The bookshop was crowded: the area they had cleared for the reading was full; the queue to the desk of people clutching recently bought books was long and chattering enthusiastically. Laura had felt a post-Christmas event was a bit of a risk but now she was watching the people with a combination of relief and satisfaction. However carefully you prepared for a bookshop event you could never really tell until they turned up how many people would come. Nor could you be sure whether the author would perform well. Writing was a very private occupation and Laura often thought it was cruel to make them stand up on their hind legs before an audience. But even by her high standards this event was a success.

With all this in her mind, however, she hadn’t noticed anyone coming up behind her. She turned round swiftly and saw a short, late middle-aged woman dressed in clothes designed to attract attention. Laura instantly remembered seeing her when she came through the shop door with the rest of the author’s party. Her jacket looked as if it were made of tapestry and her jewellery could have been home-made by a grandchild with a welding kit, or by a hot new designer, it was hard to tell. The most startling thing about her close up was her intense, penetrating stare. She had eyes like green agate.

‘Very good, of course,’ said Laura, startled, but polite as ever, feeling drab in her ubiquitous black trousers and white shirt.

This answer didn’t seem entirely to satisfy the green eyes boring into her. ‘And have you read the book?’

‘Of course.’ Laura was firmer now, indignant at the woman’s combative tone. She worked in a bookshop. It was her job to know the stock.

A pencilled-in eyebrow was raised. ‘No “of course” about it. What did you think?’

Laura opened her mouth to say ‘wonderful’ and then decided to tell the truth instead. She had nothing to lose now, after all: her beloved job was going to be taken from her – she might as well put aside her habitual tact and say what she really thought. ‘I didn’t think it was quite as good as his first but I will be really interested to see his next one.’ She was an avid, enthusiastic but critical reader; she could tell when a writer wasn’t on top form. Then pennies tumbled in her brain, like coins from a fruit machine when someone wins the jackpot. ‘Oh my goodness, you’re his agent, aren’t you?’ Embarrassment turned her from hot to cold and back to hot again.

The woman narrowed her gaze in acknowledgement of this fact, but Laura couldn’t tell if she was smiling, or expressing disapproval – her mouth didn’t move. ‘I do have that pleasure, yes.’