‘The literary festival. I did tell you,’ said Laura.

‘I was one of the writers,’ said Dermot.

‘The star writer,’ said Laura, to punish him a little.

‘I’ve never heard of you!’

‘You never read novels, Dad. But he was one of my set texts at university.’

‘Was I?’ Dermot was very amused. ‘Did you ever tell me that?’

Laura winced. That sounded so intimate – it made Dermot seem more than just a writer she’d met. She was always meeting writers when she worked at the bookshop. With luck her parents wouldn’t notice.

‘So why were you banging on our door in the middle of the night?’ demanded her father.

‘It’s only half past nine,’ put in Laura. Although she wanted to kill Dermot for about a hundred good reasons, she was really very pleased to see him. He had at least put a stop to the boredom.

‘I was looking for Laura. I’ve been looking for ages – ever since I came back from America – but no one would tell me where she was. And she wouldn’t return any of my calls.’ He looked pointedly at her. She shrugged.

‘Why do you want her?’ asked her father.

‘Who told you I was here?’ asked Laura, suddenly intensely curious. ‘No one I know knows I’m here.’

A glance at her father, and Dermot decided to ignore his question. ‘I eventually tracked down Grant.’

‘Grant?’ said her father. ‘That chap you used to work with?’

Dermot nodded. ‘It’s a long and complicated story. Eleanora – my agent – wouldn’t tell me where she was.’

‘I told her not to,’ said Laura.

‘Nor would Fenella and Rupert.’

‘Who are all these people?’ demanded her father, as if trying to pick up the plot of a long-running soap opera.

‘Friends of mine,’ said Laura. ‘Oh good, here’s Mum with the tea.’

Mrs Horsley had got out the best cups and saucers. Pouring and distributing tea took an inexorably long time, but it did mean her mother had accepted Dermot as a guest, thought Laura, which was a start. She’d have to hope her father thawed soon or they’d be in for a very tricky evening.

‘So how did you get on to Grant?’ Laura was touched by her friends’ efforts to obey her entreaties not to give away her whereabouts, even if a part of her had secretly wished one of them might have disobeyed her.

‘Via Monica’s website,’ said Dermot. ‘She said she was sworn to secrecy but she didn’t think that Grant was, and so gave me his email address.’

‘Oh.’ Good for Monica! She knew when a woman was lying to herself and her friends.

‘Sadly for me, his email was down for a couple of days. He said he had been told not to tell me anything but that he thought I had a right to know. So he gave me your address.’