‘Thanks, Rupert, for that,’ she said meaningfully, making sure he picked up the message that she would never forgive her for dumping her in it. ‘It’s very sweet of Rupert to say those kind words about me, but these things never hang on one person, however much that may seem to be the case.’ There was a stage-whispered ‘bloody Dermot’ from Monica. ‘This was a new—’ A buzzing sound from the pocket of Fenella’s tunic stopped Laura mid-sentence. ‘Saved by the bell!’ she said gaily and groped for her phone.

An angry Irish voice growled in her ear as she said hello, ‘Where the feck am I?’

A beatific smile spread from Laura’s lips and ended possibly at her toes. ‘Give me a hint and I’ll try to talk you in,’ she said, aware she was grinning so hard she could barely speak. He was here. Nothing else mattered.

‘That’ll be Dermot,’ said Monica, half cross, half delighted.

‘I’ll go and change the place settings,’ said Sarah.

Laura walked away from the sound of rejoicing and speculation that was going on in the gallery. She went back down to the hall where all her written instructions were.

‘I’m in some godforsaken hole with an unpronounceable name,’ Dermot went on.

‘Right. I think you might be in Wales.’

‘Wales!’

‘But don’t worry, it’s not all that far. Are you driving yourself?’

‘Who the feck else would be driving me?’

‘OK, now what I want you to do is to find a safe place to park the car. I’ll send someone to come and get you. You don’t sound fit to drive.’

‘Feck that! I haven’t had a drink for weeks! I’ll find the way myself.’

‘Don’t disconnect! Head for . . .’ Laura found the directions she needed and read them out to Dermot. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘I will be, probably. I can’t answer for you, getting me into all this.’

‘I’ll keep my phone by me. Just ring if you get lost again.’

Laura didn’t rush back upstairs again. Just for a while she wanted to keep Dermot for herself. When he arrived he would be common property, everyone would be dancing attendance, admiring, admonishing, wanting a part of him. Now, while she held her phone in her hand, and knew that the last person to have spoken to her on it was Dermot, he was hers: her irascible, ornery, difficult, egoistic, wild Irish writer. She finally admitted to herself that she loved him, even without any hope or expectation that he might love her back. Just loving him was enough for now. And he had come to their festival.

‘When do you think he might arrive?’ asked Fenella when she went back upstairs again.

‘Depending on whether he gets lost again or not, about half an hour.’