We saw Linny across the room with a couple of her Rich Bitch local friends, but although she waved she didn’t beckon us over to join her, which was thoughtful of her as I could see the other women at her table all urging her to, though it certainly wasn’t me they wanted to get their acrylic nail extensions into.

But they were out of luck, because Sergei was tenderly seating me at a table for two and divesting me of my coat as though unveiling something terribly beautiful and precious, which was very endearing when the room was full of much younger, prettier and thinner women than me.

‘Now I have you to myself, Tsarina!’ he said, all gleaming, liquid dark eyes, beautifully moulded lips and flashing teeth – a bit Valentino and slightly manic, but then, when was he not? And I thought he’d had me to himself all morning, but I didn’t say anything because he could be quite thrillingly sheikhish like this sometimes, and actually I rather liked it.

Then while we ate he asked me all kinds of things about Miracle, contracts and publishers and stuff, which he hadn’t seemed very interested in before, but I felt sure it was all meant to show me he really cared. He hung on my every word. I’d never known him quite so unself-absorbed and he even offered to drive me back to Shrimphaven afterwards, though I tactfully declined because he drove in a series of thrusting leaps, much the way he danced, and I wasn’t sure the rest of the road users were quite au fait with ballet moves.

I roughed out a whole chapter for a new book on the train back, despite being seated beside a serial crisp eater, and arrived home to find that my author copies of the paperback of Spring Breezes had finally arrived.

Soon after that the Shrimphaven and District Gazette called to do an on-the-phone interview, which they were going to run with a picture of me they kept on file (I am big in Shrimphaven), so there was one source of publicity, at least, and a small drop in the ocean though it might be, I almost felt like a real author.

This big arts centre about fifty miles away asked me if I would like to come and do a novel-writing workshop for their Literary Society, all keen writers, two and a half hours all about myself and getting published and so on, so clearly my fame was spreading faster than manure, and when they said they would give me a hundred and fifty pounds how could I say no? God knows, I needed the money, and I realized I would have to do this sort of thing full-time if I didn’t have a bestseller with Dark, Passionate Earth, or find another publisher (and agent), so I agreed.