She recognised the reading straightaway, but then, she reasoned privately, she would. Like the person now crushed to her left arm, she knew every word almost by heart. It was a scene where the protagonist is describing the woman he loves to his best friend. The hero is saying one thing, but thinking another. There was nothing explicit or lewd or remotely pornographic, but the young man’s passion and desire for the woman was absolutely clear. Just hearing his beautiful voice saying those beautiful things was enough to make her want to promise to be his sex-slave for ever, and never ask him to go near a literary festival.

When he stopped reading she had to remind herself to breathe. She wasn’t the only one affected; women were near to swooning all around her. Group lust, she concluded, like group hysteria, only (happily) more private. It would only take one of them to start screaming, or throw their knickers on to the stage, for them all to follow suit – or at least all those who didn’t have to struggle out of their jeans, hopping on one leg, fighting with thick socks. Laura felt grateful the venue wasn’t well heated and that the punters had dressed up warmly.

‘Right, any questions?’ he asked.

After a round of questions which Dermot handled expertly with charm and candour, he looked at his watch.

Laura was beginning to wonder if Monica had lost her chance. Her hand had been waving for quite a while.

‘Just time for a few more . . .’

‘Here! Me!’ Monica’s voice sang out from the front of the room. Laura could tell she either didn’t share the feelings of almost all the other women in the room or she was rising above them. But what on earth could she say in front of a large audience to get the required information?

Monica cleared her throat. ‘They say that all first novels are autobiographical. Was this true for you?’

How, Laura wondered, feeling frantic, could Monica get from this pretty bog-standard question, to ‘Is my friend still a virgin?’ It was absurd! Then she chided herself – Monica was a friend doing her a favour, not an expert interrogator. She knew she should ask Dermot herself – but the mere thought made every nerve ending go into spasm. Perhaps it didn’t really matter if she never knew.

Dermot Flynn had of course fielded this question a trillion times. He gave his lazy, charming smile. ‘Well, you have to remember that I wrote this book when I was very young. I didn’t have much to be autobiographical about.’

Monica was obviously not satisfied with this answer. ‘Well, did you go round shag— um – sleeping with every woman you laid eyes on?’

Laura cringed.

Dermot was clearly amused. ‘Let’s just say there’s more imagination in that book than experience.’