‘I hope some of this vast crowd buy books,’ said Henry. ‘Trouble is, when there’s nothing new—’

‘There IS something new,’ said Eleanora triumphantly, ‘and I can’t help thinking that Laura had something to do with it.’

Laura sat down suddenly on Henry’s recently vacated chair, her knees weak. She felt hot and cold all at the same time. For a moment she thought Eleanora had guessed. ‘I really don’t think – I mean – I think he must have been writing obsessively before I . . .’ Aware she was in danger of revealing what had gone on after she’d discovered him in Ireland she stopped.

‘Oh, darling,’ Eleanora would have none of it. ‘You’re so bloody modest! Take the credit! He’s produced nothing for nearly fifteen years. You walk into his life and he’s writing again! And you were so professional out there. Now, just for a moment, be happy!’

‘But I’m not—’

‘You’ll never get her to take the credit for anything,’ said Henry, producing a glass of wine from behind his table and handing it to Eleanora. ‘Best not to pester her.’

Laura was about to protest some more when he handed her a glass of wine too. ‘Just sit there and relax. You’ve had a long day.’

Laura sipped the wine, missing her quiet days at the bookshop and Henry very much. Just lately life had been far too exciting for a bluestocking.

Monica came rushing in. She bent and hugged Laura hard. ‘That was so lovely! So tender, so utterly beautiful.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve been crying my eyes out!’

‘Why? What?’ Laura narrowly missed spilling her wine as she disentangled herself. Surely Monica didn’t suspect either? She was in danger of sobbing into her friend’s chest.

The thought of everything she and Dermot had shared reduced to a story – albeit a brilliant one – made her want to cry. She knew for the sake of the literary world she should be thankful he’d lost his writer’s block, and if she’d helped in any way then she should be proud to have been of service, but right at this moment she could only think of herself and the tragedy of it all and just hope no one thought to ask whom the story was about. She couldn’t bear to be exposed to the examination of the world. She would just die of embarrassment if word got out.

People were beginning to come through to buy books now, but no one was looking in her direction as if to say ‘poor you’.