She shook her head sadly. ‘No sign of any foolscap pads, let alone any tottering piles of complete pages. The house was in a frightful state but I think if they existed they’d have been obvious.’

Eleanora shook herself as if shrugging off disappointment. ‘No change there then. Get in, darling, we should press on.’

When they were both settled in the back seat, sucking mints, she said, ‘So why didn’t you press him about the festival? A simple “no” would have done.’

‘I couldn’t really. The time just wasn’t right. He was so angry about being outed to the press.’

‘He has got a truly awful temper.’ Eleanora frowned. ‘He wasn’t unkind to you, was he? He can be merciless.’

‘No, he wasn’t unkind.’ Although the effect was the same as if he had been. She was sure he certainly never meant to be unkind, or to hurt her in any way – as bastards went, he was a nice one.

‘So what will you do about the festival? Fenella is beside herself, wanting to know. She thinks it’s going to be embarrassing if all these authors agree to come because of him and then he doesn’t pitch up.’

‘I’ll email him. It’s all I can do, really.’ She certainly wasn’t going to contact him except in the most formal manner. ‘But going on the number I’ve sent him in the past and never had any reply to I think he goes through phases when he never even looks at his emails.’

‘You’re probably right. But never mind, now the news is out, we can finally advertise him as coming, even if he doesn’t.’

‘But surely that would be deception, or advertising false goods or something?’

‘No. We don’t know he’s not coming.’ Eleanora paused. ‘Or do we?’ she regarded Laura beadily, possibly suspecting Laura hadn’t told her everything.

Laura hadn’t but she also hadn’t lied about the festival. ‘Really, I don’t know either way.’

‘Then it’s fine to advertise him. We’ve hinted enough as it is, after all. Fenella is having some banners made to go over all the posters. Apparently ticket sales have increased like mad. But more importantly, a lot of the big-name authors who wouldn’t commit themselves have agreed to come. They’re all mad to meet Dermot. And we’re the only ones who suspect he might not make it – we’ll keep it to ourselves.’

‘So when’s the big dinner?’ Laura asked.

‘Oh, the one for all the writers who are appearing? Next Friday, before the big opening. Laura dear, you can’t have forgotten. We talked about it. You wrote and invited everyone.’

‘Sorry. I’m a bit distracted.’