Ruddles End Farm,

Briskett

Dear Tina,

If I may make so bold with your Christian name! Thank you so much for your assessment of my novel and all your good advice, which you will be pleased to hear I am following to the letter.

I am grateful that you got back to me so quickly because you seem (if the papers are to be believed) to live quite an exciting social life! I don’t know much about ballet, but Glenda says that Sergei Popov is famous, although he is getting on a bit so she doesn’t think he dances much now, but clearly you find fit older men attractive and she said she will have to watch me! (Ha! Ha!)

I have read a few Westerns now and enjoyed them, and the only thing puzzling me is what to call myself, because Neville Strudwick doesn’t sound right. Anyway, I just wanted to run a few ideas past you and see what you thought: Tex Neville, Cody Zane, or my favourite, Tex Bullwhip? Or Larry Bullwhip? Or even Bullwhip O’Sullivan?

I have now taken out all the pieces about farming that you listed, which makes the book much shorter, but the Westerns all seem to be shorter anyway. It is quite an undertaking, though, and it suddenly occurred to me that my old friend George is now living only about fifty miles away from Shrimphaven, so that I could very easily come over and discuss the matter with you in person next time I visit him. Perhaps you would have dinner with me?

Since I know what you look like from the wonderful picture on the back of your books, I thought you might be curious about me, so have enclosed a recent snapshot. Everyone says I look much younger in the flesh, and nowhere near my age!

Looking forward to your reply,

Neville

(Bullwhip O’Sullivan!)

I hadn’t seen Sergei for two weeks – three from the last Monday I was there – because of the Brown’s promotion. He insisted he was suffering from terrible flu and didn’t want me to get it, so even though he was a total hypochondriac, clearly he’d caught something. He was definitely at home suffering because I called him several times to enquire as to his germ status.

He was quite emotional on the phone and said I was the love of his life and he didn’t deserve my forgiveness, and if anything happened to him he hoped I would always remember him with affection, and stuff like that. It was unexpectedly thoughtful of him to insist I didn’t visit him in case I caught the flu too.

My heart was so softened by bathos and absence that I left a care-parcel of caviar, chocolates, flowers and champagne (which I could ill afford) on the upmarket plague victim’s doorstep one day, and popped a cheery card through the letterbox before tiptoeing quietly away.