‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s the exciting bit for me. Catherine is going to show it to this crime novelist who’s coming to talk to us. But that’s enough about my affairs. What have you been up to? Have you had a go at this piece about a journey we’re all supposed to do?’

Marnie pulled a face. ‘I can’t seem to hack it. I’ve come to the conclusion that writing isn’t really my thing.’

‘Oh, come on! We all enjoyed hearing about the West Indies – the voodoo, the old lady. I have to know more. It was riveting stuff.’

‘Perhaps . . .’ She shook her head doubtfully. ‘But that was because of what happened to me – the issues I still have – not because I have a vivid imagination or a compulsion to write. It was all there. I didn’t have to conjure anything out of thin air.’

‘Well, you had us all very involved. You’ve obviously led a fascinating life so far. You’ve travelled, so write about a real journey you’ve had. Why don’t you put your name down for a session with Catherine and talk it over with her? She’s very helpful. Bunty’s with her now – no doubt giving her a tremendous bashing about children’s literature.’ He laughed. ‘By the way . . . you didn’t waste much time spreading the buzz, did you? Bunty was agog – running on a burning scent, positively drooling at the mouth!’

‘What do you mean? What about?’

‘About my past. Don’t think I mind,’ he added hastily, seeing the expression on Marnie’s face. ‘I told you I wanted to have it out in the open. Who did you tell?’

‘Did she say I told her about you?’

‘Lord no. It was quite funny, though, because the minute she saw me she was popping with curiosity. I just assumed you must have said something because I didn’t think anyone else knew – but don’t look like that,’ he said quickly. ‘I really don’t mind. In fact I’m quite grateful.’

She leaped to her feet, eyes blazing, and all the angry defensiveness back.

‘I don’t care whether you’re grateful or not,’ she flashed. ‘How could you “just assume” I passed on what you told me!’ She snatched up the jersey she’d hung over the back of the seat and gathered up her writing things.

‘Hang on, Marnie – please don’t go. I’m really sorry if I’ve upset you. I certainly didn’t mean to . . .’

‘Well you’ve sure succeeded. I don’t go spreading gossip about people.’ She put her chin in the air. ‘I’m not that interested in your past anyway – don’t kid yourself,’ she said cuttingly, and without looking at him again she headed rapidly back towards the house, shoulders hunched, her very walk expressing indignation.

Christopher watched her go and cursed himself for a clumsy fool.

Chapter Twelve