They had agreed that in order to be invited the authors had to (a) be still alive (this when Rupert expressed a burning desire to meet Evelyn Waugh) and (b) live either in the UK or near enough so their travel expenses wouldn’t use up the entire budget.

When letters had been dispatched, including inducements such as nights to be spent in ‘country-house style with old-fashioned hospitality’, they spent the rest of the morning writing to schools, inviting entrants to their children’s short-story competition. Laura knew a lovely children’s author who could be the final judge and Fenella knew a couple of teachers from her book group who could draw up a shortlist.

After lunch, they took all the dogs for a gallop over the fields, and Rupert advised Laura on what sort of car she should buy. She couldn’t go on borrowing Grant’s for much longer; twice was enough.

On Sunday afternoon they had all repaired to what Fenella and Rupert referred to as ‘the small drawing room’, which would have swallowed up Laura’s bedsit twice over. Rupert had built a dazzling log fire and they were all beginning to doze off in front of it. Laura had had a tour of the local area so she could see some of the venues (from the outside at least) and they had ended up at the pub for lunch. Laura was seriously considering Fenella’s suggestion that she should stay another night and go back early the next morning.

Rupert had picked up the paper and was working on the general knowledge crossword when the phone rang. He and Fenella exchanged glances and then Fen got up. ‘I can’t think who’d be ringing at this time of day.’

‘It’s only four o’clock,’ said Rupert. ‘And if you answer it you’ll know who it is.’

‘Hello,’ said Fenella, sounding efficient. ‘Somerby.’

Laura stole the crossword from Rupert while his attention was distracted. Then she stole his pencil and put in the answer to a clue.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Fenella was saying. ‘Uh huh, that’s me. What? Oh. Well yes, I have, actually, but I can do better than that. She’s here. I’ll put her on. Laura?’ Fenella came across the room and offered her the handset. ‘It’s for you.’

‘It can’t be,’ said Laura, not touching the phone but at least getting up. ‘Who is it?’

‘Dermot Flynn. He rang me to get your number.’

Laura’s knees went weak and her mouth went dry. She tugged at her polo neck, swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘Right. OK.’ She took the phone as if it might explode and walked away from the others. Her heart started to race with nerves and excitement. ‘Hello? Dermot?’ This was the first time she’d spoken to him since Ireland.