shot away from under them as they collapsed on to it and she would have landed on the floor if he hadn’t caught her and moved her round so he was taking their combined weight. He released her mouth for an instant, but only long enough for them to draw breath before he kissed her again.

Laura was swooning, a tiny part of her registering that although she’d read of this happening in books she hadn’t believed it really happened. As a unit, they moved to the sitting room, Dermot kicking open the door, hauling them both through it and on to the sofa. It ejected them on to the floor in seconds.