‘Thank you.’ The lady author poured another drink in a manner befitting a very important Margaret.

The chanting was getting louder. Male voices, moving closer; they couldn’t be more than metres away. Mary could hear the words now – ‘Feminazi!’ ‘Misandrist Mary!’ ‘Man-Killer Mary!’

‘What? Who are they talking about?’

‘I’m afraid you are the Mary to whom the gentlemen refer,’ said wise Margaret, whose surname was on the tip of Mary’s tongue.

‘But they don’t know me.’

She handed Mary her iPad, which was open on the Cuck Facebook page. ‘He posted this just before he did the world a great service, and tagged you. Drink this.’ Margaret handed her another whisky, which Mary gulped before reading:

‘THE LAST LETTER

I thought I’d worked it all out, ha, found my tribe. You’re right about me.

I am an idiot,

Unfortunately.

Liam xx’

In her head, Mary was explaining her actions to a jury. Macdowall had tagged her as an ironic nod to one of his understandably stringent life-licence conditions, she would argue (i.e., that he must inform his supervising officer of any change of address, which was now nowhere). That was all, nothing more significant than that. The next question was more difficult to defend: Then explain to the court, Mrs Shields, why Macdowall’s last words mirror those he inscribed in your hardback copy of his book on the evening of his launch? I.e., ‘To Mary, who’s not an idiot, Unfortunately.’

Mary would have to burn the book.

What was she thinking?

She’d have to burn the book.

Mary grabbed her personal mobile from her bag, which, as usual for a work day, was on silent. The screen was spurting alerts, but she phoned Jack before looking at them. He didn’t answer, so she left a message and a text: Pls get in touch. Need to know ur ok. I’m in the yurt. xx

Mary had been advised to change her Facebook name to something obscure or to at least set her privacy to ‘friends only’, but she hadn’t bothered. Her offenders were rarely held back by settings, she’d found. She had 343 Facebook message requests, twenty-three direct messages from friends, or friends of friends, and more friend requests than the 154 she already had. An awful picture kept popping up on her timeline, of a middle-aged woman with bile on her chin and boob sweat. It took Mary a few glances to recognise herself. The photo and accompanying article were posted ten minutes ago by Derek McLaverty on his blog, The Lion’s Roar. It had been shared 123 times, 124…

‘That’s me.’

‘’Fraid so,’ said Margaret.

‘I’ve got batwings.’ Mary had zoomed in on an arm. ‘I’ve spent the last thirty years preventing other people’s worst case scenarios and this is mine.’

‘Fat arms?’