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unsettling. Being attracted to somebody other than my husband was not entirely
unfamiliar, but now that I could do something about it, the feeling was
downright frightening. If only Biff would put those upper arm things away —
what were they called? ‘Guns’ or were they ‘cobras’?
    “Thanks,” he replied. “I’ll be right through.”
    “Oh no!” gasped Dawn. “You can’t eat with us!”
    “Oh.”
    “This is a dinner for writers.”
    “Oh. All right then. I’ll just eat in here on my tod, shall
I?”
    Although Dawn’s rudeness beggared belief, I was secretly
relieved that Biff wouldn’t be joining us for our evening meal. He was just too
distracting to be around. Unwanted fantasies kept popping into my mind (had I
ever had a fantasy involving watering cans before?) both making me blush and
serving as a painful reminder that my marriage was over.
    I took one last sneaky glance at Biff and then made my way
into the dining room, which was imposing. The walls were papered with dark
maroon trefoils and the enormous table was made of dark mahogany. A pair of
antlers sprouted from the wall, next to a portrait of a stately heron. I
shuddered when I remembered my own recent encounter with a large feathered creature.
    I tried not to think about the note in the hat. It was
clearly somebody’s idea of a sick joke. Anybody could have written it and then
slipped the felt-tip pen into their pocket. The important thing was to try to get
the most out of the weekend.
    Montgomery sat at one end of the table, majestic like a
walrus king. Dawn took a seat at the other end, bursting over the edges of the
chair like the queen of pigs. They silently fought over which end was the head
of the table.
    “So, what do we all make of Emily Whistlefoot!” asked
Montgomery, with a low chuckle.
    The others laughed. I wondered what I was missing.
    “Oh yes! Emily Whistlefoot!” echoed Dawn, knowingly.
     I wondered if I should go along with this and pretend that
I knew exactly who Emily Whistlefoot was, but I was just not that proud, at
least not in this company.
    “Who is she?” I asked.
    “She told Rafe that he’s got ‘a greet talent for language’,”
chuckled Dawn, wobbling with laughter, like Jabba the Hutt.
    “A greet talent! Really!” laughed Annabel, as if she
were a human dictionary. I imaged what the Fleming dictionary would be like — probably
one of those bargain digest books, with a pink fluffy cover to try and sell ‘words’
to the reality-TV classes.
    “She told me that my book was ‘ exiting and hart-stopped.’
And she spelt ‘hart’ without an ‘e’!” thundered Montgomery, practically doubled
over with laughter.
    “Is she a reviewer?” I asked.
    “Reviewer stroke fan stroke lunatic stroke ...”
Montgomery then squealed the opening bar of the famous Psycho soundtrack, whilst making stabbing motions in the air with a table fork. Screech,
screech, screech.
    The others copied. All screeching at different pitches, and
attacking different parts of the room with their cutlery. This went on for some
time, before, finally, they dropped their weapons and looked a bit sheepish.
    The wind whistled through the trees outside, shwoo  ...
    “She’s got a big crush on Rafe!” cackled Dawn, checking him
out as she spoke.
    “And me it seems,” laughed Montgomery. I regarded the
unsightly hair sprouting from his ears with wonder.
    “ Has she got a crush on me?” asked Rafe, with fake disbelief.
He straightened his spine and glanced around the room at empty spaces, all wide
eyed and vacant-looking.
    “Yes!” chorused Dawn and Annabel. I felt sure I saw Annabel
lick her lips.
    “Well, how ludicrous!” gasped Rafe. “I’m a writer, that’s
all. Never was a writer a heartthrob! I mean me ? Little me? Well, how
embarrassing!” Then, he turned to me. “You must know Emily Whistlefoot, Dee;
she comments on the forum all of the time.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t.”
    “What? You mean you