At the last place, a very grand home for retired gentlefolk, she was about to get out of the car when Veronica said, ‘You stay here and prepare your interview. We’ll be fine. Honestly.’

Grateful, Laura agreed that she would, but instead she found herself daydreaming.

A tap on the window jolted her out of her reverie. She realised she had actually fallen asleep. All this emotion was wearing her out.

‘Never mind, you’ll be better for a nap,’ said Veronica, when they all got back in the car and discovered Laura in dreamland. ‘I’m a great believer in catnaps.’

‘But you don’t want Dermot to run rings round you,’ said Anne. ‘What time is the event?’

‘Seven. We’re having an early meal. Maybe I should skip that and think up some questions then.’

‘Really,’ said Maria Cavendish, who’d only joined the group that day and wasn’t as friendly, ‘you should have thought up your questions weeks ago, when the event was first arranged.’

‘But she didn’t know if Dermot was coming,’ explained Veronica. ‘There was going to be a panel of authors instead.’

‘Oh? Is that why that was cancelled? Hmph. I could have come tomorrow instead.’

‘But the old ladies loved you!’ said Anne. ‘It’s amazing how many of them read really gritty crime.’

In between navigating back to Somerby and telling the writers how brilliant they’d been Laura tried to pull her disparate thoughts together. By the time she finally delivered her literary load, all she’d come up with was ‘Did you like school?’ Then she remembered she’d asked him for his Desert Island book. He’d said Ulysses. She could get him to talk about James Joyce for a little bit. It would ease them both into the interview. Once she was back in the quiet of the cottage, she noted both these questions down in the back of her diary, ready to transfer them to something more substantial. Sarah had asked her if she wanted a clipboard, but Laura felt some notes on a sheet of A4 would be easier.

Laura’s teeth were chattering and she felt sick. She had managed to think of a list of questions and written it out, and she could tell, just by looking at her handwriting, that she was terrified. Not that she’d been in any doubt but the spiky, uneven strokes revealed the turmoil going on inside. She was slightly disappointed that Dermot hadn’t even tried to see her. But then she’d been busy and so had he and they had said they wouldn’t. He’d sent one text saying ‘Go gently on me’ which she’d decided not to reply to. On reflection she was grateful she hadn’t seen him after last night.