Access to the Internet had opened up a whole new if strange world. It also opened up a second postbag every day, with all those emails to answer, some of them a little odd, to say the least.

Where did they get my email address?

From: [email protected]

Dear Mr Ndonga,

Thank you for your recent email. I can’t imagine how you got my address, even though, as you say, we are fellow writers with friends in common – although you don’t say which. I am terribly sorry to hear of all the difficulties and persecutions you faced in your native country, and certainly the very second I can manage it I intend to join PEN: and this brings me to the crux of the matter, in that I cannot possibly afford to credit your bank account with any amount, let alone the sum you mentioned, for as you know, novelists are either bestselling or scraping along, and I unfortunately fall into the second category, as presumably do you. (By the way, I could not find you on the Amazon site under Ndonga – do you use a pen name?)

Sorry I can’t help financially, but good luck with your future writing,

T. Devino

I dispatched my novel to Miracle on the Thursday by courier instead of delivering it myself as I usually do, but I didn’t feel like facing her until she’d read it, and frankly I was exhausted, absolutely drained, and so it was quite late when I checked my calendar and emails and stuff and realized that I was supposed to be going to a writers’ meeting next day, one that might be useful.

My career clearly needed all the help it could get, so despite being completely wrung out I girded my loins and set out.

It was the first regional meeting of the Affiliated Authors to be held in Shrimphaven, though why they needed a regional meeting so close to London baffled me, until I walked behind the scenes at the museum and realized that most of the members present hadn’t got enough miles left on the clock to get to the Great Smoke and back.

Anyway, after due consideration of the options I sat next to this lively looking woman with the aisle on the other side for escape if necessary before Battle of the Zimmermen commenced at tea and bickies time.

She looked at me and then smiled. ‘Aren’t you Tina Devino?’

I admitted modestly that I was, and then she said her mother-in-law adored my books, she was such a keen gardener, and she herself loved the way I drew parallels between plants and sex. ‘I’m Ramona Gullet, by the way – I write dark psychological suspense.’

‘You are? Then I’ve heard of you, too!’ I exclaimed. ‘Someone from Women For Intellectual Advancement tried to get me to speak to them recently, and said you’d given them a brilliant talk.’