Eleanora was going to pick Laura up from the airport, whence they would go to Somerby. Laura was not looking forward to the questioning that would go on from the moment she and Eleanora had located each other. Eleanora would be bound to ask about Dermot and she had rehearsed some suitably bland phrases like: ‘He’s fine now. Eating well! Seemed quite happy when I left him.’ Fenella would ask about the festival and she could hardly tell her that she hadn’t actually asked him if he was coming, because she couldn’t possibly tell her why not. After the row when he’d accused all and sundry of selling his story to the papers, and she’d accused him of being pretentious, and what happened next, all thoughts of the festival had been wiped from her mind – really amazing sex and subsequent humiliation had that effect.

On the plane, when she acknowledged that she couldn’t have him electronically wiped from her brain, and that she would have to see him and deal with him again, she decided she’d send him an email, asking him if he would indeed appear, hoping that he’d at least answer it and say yes or no. Although, he would have to admit, she thought bitterly, she had fully complied with his original conditions and it would be a breach of promise if he didn’t.

In spite of her sadness, however, she knew she wouldn’t regret making love to him, even though he had set an impossibly high standard for the rest of her life. What had happened afterwards, at the shop, she tried to put firmly out of her mind. She stayed in a state of bitter-sweet reminiscing until the plane landed.

Eleanora kissed her cheek, patted her shoulder and, as Laura had known she would, launched straight in. ‘How did you get on, darling? How is Dermot? Is the wretched man going to appear at the festival or not? We’re all on tenterhooks.’

Laura appeared to consider, although in fact she’d planned what to say already. ‘Well, he’s fine, in that he’s not ill or anything, but about the festival, I’m not sure.’ She felt proud of how normal her voice sounded, despite her inner turmoil.

Eleanora wasted several seconds being irritated and then moved on to more important things. ‘No sign of any writing, was there?’

Laura thought back. All that cleaning would have turned up any signs of work and in the bedroom she’d had to use a receipt as a shopping list. ‘No, I would have noticed if there’d been anything to see.’ She surrendered her bag to the cab driver.

‘He used to write in longhand on big foolscap pads, on one side of the paper only. Apparently when each page was finished, he’d throw it on to the floor and only collate it when the work was finished.’