She managed five at a time. Three journeys, a sip of tea between each one. She cursed Dermot every step of the way. The moment she had seen them she’d realised what they were: manuscripts for his wretched course.

There was hardly enough floor space for her to get to the kettle by the time she’d brought the last lot up.

‘Oh Lord! What am I to do with this lot?’ she said out loud. ‘I won’t have room to breathe!’

The thought that someone might have written to her about them sent her back downstairs to pick up her post from her pigeon hole.

Yes, there was a letter, and it had a frank on it that indicated a London literary agency. She opened it there and then, not wanting to clutter her flat with any more post, even a single sheet. It was from Eleanora.

‘Darling,’ it read, ‘you’ll be getting the manuscripts any day now. I’ve had them redirected. Any more will come direct to you.’

Thanks a lot, Eleanora, thought Laura, and read on.

‘Don’t feel you need to read every word. If you’re not enjoying it, stop. The first few pages should tell you if they can write, less even. Then just check the synopsis to see if there’s any sort of plot on offer. Make a pile of the possibles, and then weed and weed.’ For a moment Laura wondered if Eleanora had meant to write ‘read and read’ but realised she meant she had to go through the possibles and find excuses to turn them down.

She climbed the stairs again. In spite of the logistics of dealing with all that paper she was quite excited. She might, as Dermot had suggested, discover the next big thing. Maybe it would give her a chance to work as an editor, something she’d always longed to do, but had always felt was beyond her grasp. But it was a big responsibility and she was worried she wouldn’t be able to recognise good writing from bad. At least Eleanora had told her she didn’t need to read the whole manuscript if she wasn’t enjoying it, so it might not take her too long. She hastened up the last flight, eager to get started, all tiredness forgotten with the challenge ahead. If she couldn’t do it, she’d have to let Eleanora know right away.

It was, she discovered, quite easy to tell good writing from bad. After all, she didn’t have to decide if it was publishable in the current market, something she’d learnt quite a bit about from Henry. She just had to decide who could write and who couldn’t. And two hours later she realised that none of these aspiring writers could.