‘Not at all! He’ll remember exactly who I am, but the mobile number’s a good idea. Oh, do you think it’ll work in Ireland?’

‘Mine did. I phoned the shop while you were in the Ladies.’

‘Don’t you mean Mna?’

‘Oh, shut up and write your note. I want to get back to the b. and b. I may need a bit of a lie-down before tonight.’

She was briefly aware of a flutter of anxiety and then dismissed it. She was enjoying herself and didn’t want any nerves about the coming evening to spoil this delicious feeling of freedom.

‘Lightweight,’ muttered Monica, writing.

Laura’s giggliness continued for the journey home even though she was now exhausted.

‘I’ll never ride a bike again,’ she said as they finally made it back to the b. and b. ‘In fact, I don’t suppose I’ll ever sit down again comfortably.’

‘Shut up moaning. It was downhill all the way.’

Their landlady provided a huge plate of sandwiches with a monster teapot full of strong tea. They ate every scrap and drained the pot. The sandwiches were followed by two sorts of cake, both home-made, both utterly delicious.

‘I can’t believe we ate all that!’ said Laura as they tottered from the dining room back to their room. ‘I’m going to need some indigestion tablets or something.’

‘Good idea,’ said Monica. ‘Top tip: before a big night out, take a Zantac, stops you throwing up afterwards.’

Laura paused, her hand on the bedroom door. ‘We’re not having a big night out, Monica,’ she said. ‘We’re going to worship at the feet of a great writer and persuade him to come to our literary festival. Throwing up is not on the To Do list.’

Monica laughed, obviously not convinced. But now it was nearly upon her, Laura suddenly felt the weight of responsibility for securing Dermot Flynn. It was her mission. She so wanted to make a success of this project. Helping with the literature festival was her first foray outside the bookshop since she’d left university. If she failed she’d feel less able to attempt any other new challenges. And she had personal reasons for wanting to meet Dermot Flynn and get him to the festival: he was her favourite living writer. How would she feel if he was a complete show-off, happy to rest on his early laurels? Seeing a man in the flesh you’d worshipped through his writing for years was a risky business!

After much discussion, the girls had decided to dress down, in jeans and sweaters. Monica added a cashmere pashmina for warmth for the walk to the venue, Laura a cheery but unstylish scarf an aunt had given her for Christmas one year.