‘But you’d know if I’ve put a romantic novelist next to a science-fiction writer.’

‘Well, yes, but I’m not sure that would matter too much. All the writers of women’s fiction I’ve met have been very down-to-earth and easy.’

‘But what about the sci-fi ones?’

Laura considered. ‘Ah well – they vary.’

‘So where would you like to sit?’ asked Sarah when they’d moved the place cards around quite a bit.

‘Really, I don’t mind. Just fit me in anywhere there’s a gap. I’m surprised I’m invited, actually. I feel I should be helping to serve or something.’

‘It’s being catered. Fen was muttering about her and Rupert doing the cooking but I put my foot down. They’re here to entertain the guests, and so are you. Hey, it’s good that they got the old dumb waiter sorted, isn’t it? Otherwise it would have to be a cold dinner.’

‘That will have made a big hole in the budget.’

‘What? Fixing the dumb waiter? Not at all. It only needed the cords replacing.’

‘I meant having the dinner catered.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Not really. Rupert has provided all the wine from his cellar and has sourced the food. It’s being done by this lovely firm of women I know, the Catering Ladies. They’re very low key, reasonable and utterly brilliant.’

‘Oh well, that’s good.’

‘You look worried. Is it Dermot?’

Laura sighed. Was it that obvious to everyone? Although she was sure Sarah didn’t mean to imply anything personal. ‘Not so much him, or at least, not just him, it’s the whole thing. I feel we’re going to look awfully silly if our star turn doesn’t pitch up, however many things we’ve arranged to fill in the gaps.’ She also felt guilty. Although she had emailed him, as had Fenella and Eleanora, she couldn’t bring herself to phone. She didn’t want to hear his voice. She was just about managing to get her feelings under control; she didn’t need anything to undermine that. Anyway, why should she? Why should she even care after he’d effectively used her? And would a call from her make him come when everything else had apparently failed? If several fierce messages from Eleanora hadn’t done the trick, nothing would. And should she really sacrifice herself once more for the greater good?

‘I don’t think once it’s started anyone will really notice,’ said Sarah, unaware of Laura’s internal inquisition. ‘We’ve got the dinner tonight – well, that’s not for the punters, but it’ll keep the performers happy.’

‘And tomorrow’s either Dermot, reading with music, or Rupert, pretending to be Irish, reading with a CD.’ Laura made a face. ‘It doesn’t sound very convincing, does it?’