‘Thank you, Nicole, for such a lovely introduction.’ She sat in the chair next to the table and picked up the copy of the book she had made her notes in. ‘And thank you for being here.’ She opened the book. ‘I thought I would do three readings from the book, and then open it up for questions.’

She cleared her throat, and began.

3

The Wimpy Kid seekers left as the last of the brief and almost apologetic applause finished. Annabelle’s talk evidently hadn’t inspired them to buy a copy of the book.

The man in his sixties picked up his phone, looked at the screen, then got to his feet. He lifted it his ear.

‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Hang on one second.’

He caught Annabelle’s eye and gave an apologetic half-shrug, then headed for the door.

An imaginary phone call, Annabelle thought. Not even original.

‘Well,’ she said, looking from the woman in her fifties to the man who had knocked over the books. ‘Thanks for coming.’

Nicole stood up. ‘There are books for sale on the table,’ she said. ‘Annabelle will sign them, if you wish.’

Form a queue, Annabelle thought. Both of you.

The man in his thirties walked up to the table. He picked up a copy of the book and riffled through the pages. He didn’t pause to read any of the words before fixing her with an intense stare. His eyes were a dark blue, under wild, uncombed hair.

‘I’m a writer, too,’ he said suddenly.

‘Oh,’ Annabelle replied. ‘Congratulations. What do you write?’

‘Poems.’ He took a thin book from the pocket of his battered canvas coat. It looked home-made, the pages printed and stapled together. ‘This is my book.’ He held it out to Annabelle. ‘Here. Take it.’

‘That’s very generous,’ she said, glancing at Matt, who moved a step closer to her. ‘But I couldn’t. It’s yours.’

‘I want you to have it. That’s why I came!’ He gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘We’re both writers! We have to stick together.’ He thrust it at her again. ‘Here. It’s yours.’

The book, printed on light green paper, hovered between them. Annabelle reached out a hand and took it. ‘Very kind of you,’ she said. ‘I look forward to reading your poems.’

He nodded. ‘I’m Carl,’ he said. ‘My name’s on the front.’

She looked at the cover. There was a clumsy line drawing of a cat, below the words, all in capitals, POEMS AND SONGS by CARL JAMESON.

She opened it. There was an inscription, in block capitals:

TO ANNABELLE

FROM ONE WRITER TO ANOTHER; WE SHARE A SPECIAL BOND

YOURS MOST FAITHFULLY

CARL JAMESON

‘Thank you, Carl,’ she said.

He nodded again and held up the copy of her book he had taken. ‘Can I have this?’ he said. ‘A swap?’