Now Laura had been officially dismissed – or in her eyes, abandoned – Eleanora grasped her arm. ‘Show me where the coats were put and get yours. You’ll need it. The wind is bitter!’

Instead of a coat, Eleanor had an item that looked like a cross between a hearthrug and a small tent. It enveloped the wearer in red, prickly wool: not a garment for the faint-hearted.

Seeing Laura’s slightly startled reaction, Eleanora said, ‘I always think I could camp out in this all night if I had to. And I can only wear it in deepest winter, or I sweat like a pig.’

Laura felt her own navy blue overcoat was pathetically drab. She’d bought it from a charity shop while she’d been at university and still hadn’t worn it out. Alas, working in a bookshop didn’t give one huge amounts of spare cash for clothes.

‘Well, come along now,’ said Eleanora. ‘Take my arm. I can’t really walk in these heels but I refuse to wear ballet slippers at my age. And lace-ups would ruin my image.’ She looked down at Laura’s shoes, which were almost completely flat. ‘I rest my case.’

In spite of her disapproval of Laura’s footwear, which was comfortable if unglamorous, Eleanora talked to her all the way to the restaurant, grilling her for her opinions of all sorts of books.

Laura read a lot. She lived alone in a tiny bedsit and her television was so small and snowy she didn’t watch it much. But she read all the time: at bedtime, while she ate, while she cooked, while she dressed and while she brushed her teeth. She would have read in the shower if she could have worked out a method that wouldn’t completely ruin the book. In the same way she could read anywhere, she could read anything, and if it was good, enjoy it. There wasn’t a genre or an author that Eleanora quizzed her on that Laura didn’t have some knowledge of. Still in the reckless mood engendered by losing her job and finding in Eleanora someone who cared about books as much as she did, she let herself speak her mind without holding back.

Eleanora was impressed. ‘Darling! You’re a phenomenon!’ she declared. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you.’

At the restaurant Laura was introduced again to the young literary lion, Damien Stubbs. He’d said hello briefly when he arrived at the bookshop and had been as charming then as he was now. He thanked her for arranging such a good event and she muttered a few words of praise for his book. But he didn’t seem to need reassurance. Confidence shone from him, and everyone around him basked in its warmth. He was the young writer of the moment and the world loved him.