As she worked Laura found herself worrying as to what Nicholas and Emily would say about Claud’s novel. During the pre-publication months it had occurred to her several times to suggest that they should give the book a puff, but on mature thought she had decided that such a move would invite mischief; she rather hoped that Lydia would escape their notice.

During her lunch break she went out and bought a copy of a weekly Nicholas wrote for and a copy of the woman’s magazine which occasionally employed Emily. She scanned the reviews on Claud’s behalf with some trepidation. Lydia had not escaped their notice.

Nicholas praised the book highly but briefly. ‘A brilliant first novel.’

Emily’s piece was longer. While damning with faint praise, ‘Claud Bannister is a witty leg-fetishist,’ Emily hedged her bets by using expressions such as ‘for discerning readers’ and ‘a good read to tuck up with’; her one-and-a-half paragraphs might, probably would, be construed by the charitably-minded as a recommendation.

Laura was relieved for Claud; they could have done so much worse. It was pretty safe to expect kindness from the Sundays.

She had promised to stand by, but she did not think he would need her support. She would not telephone. She would write a thoughtful, affectionate, congratulatory letter.

She supposed that there would be a word processor now and that he would move out of the loft. Would Lydia’s successor keep the same style of legs?

How nice to be a writer, thought Laura, to kill off, alter, or totally transform a character as Claud had transformed Amy and not have to wait as lesser mortals such as herself for time to dull recollection.

When she found the parcel containing the hand for Helen Peel’s Apollo hidden under a stack of out-of-date telephone directories, Laura felt a fool.

The parcel should have been posted at least a year before. If anyone had asked her she would have sworn that she had despatched it; she had even, when doing her annual accounts for the income tax, thought that Helen was more than usually dilatory in not sending a cheque.

Since the fabric of her life depended on meticulous attention to detail Laura was shaken. She wondered whether this unconscious act of self-sabotage might not indicate that she was starting the menopause. She had long since decided to be sensible about the menopause, but if it did things like this to her it would play ducks and drakes with her well-ordered existence.