‘If the book gets good reviews I shall move, but until I’m sure—’

‘You will get good reviews.’

‘Promise?’

Laura crossed her fingers. ‘I am sure you will.’

‘Mavis wants me to write television scripts for her.’

‘Does she indeed.’

‘She thinks my dialogue is very good.’

‘Really?’

‘I incorporate a lot I overhear in the market into my work.’

‘Is that so?’

‘What is so, Laura, is that I shall badly need you around when those reviews come along.’

‘As an integral somebody?’

‘Laura!’

‘A joke, Claud.’

‘But you will be there?’

‘In some capacity.’

‘Wonderful.’

Putting the receiver back in its cradle, Laura thought that of all the people down there in the country the only one she missed was Bonzo.

Claud walked along the street in a state of elation. The sun shone. At breakfast in Ann’s kitchen he had read the review of his novel, Lydia. His first review.

The words sensitive, witty, stylish, percipient, talented, waltzed through his brain. He was happy in a way he had never been happy before.

He was an author bursting onto the literary scene. Lydia was welcomed in print, the arts critic of a prestigious newspaper had generously praised his book. Happiness! His editor had telephoned him from his home before leaving for the office. Congratulations!

The bookshop had three copies on display in the window. ‘Local author.’ Claud went into the shop. He needed the excuse yet again to feel the book, sniff its newness, the special smell of an unread book, see the photograph of himself on the back, read the blurb (which he knew by heart), approve once more of the jacket (rather eyecatching and startling), discuss the pillar-box red binding.

Had the shop seen the review? Indeed yes, wasn’t it good? Now we must wait for the Sundays. Would he like to sign the copies in stock? Of course. Claud signed, laughed joyously, exchanged pleasantries, did not quite dare to ask if they would order more than these three—