The builders were, they told her, ‘snagging’. There were two of them. They were in their thirties and brothers, and were there to go through the long list of little things that hadn’t gone right the first time round. There was a radiator to move so a door would close properly, there were skirtings that didn’t fit, taps that dripped and generally things that weren’t right.

‘That Gerald,’ said the older brother. ‘Stickler for detail.’

‘Gerald’s fine. It’s his wife who’s the real obsessive.’

‘Quite right too,’ said the younger one. ‘If only they’d got us in in the first place, they wouldn’t have this long snagging list. The first builder went off abroad before the job was finished,’ he explained. ‘Which is why your man got us in.’

Laura was just about well versed enough in the vernacular to realise that this was a general term, and that the building brothers didn’t think that she and Gerald were connected in any way except as employer and employee, landlord and tenant.

‘So how long will it take you to get through the snagging list?’ she asked.

The brothers exchanged glances and then took on the slightly anxious look that builders will when asked how long anything will take. ‘Hard to say,’ said one of them. ‘We’ve got the decorating to do when we’ve done the carpentry and plumbing. Could take a while.’

Laura smiled. ‘Well, that’s fine with me. As long as you’re here, I’m here rent-free. So take your time!’

Another glance was exchanged and then the older one said, ‘It’s not often you hear that in the building game.’

‘Well, obviously,’ Laura went on, feeling guilty about Gerald, who’d been so kind to her, ‘don’t take too much advantage . . .’

‘We’d call that “extracting the Michael”,’ said the younger brother. ‘And don’t worry, we won’t. We’ll try not to disturb you too much. Now, would you like a cup of tea? I’ll bring it in for you if you’ve work to do.’

Later Laura emailed various friends with a description of these unusual builders and instantly Fenella came back with one asking if the builders would travel, but then said she was only jealous.

Laura got through the slush pile quite quickly. Lots of it was so far off publishable standard she knew a simple rejection slip would deal with them. Others were better, and on these she wrote a report, but she knew they too would be rejected. In fact there was nothing that sang to her and told her it was the book the world needed next. Gerald’s last words to her with regard to the slush pile had been, ‘Remember we’re looking for an excuse to turn a book down. Taking one on means a lot of work and possibly no return.’