‘How have you described me? In your notes? Have you said I’m a Native American?’

The ground had shifted beneath me and I suddenly felt sick. He was talking about cultural appropriation! I don’t even like writing those two words. There’s a reason why I never go anywhere near politics or social issues. I write to entertain people. If I have one determination in life, it’s that I don’t want to do anything that will upset anyone. I’m always aware of that great beast Twitter lurking on the sidelines, waiting to tear out my throat.

I desperately tried to work out an answer to what he had just asked me.

‘I suppose I might have thought of you as a Native American. I mean, your background … being adopted … you told me everything yourself.’

‘That didn’t give you permission to use it. I only told Mr Hawthorne because I was under police investigation. I had no choice. You were there as an eavesdropper. You had no right to be in the room.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Jordan. You can’t accuse me of cultural appropriation. I mean … I’m not saying it doesn’t exist. Of course it does. It’s terrible!’ I realised I was burbling. ‘I’ve been in the room with you loads of times,’ I went on. ‘I knew about your heritage before I even met you. What difference does it make? Are you saying I can’t write about Ahmet because he’s Turkish? Or Pranav because he comes from India?’

‘If you’re talking about Pranav the stage manager, he’s from Pakistan!’ His eyes blazed. ‘How have you described me? Have you mentioned the colour of my skin? My ponytail?’

‘I may have mentioned them …’

‘Those are more stereotypes.’

‘You’ve got a ponytail!’ I said. ‘It’s not my fault. And it’s very nice. It suits you.’

‘The other things I told you. Rosebud. Pomona. Are you going to write about all that too …?’

‘Why not? I didn’t know about any of it. The way you were taken away from your family. The assimilation programme. The Carlisle Indian Industrial School. It’s awful! Isn’t it important that people know these stories and learn about them?’

‘But they’re our stories.’

‘Yes, of course. I understand that. But the whole point about stories is that they’re for sharing. That’s the very nature of their existence. Stories are what bring us together. It’s how we try to understand each other and understanding is exactly what my job is all about.’ I didn’t want to be having this conversation. I was tired. I wanted to be in bed. ‘Are you saying you’d prefer it if I ignored what you told me? If I pretended you hadn’t said it?’

‘I’m saying it’s none of your business. You have no understanding about how I feel.’

‘And so I can’t even try? What does that leave me with? We’ve already agreed that I can’t write about Ahmet or Pranav. So presumably I can’t write about Maureen or Sky either … because they’re both women! Or Lucky because he’s a dog! At the end of the day, if I listened to you, I’d only write about myself! A book full of middle-aged white writers describing middle-aged white writers being murdered by middle-aged white writers!’