‘It’s not in the book in actuality,’ explained Jocasta kindly. ‘It’s symbolic! It’s what’s behind the author’s thinking when he put that bit in.’ Seeing Laura return to the room she said, ‘I do think you should give this book a try if you have a moment. You might find what we’ve all had to say about it quite illuminating.’ She paused. ‘It’s a bit of a meaty read so take it on holiday with you, when you’ve got a bit more time and can really concentrate.’

She meant well, Laura could see that, but she was cross with Jocasta and the others, not only for not enthusing about her favourite book, but for patronising Shona. ‘Oh I have read it, years ago. And I must say I think it highly unlikely that Dermot – the writer, I mean – had even heard of Oedipus when he wrote it.’

‘How can you possibly say that?’ Jocasta exchanged glances with the woman who’d made the reference. They didn’t want their insight questioned by Laura who was not only new to the group, but English to boot.

‘Well, I can’t say for definite, but he was in his early twenties when he wrote it, he hadn’t been to university and came from quite an intellectual backwater. When you meet him—’ She didn’t know if she’d intended to reveal that she knew Dermot, to discommode Jocasta and her scary friends, or if it was an accident, but whatever, she was stuck with the result. Unless maybe she hadn’t actually said that out loud? She crossed her fingers and prayed.

But she had said it out loud. Everyone started plying her with questions.

‘You’ve met him? Do you actually know him? What’s he like? He was so gorgeous as a young man, God, I’d have slept with him no matter how boring his books were.’ The comments came flying at her and she took the opportunity to think up what to say when everyone fell silent, which eventually they did.

‘I do know him, a bit. He attended a literary festival I helped to organise.’ Talking about him made her miss him even more.

‘He can’t have done,’ said Jocasta knowledgeably. ‘He never goes out of Ireland. It’s a well-known fact.’

‘But he did,’ said Laura.

Jocasta shook her head. ‘I think you must have been mistaken. We know our Irish writers in this group and—

‘Actually,’ spoke up one of the women. ‘There’s been a bit about him in the papers recently. One of them mentioned a festival. Didn’t you see that one, Jocasta?’

Jocasta’s eyelashes fluttered while she hunted for a reason why she hadn’t been completely on top of all the Sunday papers.

‘Jocasta! We usually rely on you to tell us all that’s going on,’ said one of the women who lived near enough to walk.