She wanted to deny it but she knew how cruel the literary world could be. Cutting down tall poppies was what it liked to do best. ‘Does your agent know?’

‘Nope, and she mustn’t. I fob her off every time she rings me, tell her I’m working on a huge book that’ll take years – is taking years.’

‘Does she buy that?’ She was pretty sure Eleanora didn’t for one moment.

His laugh was rueful now. ‘Never mind buying it – she’d much rather have something to sell.’

She joined in his laughter. ‘There isn’t a publisher out there who wouldn’t pay millions or at least hundreds of thousands for it.’

‘I know. And I could do with the cash.’

‘You couldn’t offer them three chapters – they wouldn’t have to be all that good after all – and get them to cough up an advance?’

‘That, young lady,’ he said, sounding stern, ‘would not be ethical.’

She sighed. ‘I suppose not. Plenty of writers would do it, though.’

‘I feel if I did that, my block would be permanent. The guilt would make it even harder for me. The Irish are cursed by guilt, you know.’

‘Really?’ She didn’t mean to sound disbelieving, but she did. To gloss over it, she said, ‘Or you could teach creative writing. They run courses in wonderfully exotic locations. I don’t suppose they pay that much but they might be fun.’ She hesitated. ‘All those eager young women writers. You could have your pick.’ It cost her something to go on in this lighthearted manner. He could have his pick of any group of women, she was certain. Knowing it didn’t make it easier for her. Now that she’d actually met him and talked to him properly, she knew her feelings for him were no longer just infatuation, but were in danger of becoming the foundation for something much stronger.

‘I do give the odd lecture, but I always felt those writing courses were for writers who didn’t write any more.’

‘Not at all. Some very busy writers do them because they want to give something back, and like encouraging new talent.’

‘Ah, you wouldn’t be muddling me up with one of them, would you?’

She giggled again. ‘Not at all, at all.’

‘Don’t mock me.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘I’d love to know what you do dream of,’ he said.

Laura swallowed. ‘I’ve confided in you quite enough,’ she managed, sounding suitably prim. She felt she would literally die rather than let him know what she was dreaming of right now.

He laughed softly and they fell into a comfortable silence. She felt a contentment she had rarely felt before, even at the bookshop where she’d always been so happy. Now it seemed far away and no longer so desirable.