But would she have felt like this, about this headland, this wildness, if the bookshop hadn’t been about to close? She didn’t know. Nothing was certain any more. But she did know that even though it was January, she felt she was in the most beautiful spot on earth. And it wasn’t just being with Dermot, it was something more.

A while later he said, ‘I could help you out with your problem, you know. Not here and now, obviously, but in more comfortable surroundings.’

The thought of this was somehow a bit heartbreaking. He obviously didn’t feel the same way about her as she did him – how could he? She felt she’d known him all her life, but he’d only just met her. She didn’t know how he really felt about her, if this really was only a bit of fun for him, and she couldn’t ask. It would sound so serious. But she just couldn’t let go and call his bluff. Whether it was bluff or not, she couldn’t do it. And if he was just being kind that would somehow be worse.

‘No thank you, I’ll be all right,’ she said and then paused, struggling to think of something suitably light and flirtatious, to give the impression that she wasn’t really bothered. ‘I’ve got used to being a virgin, after all these years.’

He chuckled. ‘The status quo has something to be said for it.’

Thinking the status quo wasn’t as easy to live with for him, she said, ‘I don’t suppose I could help you with your problem?’

He shot her a glance filled with mischief. ‘If I was really wicked, I’d tell you that the virginity of a young girl was a well-known cure for writer’s block.’

She twinkled back at him. ‘But you’re only partly wicked?’

‘Most of the time, yes.’

She considered for a moment whether, if he did really think her virginity would cure him, she’d give it to him. The answer was probably. And not just so the literary world would be so grateful (it was not a favour she could call in, after all), but because underneath all her reservations, she really wanted to sleep with him, almost as much as she wanted to help him. But the moment was lost.

‘It’s a shame really,’ she said, thinking aloud.

‘What? That I’m not exploitative enough to demand the sacrifice of your maidenhood?’

She laughed, to deny it, but in her heart she was saying, ‘Yes!’ ‘No, I meant it’s a shame that things aren’t so easily solved. Things like not being able to write any more when really, in your heart, you know you can write like an angel. You may have your problems with the people who give literary prizes but they don’t give them to people who can’t write.’