‘Nora! What can I do for you, darling?’

‘Stop calling me darling, given that I’m your most highly bankable writer, not some strumpet on the side.’ See? Nora was fierce.

Miles wasn’t fazed. He was used to her. ‘Writer and friend, I hope. But fair enough, I’ll re-edit. Wouldn’t want to end up portrayed as the sleazy boss in your autobiography one day. How can I be of service to you, Ms Sharp?’

‘Miles, you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. The support and guidance, not to mention the incredible opportunity in the first place.’

‘Your success is my success, Nora. You know that. You fly, and I’m riding on your tail feathers. The paper wouldn’t be the same without you.’

‘Yes. Well. It’s going to be without me. I’m calling to hand in my resignation.’

‘You are kidding me.’

Miles then spent the next ten minutes interrogating me about why, and who had lured me away, and if it was TV then we could probably work something out, and if it was more money then how much would convince me to stay and so on and so on. It was rather flattering, actually. I expected a half-hearted sorry-you’re-leaving and a token gesture of a pay rise. I replied with some random waffle about taking the reviews as far as I could, being famous for being nasty was wearing thin and it was time to try something new…

‘Well. I’d never have guessed all that from this week’s submission. It seemed as though Nora had got her old fire back. Only, one editorial note, and please hear me on this, but while upping the bitch-factor is super, and precisely what we wanted, I don’t want it at the expense of great writing. Anyone can be mean but it takes wit and charm to get away with it. Felt like this one lost that rather.’

‘Um. I didn’t submit anything for this week. I was going to come on to that.’ I had my whole car accident, friend died, personal emergency excuses all ready.

‘Well, somebody certainly submitted something. Let me see… Ah, here it is. Appetito, just off Baker Street. You had the lobster thingummy.’

No. I didn’t. I was lying in a creaky old bed stewing in my own self-pity. I fudged a non-committal reply, promised to let Miles know when I was back in London so he could arrange a proper send-off (‘I’d love to read a review of your leaving bash!’) and agreed that I would submit two more reviews to see the month out, then that would be that. I also promised, several times, that if I ever did write an autobiography I’d be nice about him and not mention the incident with the newsreader’s son on the yacht.

I also had several months’ worth of non-newspaper events and engagements scheduled in my diary. Fortunately, Nora Sharp rarely confirmed her attendance in advance, so there were only one or two that I needed to cancel and apologise to. Not that they would make a fuss if I pulled out. This was the fickle world of celebrity, after all.