I was speaking too quickly. I was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, forcing myself not to pick up the can of Coke.

She watched me walk from one side of the room to the other. ‘So, if I understand correctly, you’re saying your getting smashed last night was… in service of literary journalism?’

‘Exactly. I’m very sorry not to turn up completely sober.’

She took two mugs from a cupboard. ‘I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. There have been times too when I haven’t turned up completely sober.’

‘You’re welcome to some whisky, if you’d like.’

‘No thanks. Not a whisky girl. Any Italian genes overrode the Scottish ones there. And I’m not an anything girl at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry if I seem glib about the booze,’ I said. ‘I suppose I charged in here like a bull in a china shop.’

‘You charged in here sheepishly. And then you fell over.’

I laughed, and then she smiled with a little less froideur than before, and for the first time I felt like the interview might be something other than a disaster.

‘How come you’ve invited me over, anyway?’ I asked. ‘I thought you avoided this stuff.’

*

Desperate times. She’d been too aloof, needed to be more realistic. Said her agent. Said her editor. Said her new agent. Said her new editor. She had to show willing this time. Even though no one cared about novels any more, especially her novels.

I disagreed. She shrugged. The kettle clicked off and she turned to make two mugs of tea. I stepped out of the kitchen back into the hallway.

‘Mind if I look at your books?’

‘They’re mostly my boyfriend’s, but yes, feel free. It’s mostly art books on this side. All the fiction is round the corner. There’s a little room I use to write in which holds the few books that have stuck to me.’