Gerald sat staring at the free newspaper that he had found on the doormat, but the stories about school exam successes and solicitors newly appointed to junior positions in local firms were just not registering. No matter how often he re-focussed his eyes on the print, his thoughts slipped back to the treachery of his writing buddy and the disastrous state of his finances. At last he swept the paper aside and took his plate and cup into the kitchen where he added them to the teetering pile in the sink. He sorted through a sliced loaf looking for a piece with minimal green spots, tore off a reasonably white section and stuffed it into his mouth. After chewing listlessly for a couple of minutes he was getting nowhere, so he stuck his finger into a jar of peanut butter and pushed a glob in with the bread to make it go down a bit more easily. All the while he was trying to figure a way out of the hole he was in. He peered at the milk bottle. No, it was still as solid as when he last tried to pour some into his tea. He’d just have to go out to the shop – though as soon as he’d resolved to do so he recalled that he wouldn’t be able to find the necessary money.

He made to fling the bottle against the wall but just kept hold of it, realising that no-one would suffer from the mess but himself. He did want to suffer, to take his racing mind off his situation, but cleaning up stinking milk would be overdoing it. He drank water to loosen the gooey bread sticking to his teeth, and went into the bathroom.

Seeing his matted hair and bristly face in the mirror, he banged his forehead on the glass a dozen times, then sat on the loo and experimented with poking a toothpick into his thighs. The concentration required to press it through the skin and draw blood was certainly enough to divert his thoughts for a while.

The doorbell rang.

He jumped up, hope flooding through him. This could only be the police coming to tell him that his tormentor was behind bars and his property restored. He ran to the door and looked through the spyhole. It was certainly no policeman; but two young boys, probably the same pair who had laughed and pointed at him when he’d come back to his flat stumbling drunk two or three afternoons ago. He had the door half open before he remembered that he had nothing on but his slippers. The boys howled with mixed fright and delight and scampered off down the stairs. His moment of hope had gone, and slamming the door he lurched into the living room. He grabbed a bottle of vodka by the neck, and sinking into the sofa he tipped the bottle up to his lips and took a massive swig.

He woke shaking with cold to a grey dawn. There appeared to be a vice applied to his temples which some sadist tightened up every time he moved, however gingerly. Gritting his teeth he made it to the bedroom and put on most of his clothes before crawling into his bed and attempting to lie perfectly still for fear of antagonising his torturer. This took him through to mid-morning when he dared to fetch a desperately needed glass of water. Under its rehydrating action he allowed his mind to return to the vexed questions of ‘why?’ and ‘what now?’

Getting a grip, albeit a very weak one, he recalled a self-improvement exercise he’d read about in a Sunday supplement. It involved listing one’s strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats – SWOT analysis it was called. Unable for the moment to fetch pen and paper, he started compiling a list in his head.

Strengths – A terrific writer with great ideas. At least I was.	Weaknesses – Gullible and pathetic! How did I let that bitch steal my work and pass it off as her own?
Opportunities – Missed out on the opportunity to become a famous novelist. Maybe the opportunity to become famous for shooting dead a famous novelist. Not that I’ve got a gun or any idea how to get one or use it. Having to get a job.	Threats – The workhouse or whatever the equivalent is nowadays – food banks I suppose, homeless shelter….

There was some sense of achievement when Gerald had completed the four quadrants of his analysis. He reviewed it and moved ‘getting a job’ to Threats. He had never had a proper job and found the whole idea alien. He’d been lucky enough to live off an inheritance while he devoted himself to writing his novel, but that witch had tricked him out of the remaining money as well as his work. And when he’d heard that she’d got the book published and straight into Booker Prize contention, he’d been consumed with rage and despair – until now. The SWOT exercise had focussed his mind, now came the really hard bit – what conclusions could he draw?

He chased his thoughts round the mental image of the diagram. A pattern began to emerge and to pulsate with gradually strengthening golden light… Gerald was so energised that he hardly noticed how surprising it was that a life-skills coaching technique like this would actually work.

The golden whirl of symbols began to clarify; he saw that there was only one possible way forward… to get writing again and write his way out of trouble.

Although to keep body and soul together he’d need an advance.

But who would take on a bleary-eyed wreck like him? He imagined standing in a mahogany-panelled office, his clothes and body fuming with neglect, and the prospective publisher recoiling in revulsion as she flung open a window and gasped for fresh air.

Now Gerald appreciated that his imagination was getting warmed up. He needed to blow on these tentative sparks and get the fire blazing. What publisher wouldn’t want to sign up a grotty old tramp if he had a great story to tell and a great way of telling it? “Down and out in Paddington and Willesden” to be sure. And who wouldn’t want to read this tale of literary treachery and revenge? Because it would be his revenge all right. He had no proof, no evidence, so no redress through the police or the courts, but surely he could get the chattering classes chattering and bring her down under a mighty landslide of suspicion.

Vvvoom! A rocket exploded into myriad colours high in Gerald’s personal sky and he would soon light the fuse of another giant one aimed straight up her Booker aspirations.

Lacking the courage of his conceptions he decided against presenting himself to the publishing world in the guise of a smelly hedge-dweller. He still had hot water, pending court action by the energy company, and some dregs of washing-up liquid could be rinsed out of the bottle; so he got into the bath, dropped a pair of jeans, shirt, pullover, socks and underpants into the feeble suds and began to tread them like grapes. He imagined he was trampling the life out of that despicable cow who had tricked him out of fame and fortune. It wouldn’t be long now before she was really flattened. Maybe he could get a telling excerpt of his revenge story printed in a Sunday paper before the Booker Prize winner was announced – or perhaps even better, the morning after, assuming, as he well might, that she would win it with his stolen novel?

But this was only going to work if he actually wrote the story. Time could not be more pressing. He drained away the grey water and gave himself and his clothes a good rinsing. Once he’d draped them here and there to dry, he wrapped himself in a duvet and sat down to make a start. With no computer – why on earth had he let her take his laptop ‘to keep it safe’? – he was reduced to writing with a blotchy old ballpoint on the backs of some business letters, most of them demands for payment of bills. Was it ironic that he might get rich on the back of them? Probably not; he was always unsure about the use of ‘ironic’.

The writing was going so well that he hoped the postman might bring some more such letters, and maybe one of those charity appeals that included a little pen – if this one gave up the ghost he wouldn’t be able to buy another. It would mean a trip to the bank where they had some on the counter – or if he fancied the walk out to Ikea on the North Circular he could get a pocket-full of stubby pencils.

Or of course a publisher would provide all he needed to make them a nice fortune. He pulled on the still somewhat clammy clothes. They would air nicely once he was out in the sun and breeze.

However neither was on offer by the time he emerged from the apartment block into the street. The sun had disappeared behind a threatening wall of cloud and he thought he felt at least one fat drop as he sped down Finchley Road. Please let it not rain, as he couldn’t hop on a bus or dive down the tube, and the publishing houses of Bloomsbury were miles away. He had his few pages of manuscript and the Writer’s Yearbook in a Morrisons bag which he noticed was not likely to be watertight if put to the test. And now the test was starting in earnest. Luckily a bus shelter was just ahead and he took refuge. If he’d brought the pen he could have carried on writing while he was stuck there with the rain hammering on the roof and now streaming down the gutter, with no sign of remission. A bus drew up, its huge tyres squelching a wave of water over his feet. This was clearly going to be repeated by the minute – he could already see another three coming down the hill.

There was nothing else for it – he jumped on the bus. With no money or Oyster Card he was taking a chance but hey, he was up for a bit of living dangerously. The storm may have kept the inspectors in their messroom because he got out unchallenged at Oxford Circus with a delicious guilty feeling. Perhaps the first small step on a life of crime, he mused. Happily the rain had stopped although the roads were still full of water. He splashed his way through Soho.

‘No, I haven’t got an appointment,’ he had to admit at his first port of call. ‘But they definitely won’t regret seeing me. This is gold-dust in here,’ holding up the plastic bag and tapping it. The lad on reception looked so young that Gerald speculated that his mother had had to bring him into work because he was off school.

‘May I see?’ ‘

Gerald was bound to be nervous about who read his work after what had happened with that devious witch, but after a moment’s hesitation he handed over the sheaf of papers. The boy studied the first sheet. ‘Are you this Mr Cornish that’s in serious arrears of rent?’

‘Whoa, the other side…’ Gerald flipped it over. ‘But yes, I am if it comes to that. Rent, phone, council tax, gas and elec. But I just need a publishing deal and it’ll be sorted.’

‘Hmm.’ The boy read on. And on. In a few minutes he put down the last page. ‘Will you sit down? I’ll just be a minute.’ After locking the loose items from his desk in a drawer, he took the manuscript and disappeared through a door.

Gerald stood and gaped. How could he let his writing out of his sight? But try to be positive. It was only one morning’s work. And surely this was a good sign… had he scored at his first attempt?

He’d only just sunk into a chair when a man came through the door holding the papers. He peered over half-moon glasses. ‘Mr Cornish? How’dye do. I’m Fanning. Benjie was most impressed with your writing though I must say that it would have been way over my head when I was his age. Well, that was a while ago. Times have changed. You have a very vivid imagination.’

‘I do, but what I’ve written there – I didn’t have to imagine that. It’s all true.’

‘Reeeally? I say. And it happened to you?’

‘Absolutely’.

‘You know, Mr Cornish, it immediately brought to mind a certain young woman who’s highly tipped to win the Booker with her first novel. That’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it?’

‘ If you say so.’

‘I do. And I ought to point out that we publish that certain young woman.’

Gerald had been wondering why the name of this small publishing house, which happened to be the first of those he’d picked out of the Writer’s Yearbook, was familiar to him. Well, there was the answer. Research was not his strong point.

Fanning continued. ‘So of course I’m most interested in what you have here. Have you had any other opinions on it? No? Good, it would be a shame if you felt the need to take it elsewhere. You have come to exactly the right House. Do come through.’ He took Gerald through to an office passably like the one he’d imagined, and Benjie shortly brought tea and biscuits.

Gerald emerged clutching his bag which now also contained a cheque for £1000. Of course he’d had to sign various contract documents before this was handed over. Getting an agent or solicitor to advise him would have caused unnecessary expense and delay, so he waived the suggestion and read through the fine print himself. By the time he’d finished, he’d eaten all the biscuits and the boy had been despatched to find more. He was in fact more interested in the biscuits than the contract terms, not having eaten properly for days. He didn’t grasp that he’d signed away all rights to the story he’d started or anything covering the same scenario. For Fanning it was an exciting coup. Talk about win-win! He could make sure the sensational tale never got into print if his protegeé won the Booker, or make a mint from the exposé if she didn’t, plus possibly re-publishing the stolen work under Gerald’s own name.

Meanwhile Gerald was dizzy with success. Not only had he got Fanning to hand over £1000 but on top of that an extra £20 note to tide him over until he could cash the cheque. And fifty sheets of paper and a biro. Turning to the left he saw a familiar figure looking in the gallery next door. David Hockney! Ah no, neither hat nor cigarette, so definitely the other one – Alan Bennett. Gerald turned to the right and stopped at the next shop along where he looked in the window while he thought of a way to start a conversation with his fellow author. As it happened to be a nail-bar he began to feel rather uncomfortable, with the women inside staring back at him, and when he caught Bennett himself giving him a stern look he gave up the idea and went on his way acting out an exaggeratedly nonchalant swinging of his Morrisons bag, as if he were Julie Christie in Billy Liar taking the 1960s by storm. This reference, albeit unintentional as Gerald had never seen the film, was not lost on Alan Bennett, whose knowledge of British films was encyclopaedic. However, when Gerald heard the famous voice calling after him, ‘I say!’ it was not so that the famous owner of the voice could compliment him on the excellence of his Julie Christie impersonation. He turned to see Alan waving a £20 note. ‘You dropped this.’

‘Oh thank you so much! How stupid of me!’ Gerald came back. Here was a chance not to be missed, to introduce himself. ‘Ive only just got it off Fanning – you know, Fanning and Fanning?’ Gerald pointing to the office door. Alan did know, both Fannings. Which was Gerald referring to – old Fanning or young Fanning? While they attempted to sort this out, a passer-by on the other side of the street filmed the meeting on his phone, from Alan offering the shabby young man a 20 note to the two walking off together. This was going straight to the Daily Bile.

Oblivious of this they walked the short distance to the London Review of Books shop where, despite all the biscuits he’d eaten a little earlier, Gerald was drawn towards the delicious-looking cakes on offer in the cafe. Alan passed on an invitation to join him; he said he was just popping in to use the loo.

Gerald sat in the cafe with his paper and pen on the table beside an expensive piece of orange cake. When the paper was still blank after five minutes, he got self-conscious and put his materials away.

The torrent of words that had flowed through him in the morning had dried up like the road outside.

But no matter, it was bound to be hard to concentrate after such an exciting afternoon. Petty criminal, hot literary property, associate of the famous… and gorgeous cake. To think that he’d all but given up only yesterday.

The next morning the Daily Bile ran a photo of Alan handing Gerald money under the headline ‘National treasure?’. Even the beseiged readers of that evil rag would probably wonder if there wasn’t a more innocent interpretation of it than the one they were clearly invited to make.

Elaine was leafing through a copy thoughtfully provided free in the Tesco café to inform its customers of news concerning the end of the world. She spluttering a mouthful of flat white all over the picture that caught her eye. The Alan Bennett aspect didn’t concern her, but there was Gerald, right outside her publisher’s office. Surely that couldn’t be a coincidence? She phoned immediately. How relieved she was to be reassured by young Mr Fanning that it was absolutely just that. Alan Bennett was certainly an occasional visitor to old Mr Fanning, but neither Fanning had any knowledge of the other man in the photo which Elaine had drawn his attention to.

Elaine put aside the Bile and picked up her book. This was her own Booker-nominated effort, which she re-read constantly to be prepared for any questions that might come up about it in the many interviews that Fanning and Fanning had arranged for her. It was so difficult to remember the names of the characters, let alone who had done what, where and when. Why couldn’t it have been something less experimental? But she’d known all along that experimental is what would attract interest, and how right she’d been. Things had gone so far so fast and now here she was struggling to keep on the crest of the wave. Only another four weeks until the big decision… but if she won, what then? The Fannings had signed her up for another two books, and she would be very nervous handing over her next effort. She’d been working on it, but however she started off, it would keep turning into a sort of suburban soap with family members constantly bickering, very like her own. No chance that it would impress as a follow-up unless it was taken as a subversive jibe at Knausgaard’s My Struggle. Some hope.

Getting up to leave, she set about straightening up the newspaper with the intention of folding the coffee-stained pages inside. Looking again at the photo as she did so, she noticed that while Gerald’s right hand reached towards the note, his left was gesturing in the direction of the door of Fanning and Fanning’s office. Her confidence in young Fanning’s denial began to waver.

There was a possible way to make further enquiries. She’d been introduced to a number of literary celebrities at a recent event, including Alan Bennett, so why not see what he could tell her? If his Diaries were a reliable guide he’d be cycling round Regents Park around tea-time. In the event it worked out even better. On the way there, she spotted a rather old-fashioned bike leaning against the window of the Primrose Hill Bookshop, but not so old-fashioned that it was probably always there to lend a note of period charm to the retail experience. She went in, and there was Alan in his cycle clips.

‘Oh hi, Alan, do you remember we met at the Awards last month? Elaine Parfitt. On your way to the Park?’

Yes, he was. And she?

‘Just popped in to move my book to the front, hahaha, only joking, the old ones are the best….’ Alan gave a characteristic wry smile. ‘By the way,’ continued Elaine, ‘ Awful, that rubbish in the Bile this morning,’ she said. ‘I know that boy you were talking to – Gerald Cornish. Is he a friend of yours too? Perhaps you know him through Fanning and Fanning?’

‘No, but he’d just come out of there,’ said Alan, ‘when he dropped a £20 note. He was very excited about getting a deal. Burning to tell someone, so I heard all about it. I did wonder actually whether he’d dropped the money deliberately so as to get my attention. Probably not, it would have been too much of a risk…. I mean, I might have just pocketed it.’

‘I take it that’s just your wicked imagination working,’ Elaine laughed. ‘But what was this deal? I knew he was writing something but I couldn’t see him ever finishing it.’

‘Oh, he couldn’t tell me anything about the book. Sworn to secrecy apparently. That’s pretty unusual. He told me to watch out for a tremendous sensation in a month or so. I certainly will.’

‘Gosh! Well done Gerald!’ said Elaine. ‘So, lovely to talk to you. I must let you get on’. And she went out of the shop without looking at her book or any others – as Alan didn’t fail to notice, pursing his lips.

Now began Elaine’s dark night of the soul, or at least an unpleasant evening. She had counted on Gerald’s being totally defeated by her ruses but he’d somehow bounced back, and given the secrets and lies emanating from Fanning and Fanning, surely he was aiming a bouncing bomb at her.

What to do?

The man in the corner shop showed Gerald the Bile. ‘That’s you, my son, innit?’

Gerald boggled. ‘What’s that doing in the paper?’ He read the caption several times and scoured the page for more. There was nothing else. Just that. Gerald was puzzled.

‘Has he died or something? Been knighted? Nobel Prize?’

‘Has who, my son?’

‘Alan Bennett.’

‘Dunno mate, no idea. It is you, innit?’

‘Yes…. can I have this?’

‘If you pay me the price, my son. 45p and it’s yours.’

‘Mm.. no, I’ll leave it.’ (The author cannot allow even his characters to buy this toxic crap)

Gerald took another look before handing the paper back. He could see the photo was taken outside Fanning and Fanning’s. What if Elaine saw it, wouldn’t she guess that something was going on? What then? He gathered up his purchases of bread, butter, milk, sausages and tinned tomatoes in his arms, saving the cost of a bag, and juggled them down the road to his flat.

There on the steps was Elaine.

Gerald had wondered how he would feel if he saw the treacherous cat again. He’d prepared some choice abuse to hurl at her. But now here she was and she looked as lovely and sweet and desirable as ever. That copper hair, that pale translucent skin.

‘Hi Gerald, can we talk?’

He had to make a deliberate effort to speak gruffly, which he thought would be appropriate in the circumstances. ‘Come in. Hold these will you?’ He offloaded his shopping into her arms and got out his key.

‘Wait in there a minute,’ he said, opening the kitchen door. She was shocked by the state of it as she elbowed piles of stuff out of the way so she could dump the groceries onto the counter.

In the living room Gerald gathered up the sheets papers that he’d been covering in writing and slid them under the sofa. ‘Come through’. She found that the mess there was not much better, but she was relieved that the smell was significantly less pungent than in the kitchen, where she’d held her breath as long as possible.

Gerald couldn’t help being excited having her in the flat and he was worried that she might notice. He lowered his chin down and scowled at her over the top of his glasses.

Elaine spoke breezily. ‘Well, did it work?’

‘Did what work?’

‘My little plan to get you writing.’

‘What?! I was writing – and you stole it!’

‘Yes, but… didn’t you say you didn’t have any idea what to write next?’

‘Well, I may have, but…’

‘So I had this brilliant idea. If I stole your novel and pretended it was mine, that would give you something to write about. And remember what I said? Your novel is amazing, technically a tour-de-force, but to follow it up, to make a career, you need what every artist needs – to have suffered. And as I understand it, you’ve had a very happy upbringing and education and everything and haven’t suffered at all. ‘

‘Well, I certainly have now’.

‘Exactly! That’s the genius of it! I made you suffer so you’ll be a better writer.’

‘But I nearly killed myself… ‘.

‘There you are! You suffered just the right amount. A lot, but not so much that you did actually kill yourself. Thank heavens, of course! And now I expect you’re buzzing with ideas, and probably writing lots of great stuff.’

Gerald thought it prudent not to admit that he was. He gave a discouraging snort. ‘So what happens now? Are you going to confess that the novel is mine? And give me my money back – and my laptop?’

‘Of course, but not right now… this is my idea, listen. Let’s sit down.’

They sat at opposite ends of the sofa but it was only small and Gerald felt he was in danger of being overwhelmed by her beauty and dynamism. He would gladly give up his novel if he could hold her in his arms and bury his face in that glorious hair. But he hadn’t dared risking a move in that direction before, although he’d got very near. And now – it couldn’t be less risky than before, unless – a glimmer of hope – she thought it would help her case. But then again she was hardly likely to find his advances acceptable when he hadn’t been paying a lot of attention to his personal hygiene. And what if she should see the mayhem that was his bedroom? Possibly there was a condition of being aroused by avalanches of dirty laundry, but what was the chance that she was subject to it? He had better just concentrate on what she had to say.

‘Now look – I’m your writing buddy, aren’t I? My job is to help you and I take it very seriously. But my methods are very original – you’ve struck lucky with me, actually. I know you think quite the opposite now, but I only want what’s best for you. And if we do it right it can be good for both of us. What’s wrong with that?’

Gerald couldn’t see anything wrong with it, but he decided to continue acting grumpy and just frowned.

‘So look, I’ll go on until the Booker award night. Then, whether I win or not, I’ll get tremendous coverage when I announce that it’s your novel, and that I’m going to tell the story of the deception and why we did it in another book. So then we’ll each have a book with maximum publicity and sales and if I tell the story right, everyone will agree that it was a terrific idea. I haven’t worked out the details, but I imagine it would probably be best if we made out that we were in it together – a couple of clever youngsters out to tease the literary establishment.’

Gerald thought of Fanning and Fanning and how this would affect his contract with them. Elaine hadn’t let on that she knew anything about that. He would have to discuss it with them.

‘Well, I hear what you’re saying. I won’t know if I can agree to your story until you’ve worked it out. You’d better do that and come back and go through it with me as soon as poss.’ Gerald got up to show Elaine out.

‘Wouldn’t you like me to help you tidy up a bit around here before I go?’ she said. That was music to Gerald’s ears. ‘OK, thanks,’ he said as coolly as he could manage.

‘Well let’s get this room sorted. I don’t suppose you’ve got any rubber gloves?’ Gerald had to admit that he hadn’t, but the very thought excited him. ‘I can pop down to the shop and get some,’ he suggested. ‘No need, I’ll manage for now. I’ll bring some when I come again and have a go at the kitchen – but you could make a start on that, couldn’t you? Now then, let’s move all the furniture back and vacuum. You have got a vacuum cleaner haven’t you?’

This was taking a dangerous turn. Gerald didn’t want the sofa moved. ‘I have, but it’s buggered. Been meaning to get it fixed. Look, don’t bother for now. I’ll make an effort to clear up. I can borrow a vac from James across the hall.’

‘Can’t you borrow it now?’

‘Don’t suppose he’s there, but – I’ll see.’ Gerald nipped across and pretended to knock on James’ door in case he actually was in. ‘No, he’s not answering. Look – you get off now. This place’ll look more presentable next time.’

Elaine got up to leave. ‘By the way’, she said, ‘have you got a new phone number? I tried ringing you but it didn’t recognise your old one.’

‘Well, I haven’t got a phone. Couldn’t pay the bill, could I? But I’ll sort it tomorrow. I’ll let you know if I have to have a new number.’

Gerald bit his tongue. She might ask how come he could now afford it. But she just nodded. For the first time ever, as she went out she pecked him on the lips, leaving him quivering with excitement – until he remembered that he’d committed himself to a couple of days of heavy-duty cleaning up. How was he going to get on with the writing? But then again, did he need to? He must talk to Fanning urgently.

With an effort of will he applied himself to the grime of the kitchen for a couple of hours. The credibility of Elaine’s story ebbed and flowed in his mind but her desirability only grew. If only she could have been here with him now, scraping congealed curry off plates and winkling leathery crusts of mould out of mugs. But at least he could look forward to her wielding her Marigolds on his splashback. Meanwhile he could not stop picturing her buffing up the bathroom taps.

The next morning, after getting a new phone contract and paying his electricity bill, he presented himself at Fanning and Fanning where the young lad Benjie was clearly pleased to have something to do. Swinging his feet off the reception desk he swiftly arranged for Gerald to be admitted to Fanning junior’s office.

‘Mr Cornish! Splendid. Have you brought some more of your book?’

Gerald explained about Elaine’s visit. He had no idea whether it was connected to the photo in the paper or just a coincidence.

Fanning was likewise unsure. She had seemed satisfied by his denial of any acquaintance with Gerald. No matter. She could be thrown to the wolves if she made any trouble. For now, her suggestion that everyone could benefit was worth examining. As for Gerald’s contracted book, he was not to worry. By all means, said Fanning, if he felt the urge to carry on writing it, write away! But Fanning and Fanning would not be unreasonable. Let Elaine do the hard work of developing her ideas and then they could see what was on offer.

When Elaine next came to the flat it was looking – and smelling – much improved. Likewise Gerald. What’s more, he was no longer grim-faced, but relaxed and friendly, especially after she’d given him another kiss when he’d said that he was feeling inspired by the prospect of their working together. She thought he was talking about the literary project, not the deep cleaning of the kitchen and bathroom that he actually had in mind. Neverthess she had come prepared with a bag of essentials, and soon Gerald was looking on in admiration as she bent over the bath and scrubbed away at the tidemark, her hair pinned up in a charming pile to keep it out of the way.

‘Have you done any writing?’ she asked as she scrubbed. ‘I bet you have. You could read some to me while I do this’. This was an attractive proposition, and Gerald’s guard was down. He went off to find some part of his exposé that was not too bitterly abusive of the behaviour and person of a character easily indentifiable as Elaine. How could he in fact have written some of those shockingly rude things about her, when there she was, looking just as perfect as she used to? He found the bit where he’d opened the door in nothing but his slippers. As he read it he edited out the slippers, feeling they would be likely to detract from any possible erotic interest that the scene might evoke in Elaine’s imagination. Her response was especially gratifying. She laughed so much that she accidentally sprayed him with the shower hose she was using to sluice out the suds in the bath. Gerald couldn’t help but feel that the spraying was not entirely accidental, but a coy bit of foreplay. How to press his advantage? Taking his sodden pages into the living room he began searching for another winning passage, but he’d definitely led with his best card. Nothing else seemed at all suitable.

While he scanned one page after another, she appeared beside him. ‘Ooh, what a lot you’ve written. So my plan did work?’ A Marigold-clad hand tried to grab a sheet, but Gerald couldn’t allow that. He whisked them all out of reach. ‘Oh, no you don’t, not again… why don’t we have a break, and you can tell me your plan to get yourself out of stealing my other novel.’ Any sexual charge, which might have been only in Gerald’s imagination anyway, he felt leaking instantly away. Why couldn’t he have expressed himself less aggressively?

‘WE have a break? That’s rich,’ said Elaine, pulling off the gloves perhaps in more ways than one. ‘I didn’t see you doing much grafting. But never mind, you’ve done a lot since the other day.’ She flopped down. ‘I’ve got a bit of supper,’ said Gerald, hoping to redeem the situation. He opened a cupboard in the sideboard and took out a tray with wine glasses, a bottle of Cava, a tube of Pringles and a dish of olives. He read her face. ‘Oh sorry, of course I should have put this in the fridge. Hold on’. He took the bottle into the kitchen and tried every which way to push it into the icebox. The best he could manage was to keep the fridge door nearly closed by pushing the table up against it. He went back to the living room to find Elaine rummaging in her purse. ‘Here,’ she said, holding out a tenner, ‘Pop down to the shop and get a nice bottle of red. Keep the Cava for another time.’ There was no point in arguing. She was absolutely right. Gerald was out of the door like a shot.

He got back within 10 minutes, very out of breath, clutching a nice Rioja. The living room was empty – except for the untouched dish of olives, two crisps, and a note written on one of his sheets of paper. Before reading it he rushed to the drawer where he’d stowed his writing. It was empty. He let out a howl. What a total idiot he was, and what a heap of verminous shit she was.

He snatched up the note. She’d written; ‘Had to go, sorry, couldn’t trust myself, you’re so funny and cute. Borrowed the writing for bedtime reading, but I’ll definitely let you have it tomorrow. I’ll ring. Enjoy the wine and keep the change if any, I do rather owe you anyway. XXX’

Three big kisses! Couldn’t trust herself! Gerald was keen to take that at face value. Let him have it tomorrow! He would like to take that at other than face value. But she was definitely not going to enjoy what she would read in bed that night. And he’d found out nothing about her plans. He had got a sparkling bathroom, but it was way too little consolation.

After downing the whole bottle of red he stumbled off to bed. In the morning he got up to find the kitchen floor awash; the fridge and icebox had defrosted. Head splitting, he mopped up and made coffee. Nothing to do now but wait for her to phone. If only he could talk to Fanning, hear the professional’s reassuring voice. But more likely Fanning would be a little piqued by the way things were going between his two protegés Gerald and Elaine. Best leave it for now.

After beans on toast his headache receded and his strength returned. He took care to wash up and clear away, not to slip back into the bad old ways. He needed to keep his wits about him and his standards up when dealing with this tantalising woman. Was she buddy or baddy?

The phone pinged. There was a text from Elaine. ‘OK tonight at 8? XXX’. He texted back. ‘OK’ and agonised for twenty minutes about whether to follow her lead and end his with kisses. He started by keeping his finger down and filling the message with x’s. That expressed his feelings as far as the character limit would allow, but was it sensible? He tried the look of a single x, two, three, lower case, upper case, and numerous combinations. He wrote ‘love’. He wrote ‘ love you’ and his finger hovered over the Send button. But in the end he went back to plain ‘OK’ and sent that. It looked horribly cold. He wrote another; ‘See you later’, and couldn’t help trying out additional xx’s and X’s again before losing his nerve and abandoning even the ‘See you later’.

It was a long wait until 8 that evening. He remembered to put the Cava in the fridge properly, and went out to get more Pringles. The flat was looking neat and smelling a little too much of lavender air freshener, but definitely an improvement on the previous.

At 8 she was at the door. Gerald put up his face expecting a kiss, but she swept past into the living room where she pulled out of her satchel a folder containing his writing and a tube of Pringles which she stood beside the other already on the coffee table. ‘Ah! Well, one each works for me…. and there’s this.’ She produced a bottle of Shiraz. ‘Just in case…’ ‘Oh, thanks,’ said Gerald. ‘Would you prefer that or Cava? It’s chilled this time.’

‘Oh then I’ll have it. I hope you’re chilled too Gerald. Not still very angry with me.’

‘I don’t want to be angry with you,’ Gerald said. Having said it, he congratulated himself. That was rather well put, and perfectly true. ‘So I hope you’re going to make it up to me tonight.’ Having said that, he was flustered. Not well put, though again perfectly true. ‘I mean, by telling me your plan for putting all this mess with the novel right.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve got it all worked out now.’

Gerald went to fetch the Cava from the fridge. When he returned, he was confronted by Elaine’s bottom rearing up in the midle of the room. She was on all fours with her head under the TV table.

Inevitably banging her head as she scrambled back up onto her feet, she explained that she was interested in the make and fragrance of the air freshener plugged in behind the TV. Actually, she had been intending to switch it off, but having been discovered she now had to leave it alone.

Gerald was flattered by her apparent interest in his home-making innovation. He poured the wine. Elaine raised her glass. ‘Let’s drink to our future success together.’

‘To our future together,’ replied Gerald.

‘That’s not quite the same, is it?’ Elaine pointed out. ‘ – one step at a time’.

Gerald covered his confusion by grabbing a wad of the crisps and stuffing them in his mouth.

They sat down and Elaine began. She tapped the folder.

‘I love what you’ve written here, it’s… powerful, moving, exciting – I’ll have some editorial notes for you, of course, but it’s a great start. But look – it’s obviously got to be changed so it doesn’t have anything to do with a Booker-nominated author! We need to write a different story about that. This one could be rescued by making it about a song-writer who has his amazing song pinched, or better still, what if someone invented a game and it was stolen? Get away from writing altogether. Well, you can think about that. I’m sure it could be a really successful thriller. Now, as to the story we need to write to explain the publishing hoax; the story could be that you and I agreed that you’d never find a publisher but I wouldn’t have any trouble, with my looks – excuse my lack of modesty, but you know what I mean.’

‘No need for false modesty in that respect,’ Gerald was quick to agree. ‘But why not tell the truth – what you told me the other day– you ripped me off to make me suffer and give me something to write about?’

‘No, no. Don’t you see, if that was made public, no-one would ever be able to do it again, would they? It’s the first thing anyone would think of if they had their work stolen.’

‘Are you planning to do it again?’ scoffed Gerald. ‘Next time your victim might go ahead and kill himself – or herself. But anyway, your new idea doesn’t stack up. After all, I have found a publisher – with no difficulty at all.’

‘You’ve got a publisher? How’s that?’ Elaine affected total surprise.

Gerald thought it best to undo his slip. ‘Ah well no. Just my imagination working overtime… .thanks to you!’

‘Fine, but you’ ve got to keep fiction and real life separate, Gerald. Otherwise I won’t know what’s what. Anyway, the story is that you let me hawk the novel around as mine, and Fanning and Fanning take it up, and then the Booker like it, and here we are.’

‘That’s not much of a story is it. Not very exciting. And of course they’ll all protest that of course they would have been just as keen if it had been me, and we won’t be able to prove any different.’

‘Durrr …, right then Gerald, if that’s not good enough, you come up with something better. You’re the writer after all! You can tell a great story. And then we’ll really be rocking… you’ll be raking it in from the novel, and following it up with the story of the stolen game or whatever, and I’ll be doing well out of the story of our deception. And Fanning will be on Cloud Nine with all three books going strong.’

‘Excuse me… you want me to write all three, but you’ll take credit for the exposé?’

‘Well I think that’s fair. I’ll be doing a lot of the editing after all.’

‘Obviously I’ll have to think about this,’ said Gerald. But already he was thinking of ways to make the story much more exciting. The pair would be energetic lovers, and the deception would come about after the writer lost some sex game and had to pay a forfeit. Gerald had very little idea of what sex games might consist of, but it would be interesting to research, and then Elaine would have to read it and he could probably learn a lot from her. And with luck it might inflame her passions… it was certainly inflaming his and he had better cool it. He refilled their wine glasses and took a deep draught. They worked their way through the Pringles.

‘I’ll have to go soon,’ said Elaine. ‘It’s been a long day. Interviews talking about your wonderful novel – one after another. You can thank me for that too – I can tell you it’s no fun, promoting a book.’

‘I was hoping you’d stay for a bit of supper,’ said Gerald. ‘Fancy a corned beef sandwich?’

She did very much, and a second one, but then she was off, with a quick peck on Gerald’s cheek.

Two days later they were in young Fanning’s office. Elaine had spoken to Fanning to arrange the meeting, but Gerald had got in slightly earlier to warn him what to expect.

Elaine was introducing Gerald, and all three were pretending that Gerald and Fanning had never met. They were rather overdoing the supposed lack of knowledge of each other, trying to compensate for Benjie’s having greeted Gerald as Mr Cornish when they’d arrived at reception. Fanning had quite overlooked the need to forewarn the lad. ‘It was nice to run into Benjie,’ Gerald was saying. ‘What a surprise. I was at school with his older brother. Often used to see the little chap at their house.’

Elaine was sceptical. ‘Why does he call you Mr Cornish?’

‘Oh, it was a very formal school. You know at some boy’s schools they call each other by their surnames. But at ours it was always “Mr” too.’

‘What’s Benjie’s surname?’ Elaine probed.

‘Well… I’ve quite forgotten,’ said Gerald. ‘His brother was… Mr Jones, but they were step-brothers, so they’d have different surnames.’

‘Although they could both have been Jones,’ he added in panic when Fanning raised an eyebrow.

‘Very odd,’ said Elaine. ‘Anyway I must ask him about the younger you.’ She wouldn’t bother though, as she didn’t believe a word of it.

Elaine told Fanning about the deception and how she proposed to capitalise on it to the great benefit of all parties, if Fanning would agree to go along with it and publish at least one and hopefully both of the books that Gerald was now working on.

Fanning looked suitably astonished at these revelations, and diligently read the summaries that Gerald had prepared for the two new books.

‘Your friend writes very well, Elaine’, said Fanning, taking off his spectacles and rubbing his eyes.

‘I was going to say, as well as you, but …’

‘Yes, he certainly writes better than me’, said Elaine. ‘Will you publish him, then? Will you go along with the plan?’

‘I’ll have to bring my brother round to it. He won’t like it one little bit. All that sex… we don’t usually publish that sort of material.’

However, when young Fanning discussed it with his older brother, he was taken aback by old Fanning’s response.

‘This tommy-rot about the sex games is pathetic! He obviously hasn’t got a clue. We’d be a laughing stock. You want something that will make the readers’ hair stand on end – and their eyes water. I’ll just have to re-write it with some realistic stuff. Leave it with me.’

Young Fanning was disturbed to find that his brother was, or at any rate considered himself, an enthusiastic expert on this subject. And he wasn’t keen to tell Gerald that his fantasies were apparently not up to the erotic standard demanded by the reading public. But, after reflection, young Fanning had a better plan.

He rang Gerald. ‘Is Elaine with you? Just double-checking… she should be at a book-signing in Swindon.’

‘No, she’s not here. What is it?’

‘Look, the best story about why Elaine claimed to have written your novel is the story you told me. Which I think is also the true story, whatever she’s saying now… since, in fact, she suspected she’d been found out.’

‘So….?’

‘So it’s back to our original plan, but better! Now we don’t have to rely on innuendo. Elaine’s admitted you wrote the novel, and she’s going to say so in public at the awards. Then we’ll step in and announce how the story you’ll be telling of the deception is not the one she had cooked up. We’ll publish your account and the only thing she could do would be to make out again that it was her incredible technique for developing writers. Literally incredible, I’m afraid. No-one will believe it and she’ll be disgraced.’

Not long ago that had been Gerald’s greatest wish. Now he was again besotted with her, he wasn’t so keen.

‘Can’t we stick to what we all agreed? I don’t want to fall out with Elaine… we’ve become very close.’

‘Really? How close?’ Fanning’s usually smooth voice rasped. Had this scruffy youth succeeded where he had recently failed so shamefully and painfully? Elaine certainly knew her martial arts.

‘That’s totally private!’

‘Maybe, but I need to have some idea what’s going on with my authors.’

‘Well, she won’t be one of your authors much longer, according to your plan. I’m saying nothing.’

‘So you will go along with the plan?’ Fanning pressed. ‘After all, that’s what just you’ve signed a contract for – and had an advance.’

Gerald reflected. Perhaps it was inevitable – and telling the truth was much easier than keeping up some invention. But if he was going to get it together with Elaine he had better move fast. And maybe after the dénouement he could get back in her good books by offering her a helping hand. So Gerald agreed to Fanning’s plan.

They discussed how soon Gerald could complete his tale of perfidy and desperation.

‘And what about my story with the sex games?’ asked Gerald. ‘I’m enjoying writing that. That could be my next book, but I’ll have to change it a lot – make it nothing to do with a novelist.’

‘Well, don’t work too hard on it for the moment. You’ll deserve a long break after you’ve finished the exposé.’

As they finished their conversation, Benjie, who had been listening in on the reception phone, took a ruler out of his desk drawer and bent it till it snapped. He threw the pieces across the room. The thought that Elaine might have done to Gerald what she had done to him on several occasions in the Fanning and Fanning kitchenette made him furious. And now there was young Mr Fanning on the intercom asking for tea and biscuits. In that same kitchenette, Benjie took it out on the crockery as he prepared the tea tray.

There was only a week remaining before the Booker dinner. Gerald tried repeatedly to arrange to meet up with Elaine. Her replies were encouragingly friendly, even flirtatious, but she was always busy with interviews and signings. Now they had, as far as she knew, arranged things satisfactorily with Fanning, Gerald felt able to risk adding an x to his text messages, escalating to xx and XX. He was drunk with excitement but, unless he went along to a book-signing, he would not see her until the ceremony, when he would be joining her and the Fannings at their table. So he went along to catch Elaine signing books in Putney. Presenting himself at the desk, he persuaded Elaine to let him join her for lunch.

They went to a cosy riverside pub, but there was no opportunity for him to make overtures, as they were accompanied by two representatives of the bookshop, an identical pair of hipsters who monopolised Elaine and took no interest in him. At 2pm they shepherded Elaine back to her duties and Gerald was dismissed. Still, as he stood in the crammed tube on the way home, he was sure she’d realise that love had driven him to make the arduous journey south of the river.

A message came. ‘See you at Booker can’t wait love E XXXX’. Four Xs, plus an emoji of a cute pussy-cat puckering its mouth in a heart-kiss! This was hot! But still, it was clear that there was no chance for Gerald to reach his goal before the awards, and only a dim hope of success thereafter, when Elaine would have been hung out to dry. The only thing he could think of that might help to mend the inevitable breach was to write her a letter ‘not to be opened until after the Booker’. He explained how sorry he was that young Fanning had forced him to honour his contractual obligations and stab her in the back once she’d told the world she wasn’t the author. He offered to redeem the situation by helping her financially and suggested, as subtly as he could manage, that if they got together at some point it would provide another possibly saleable narrative. Imagine, he said, the public interest in a story of forgiveness and redemption – with or without possible elements of conspiracy and treachery. His brain was on fire generating alternative plot-lines.

It was the night of the award. Gerald arrived at the Guildhall wearing an understated new outfit of black sweater and jeans which he hoped Elaine would later associate with his contrition for his part in her disgrace. He joined the Fanning brothers, Elaine and a couple of other Fanning and Fanning authors at a table near the stage. There also was Benjie; a major part of his remuneration package as intern at Fannings was to attend glittering occasions like this when he could make useful contacts and spot celebrities. In contrast to Gerald, he was shimmering in a gold lamé dinner jacket, which he’d made himself out of a evening dress he’d found in a charity shop. Unfortunately he was a far from competent tailor, and both of the arms had become a little detached when he’d taken his coat off. Still, provided they stayed on, people might think it was all part of a new style, and who knows but it might become a thing on the high street. All the same, going around shaking hands with people would be a bit too risky and it was lucky for Benjie that it wasn’t his priority on this occasion.

During the first course, each of the short-listed books was being described in a video and the respective author of each was invited up to the stage for a short interview. When it was Elaine’s turn she used the opportunity to tell the audience that she’d have something very important to add after the Booker winner had been announced. The mysterious pronouncement caused a flurry of chat and she walked back to her seat through a forest of quizzical stares.

She felt a bit sorry that she might divert attention from the winner should it not be herself, but the word was that her/Gerald’s ‘Bananas for breakfast’ was the strong favourite.

Now the sweet course had been cleared away, and as coffee was served the host began to work up to the big announcement of the winner. However, Elaine was having difficulty concentrating on what was being said. She’d been aware of Benjie’s solicitous topping-up of her wine glass at first, and thought it typically sweet of the boy, but as the meal progressed she stopped noticing, while she kept drinking. Benjie had only a confused idea of why he was behaving like this. He wanted to punish Elaine for supposed intimacies with Gerald at the same time as acknowledging to himself that these might never have happened and that it was no skin off his nose if they had. Whatever had or hadn’t happened, he was madly jealous and would wreak his petty revenge by getting her drunk.

She drifted off and was woken by a great din of applause and chatter. Young Fanning was prodding her. ‘Go Elaine!’ Elaine became blurrily aware of a huge banana filling the screen and she saw that it was from the cover of the novel. Now something white was fluttering in her face; Gerald was trying to give her his letter. She brushed it away as if she was being beseiged by wasps, pushed back her chair and set off towards the stage, gritting her teeth with the effort of moving her legs. Gerald tucked the rejected envelope into her clutch bag which she’d left lying on the tablecloth.

Having successfully negotiated the steps at the side of the stage, although partly on all fours, Elaine began to walk towards the host, who was eyeing her with an exaggeratedly horrified expression. There was a sprinkling of embarrassed laughter from the room, then a collective gasp as she lurched towards the edge of the stage. One leg swung out over the void and four hundred diners held their breath. With a tremendous effort she brought the wayward left foot back onto the stage where it unfortunately landed on her right. After swaying for a heart-stopping couple of seconds, while she struggled without success to lift the correct foot, she fell forward. Her head connected with the lectern with a sickening crack and she lay senseless at the feet of the host. A dark pool of blood seeped out from under her red hair.

Once Elaine had been removed by paramedics, the broken lectern had been carried away by members of the backstage crew, and the blood had been thoroughly mopped up, the host tapped the mike and addressed the shocked audience.

‘This is a horrible accident…. Elaine Parfitt’s in very good hands now, with our wonderful NHS… Mr Fanning Senior has gone with her to the hospital – so we can only wish her a full and speedy recovery. But there is one thing that the organisers would like to happen before I send you all off into the night. Please welcome Elaine’s publisher John Fanning to the stage to receive the award on Elaine’s behalf.’

As he presented the cheque, the host asked Fanning whether he knew what Elaine had intended to say. ‘No, I tried to get her to tell me,’ Fanning said, ‘and whatever it was I think she’d actually forgotten by the time she came up again. As you all saw, I’m afraid she’d become a little discombobulated.’

Benjie hid his face in shame, but no-one had noticed his part in the shambles, and he would never be reproached except by himself.

When Fanning returned to the table, Gerald spoke to him out of earshot of the others. ‘Why did you say that?’

‘I could hardly tell the truth, could I?’ said Fanning. ‘It would go down really badly, all that about her not having written the book. No, we’ll have to leave all that until she’s recovered. Obviously.’

Gerald could see the point and was prepared to be patient. However, the news the next morning from old Mr Fanning was not good. ‘She’s stable, but in a deep coma. They don’t expect her to come around any time soon. What a disaster! Such a lovely girl.’ Fanning senior was of course pleased to hear of her Booker success. ‘So well deserved. I hope she’ll be able to enjoy it before too long. ‘Bananas’ will be flying out of the shops, all the more so with this terrible business. We’d better order another big print run.’ He had no idea that Elaine was not the author.

That evening, when old Mr Fanning was visiting again, her distraught parents arrived from their home in Spain. After they had spent time alone with their silent daughter, trapped as she was in a web of bandages, wires and tubes, they went to the cafeteria with Fanning. They spoke of their surprise – astonishment even – and delight when she’d written this remarkable book, and what it might mean for her future career, once she recovered. He gave them the Booker cheque and citation, and her coat, which he’d had the forethought to reclaim from the cloakroom before he accompanied Elaine to the hospital. Having found the cloakroom ticket in her clutch bag, he’d slipped the bag into the coat’s inside pocket.

A month later, the news was no better. Young Fanning sent Gerald a further advance and told him that there was no need to hurry the writing of his exposé. That was a relief, as he had no appetite for writing it for the time being.

Elaine’s parents had obtained control of her financial affairs and were preparing to spend all her money on an operation in Boston that they had been convinced was her best hope of ever regaining consciousness. Luckily, sales of ‘Bananas’ had indeed been exceptional, although they could now be expected to fall rapidly until the paperback and ebooks came out. Old Mr Fanning had in fact felt unable to refuse an advance on such future sales to help the parents meet their expenses. They were regularly visiting him at the office, where Benji, unable to cope with their distress and his guilty conscience, was no longer the receptionist or indeed anything in publishing; he’d taken up an apprenticeship in plastic bottle manufacture on Tees-side.

It was now clear that it would be impossible ever to claim that Gerald had written ‘Bananas’, as long anyway as Elaine’s parents were living – and they were a fit and active couple. Gerald’s only hope, and one that was vanishingly small, was that Elaine would recover and go ahead with her announcement. But if that ever happened, surely he’d have to keep quiet about the true story of the deception and go along with the conspiracy tale – with or without the sex games. There was plenty time to give this more thought. And this process of thought was productive – ideas for stories began to flood in again and he was soon writing reams. He showed some work to young Fanning, who was shocked by its graphic violence. Fanning took it to his older brother. ‘Perhaps you’ll think this is another lot of juvenile tosh.’ Old Mr Fanning was shaking when he’d finished reading. ‘This is appalling! What’s going on in this man’s head? No, no, we won’t have anything to do with it. He needs help.’

After their unsuccessful visit to Boston, Elaine’s parents had to consider letting her go. They felt obliged to consider not only the dreadful loss to themselves, but the incalculable loss to literature if she was denied any chance of recovering and continuing her glittering writing career. They asked for another six months.

That passed all too soon and Elaine had not shown the slightest sign of consciousness since connecting emphatically with the Booker lectern. She was allowed to escape from her web into oblivion.

At the funeral, her parents and the Fannings were joined by a host of literary celebrities and arts commentators anxious to associate themselves with the glamour of this tragically lost talent, that had shot up and dazzled and then faded quickly into darkness, like a rocket.

Benji had declined an invitation, no longer out of shame but because now, not only was he indispensible at the bottle factory but he had been taken in hand for regular mutual satisfaction by the finance director’s secretary. His boyish looks would always be his passport to workplace entertainment, as long as they lasted.

Nor did Gerald attend the funeral. He’d taken himself off to a writing retreat on a Greek island, where his rate of production had slowed significantly compared with his recent achievements in London, mainly because he was constantly checking up on the activities of a fellow attendee, a Portuguese girl who clearly believed in the inspirational power of sunshine on naked flesh. Her oiled body, here and there with a light dusting of white sand, looked flawless and soft though his binoculars. As he watched, a light breeze from the sea caused a thousand goosebumps to rise on her skin, and his responded similarly.

Only after sunset did she get out her Moleskine notebook, and her work looked suspiciously like doodles to Gerald, whenever he glanced through the window of her room as he happened to pass and re-pass it.

It occurred to him that he had better take care that history did not repeat itself. She might be there not to write, but to steal his writing. Was she spying on him? He hadn’t seen any evidence of this as he kept close watch on her. But he knew from bitter experience how cunning these women could be. A vision came to him of dipping a stick into Elaine’s ruby blood and writing a warning across the Portuguese girl’s gently rounded stomach as she lay sleeping on the beach; ‘I know what you’re up to’. He chuckled to himself as he realised that he’d written it the wrong way up. In his mind’s eye he knelt beside her, washed it off, patted her skin dry and wrote it again. He pictured her looking down and reading it when she woke and sat up to apply more tanning lotion. This would make a good tale to read to the group the next evening when they were expected to share examples of their progress, and it would give her fair warning that he was on to her schemes. He’d better get down to it, but first he’d just stroll down to the harbour. If he made a little detour he would have to pass her room on the way there and back and this time perhaps he’d say hello and maybe get invited inside.

Clearing up Elaine’s effects after the funeral, her mother fired up a laptop out of curiosity, but having got to a desktop full of icons she was wary of going any further. There could be things a parent didn’t want to know about her own child’s life. But there might well be more writing, that must be investigated for posterity. She would hand the computer over to old Mr Fanning.

She had started filling a bin-bag with items to go to the charity shops when she felt something in a coat. Delving inside she found the clutch bag and inside that, among the tissues and lipstick, an envelope marked ‘Not to be opened until after the Booker’. Now it was well after the Booker – in fact the next one was already being discussed. This she could not resist. She opened it and read the letter inside.

‘That explains a lot,’ she thought. ‘Who can this “G” be, with his – or her? – “yours ever”?’ It was best not to enquire, and there was no need for her husband to know. She folded the coat up and placed it in the black bag on top of her daughter’s few belongings.