There was no champagne, but luckily Het hadn’t provided perry either but settled for wine, so there was no explosion, just a sort of sad resigned look on Sergei’s face as he sipped his perfectly good Chardonnay. I thought that was just as well since he was driving himself home later, and which imbecile ever let him pass his driving test is a mystery! (If he ever did?)

He left as soon as I said he could, and I gave him a warm – OK, hot – kiss, since he had been good and beautiful, and also my hero, even if I didn’t need one, and he cheered up no end.

Having every woman within eyeshot looking green did something for me, too, there’s no denying it.

There was no sign of Neville when I got home, so I hoped that was the end of that little fixation. I also hoped he was all right; he wasn’t a young man and the sea was always cold in Shrimphaven.

The harbour was thronged with tourists until the light faded, and then I had to go and pick a crop of pop cans, crisp packets and ice-cream wrappers out of my front garden.

Later, someone delivered a large lobster to me, with a note from Lady Het saying it was a ‘small appreciation of my pivotal role in the festival’ by which I assumed she meant my getting Sergei to actually turn up rather than my own library talk.

The lobster had its claws secured with elastic bands and looked cross and entirely miserable – clearly its arrival on my doorstep was the culmination of a very bad day. I like lobster well enough when it arrives on a plate, preferably halved and grilled with garlic butter, but not when I have previously made its acquaintance.

It was going dark and everyone had gone home, so I carried the crabby crustacean down to the jetty and dropped it into the water, after snipping the elastic away. If it had any sense at all, it would give Shrimphaven a wide berth from then on.

Then I penned Lady Het a polite thank-you note: the lobster was a kind, if misguided, gesture.

Twenty-One

A Girl’s Best Friend