I walked on, thinking about the sort of inspiring things glimpses of my Heathcliff of the Northern Line usually made me think of: the strong, thrusting stems of lilies, the soft, velvety petals of pansies, silky pussy willow buds and dangly catkins … all qualities the male interest in my latest novel had in spades. Now, there’s a man who knows his dibble from his trug! I went all D. H. Lawrence for a minute, walked right past the brass plate that said ‘Miracle Threaple Literary Agency’, and then had to retrace my steps.

As I got to the door a novelist I know slightly, another of Miracle’s clients, came hurtling down the steps and stood looking at me a bit wild-eyed and with her jacket buttons done up wrongly. ‘Hello, Ria!’ I said, and she groaned and said in a tone of utmost despair: ‘Not you too, Tina!’

Then she turned and more or less threw herself into the nearest taxi on top of a surprised businessman, so obviously she was having a bad day, and probably her sales figures were way down.

Miracle’s secretary and right-hand woman, Chrissy, showed me straight into her office, which was pretty swish, really. Miracle used to work from home in Hampstead until she had a run of luck with a series of three blonde-babe one-hit-wonder novelists, though that entire generation couldn’t all be naturally blonde, which made me think the makers of Born Blonde and the like should be suing for a cut of the takings. Or perhaps I was getting a fixation about it, and being unfair to the fair?

I was hopeful that Miracle had come up with a strategy to deal with Tim the Suit – maybe even a way of making Salubrious Press promote my next book – but she was pretty occupied on the phone when I first went in, and just waved me to my usual chair while Chrissy went to fetch coffee.

‘Yes, lovely,’ she was saying, puckering up her small mouth in a way that reminded me of cats’ bottoms, which they will insist on showing you while you are stroking them, as if it was some special honour they are bestowing on you. Maybe in cat language it is.

‘The photo shoot tomorrow and then the main article in the Sunday paper,’ cooed Miracle. ‘And then … no, don’t worry about writing the rest of the book yet, just concentrate on generating a bit of publicity now … No, I know a few sentences on the back of an envelope will take some time to work up into a decent-sized novel, but I’m sure you can do it in no time, a natural writer like you. Yes, I was surprised at the size of the advance too, but I’m sure the book will deserve it and soon earn it out … Mmm, yes, wonderful. Yes, lovely. Yes, of course … bye …’