Laura, who in the confusion of deciding where everyone should sit, which she took no part in, had an opportunity to wonder why she didn’t fancy Damien Stubbs. Everyone else, men and women alike, seemed to. Several reasons occurred to her, but the one she felt most likely was that she didn’t really admire his writing. When it was allocated to her, she took her seat gloomily. I’m a literary snob, she concluded. My emotions are more wrapped up in books than they are in real life. She felt slightly depressed and not only because she was about to lose what seemed the best job in the world. When had she become so boring? And was it too late to change?

While everyone else sat down, got up again, moved and then ended up back where they’d started, Laura had time for her life to flash before her eyes. Since university, which she had loved, she had only had two jobs, both working in bookshops. Once she’d joined Henry Barnsley Books she hadn’t wanted to work anywhere else. Although she was usually shy in her personal life, she enjoyed finding the right book for the right customer. She was popular with them. They asked for her if they wanted a book as a present and didn’t know what to buy. Some of them asked her out on dates and sometimes, nagged by Grant, who’d worked at the shop longer than she had and so was her superior, she even went. But it never came to anything. If they enjoyed books and reading as much as she did they quite often had soup stains down the front of their cardigans. She might be a bluestocking bookworm, but she had some standards.

Eleanora handed her a menu. Laura hadn’t noticed her sitting down next to her and felt rather cheered. At least she would be able to talk to Eleanora, or if not, sit in silence, observing the other diners, something she loved doing. She much preferred to be safely on the outside of life, watching, than deeply involved. Thankfully there was no one on Laura’s other side.

‘So dear,’ Eleanora said later, and inevitably, Laura felt, ‘any plans for your future? Do you want to be a writer?’

‘Good God no!’ said Laura and then, realising that perhaps she may be shouldn’t have sounded so horrified, went on: ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so vehement, but I would hate to be a writer. I love to get lost in other people’s books, but I really don’t want to write one myself.’

‘Such a relief!’ said Eleanora. ‘I felt I had to ask, but I’m really pleased. Any other plans for gainful employment?’

‘Not really.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve hardly had time to think about it, and I’ve got a couple of months before I’m on the dole. I’m sure to find something.’