‘Well, I’m not sure I’d describe them in those exact terms,’ said Beverley. ‘But yes, you’re probably on the right track.’

‘Young pretty slut, she meets the doctor when she has the incurable disease, then he saves her life and reveals himself to be secret billionaire, yes? Then they do the bouncy-bouncy together.’

‘The what?’

‘The bouncy-bouncy.’ Dr Tataryn, from a sedentary position, pushed her hips forward in an aggressive and come-hither fashion, like Madonna might do when encountering a twenty-two-year-old Moroccan dancer. ‘The bouncy-bouncy.’

‘If you mean what I think you mean, then not quite,’ said Beverley. ‘They do occasionally make love, it’s true. But usually towards the end of the novel, and not until she has a ring on her finger.’

‘Is all bullshit,’ said Dr Tataryn, dismissing this with a wave of her hand. ‘Doctors in my hospital, most of them fat pigs. Stinky stinky. Most of them whores at night, when shift over.’

‘The doctors in your hospital are prostitutes?’ asked Beverley, frowning. ‘That doesn’t seem likely.’

‘Not prostitutes, no. Men who go to prostitutes. Men who pay the women for the bouncy-bouncy.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’

‘No secret billionaires in hospital.’

‘Of course, what I write is a sort of fantasy,’ said Beverley, sitting down on the sofa opposite Dr Tataryn and using the tone she employed when on stage at the Edinburgh Festival. ‘It’s not supposed to represent real life.’

‘Is all bullshit,’ repeated Dr Tataryn.

‘Perhaps, but is very popular bullshit,’ countered Beverley, feeling stung by the criticism.

A silence fell for a few moments while the two women sized each other up.

‘So why you here?’ asked Dr Tataryn. ‘You are writing the trashy book set in Ukraine, yes? I have story for you. Story of poor girl who grows up without mother or father, but girl determines to make something of life. She work five jobs to put herself through medical school then becomes great brain surgeon in her country. She eats the beef steak every day with eggs and never shaves legs. No man wants to do bouncy-bouncy with her but she smart and she rich. Is good story. Is real story. Is true story.’

‘Is your story?’ asked Beverley.

‘No, friend of mine.’

‘Oh, I just assumed.’

‘Do I look like I eat beef steak every day with eggs?’

‘You do, as it happens. But no, I’m not writing about Ukraine. I actually came in search of Pylyp. Your son. He’s a friend of mine.’

Dr Tataryn’s eyes opened wide in suspicion. ‘How you know Pylyp?’ she asked.

‘We met when I was a contestant on Strictly. He was my dance partner.’