‘Oh, it’s general,’ said Veronica, smiling sweetly. ‘All women are suckers for an Irish brogue and an easy smile – don’t they come in pairs? You might have to work just that bit harder. Although,’ she added kindly, having watched him bluster a bit, ‘lots of women are attracted to writers per se.’

Anne glanced at her colleague. The young man, who was now blushing and blustering in equal measures, obviously didn’t quite know how to take this.

‘I don’t know why he’s considered such a draw,’ he said, sounding resentful. ‘He’s not J. D. Salinger, is he?’

‘Well, no,’ agreed Anne. ‘But he does have rarity value, doesn’t he? I mean, he may not have produced anything for ages, but he was – is so good.’

‘And tasty,’ added Veronica.

‘I’ll second that,’ threw in one of the literary critics, overhearing this conversation.

‘What? That he’s tasty?’ Veronica raised her eyebrows. ‘Something for the gossip columns?’

‘My dear girl, I didn’t mean that,’ he said, ‘as you very well know.’ He gave her a teasing look. They obviously knew each other. ‘What I meant was, we’re all here from curiosity. No one from the literary world has set eyes on him for years.’

‘And personally speaking, I’m quite happy for him to be the main attraction at the festival,’ said Anne. Then she took pity on the young writer who was looking a bit downcast. ‘So tell me, Adam,’ she said, putting her hand on his and capturing his attention, ‘what are you writing now?’

He was thrilled. ‘My third novel. I’ve been working on it for a couple of years now. Just about taking shape.’

‘Two years! If it’s not a rude question,’ said Veronica, sabotaging her friend’s attempts to be nice, ‘how do you support yourself between novels?’

‘I’m a English lecturer.’ He looked pained. ‘My novels are my work, my life! I don’t expect to make money out of them.’

Veronica and Anne exchanged glances and cleared their throats. ‘Sorry,’ Veronica went on. ‘I didn’t realise that making money from one’s novels was on a par with selling one’s daughters into prostitution. It’s how I earn my crust.’

Laura chuckled inwardly. Anne and Veronica had swept up the drive to Somerby in a Porsche. Some crust.

‘Well, I don’t just churn them out, like you do.’ Adam took an affronted gulp of his wine.

Anne and Veronica didn’t need to look at each other to pick up each other’s thoughts. Veronica patted Adam’s hand. ‘It’s all right, sweetie. There’ll always be a place in the publishing world for a well-received novel that no one actually reads, let alone buys. You keep on crafting those perfect sentences.’

‘I say! That’s a bit—’