‘No,’ said the first voice very loud this time. ‘Tell her what he is doing, he—’

Laura placed the voices as those of Ann and Mavis.

‘He’s not doing anything,’ said Mavis’ voice.

‘I hate these machines,’ Ann squeaked. ‘He might kill himself, Laura, he won’t talk to anyone, his mother is coming.’

There was a pause, then, ‘Mavis, d’you think this will reach her? Shouldn’t we call the—’ Laura gulped a mouthful of whisky. The machine was still running.

‘Laura Thornby is not here at the moment,’ it said in Laura’s voice, ‘but if you care to leave a message, she will get back to you as soon as she can.’

‘I am sorry to bother you,’ said Margaret Bannister’s voice, ‘but Claud is behaving very oddly; he has shut himself up there and—’ Here the voice which had begun calmly choked. Mavis took over, excited, almost laughing. ‘Mrs Bannister says his father was a manic depressive.’

‘No, I said he was an alcoholic; any psychologist will tell you that an alcoholic is not necessarily a manic depressive, though sometimes—’ Margaret sounded cross and assertive. The machine clicked, then repeated, ‘Laura Thornby is not here at the moment, but if you care to leave a message, she will get back to you as soon as she can.’ Then a man’s voice asked whether she was in a position to come and measure up for a foot repair on a statue on a fountain in Tewkesbury recently damaged by vandals. A letter with full particulars would follow, thank you.

Laura took another gulp of whisky, looked up Ann Kennedy’s number and dialled. ‘Hullo,’ said a masculine voice.

‘Ann Kennedy, please,’ said Laura. ‘This is Laura Thornby.’

‘You’d better talk to Mavis,’ said the man.

‘Who are you?’ asked Laura.

‘Laura?’ Mavis came on the line. ‘At last!’

‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Laura.

‘We have been trying to reach you ever since yesterday,’ said Mavis, gasping. ‘Claud’s gone bananas.’

‘What’s—’

‘It’s the Sunday papers.’

‘What?’

‘The reviews! Claud’s book! Haven’t you read them, don’t say you missed—’

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

‘What do they say?’

Mavis let out a sound between a giggle and a shriek. ‘I’ll let Martin read it. I just double up every time, it’s so funny. Here he is.’

The masculine voice said, ‘It’s only one review. Shall I read it to you?’

‘Please.’

‘It’s quite long, I’ll pick out the offending bits. Here goes. It says, “Even the most average of readers deserves better than this”, and um, here it says, “If there were a prize for the booby of the year, Claud Bannister’s novel would win hands down”, and here it remarks on “paragraphs overloaded with disintegrating vowels which would lie more happily in the WPB than on the printed page”. He’s having a ball, this reviewer.’