‘Now don’t laugh at me, but I thought about writing a story about someone who is in fact two people – I am sure it’s been done hundreds of times! Dear me. The way I go on. We have lived in such isolation, Miss Darcy – we have become a bit peculiar. A little – cracked?’ Beatrice Ardleigh laughed, a tinkling girlish laugh, as though to indicate this was not to be taken too seriously. ‘I realize it each time we go out and meet people. I do hope you aren’t finding us too objectionable? We have the silliest and pettiest of spats sometimes. I bet people think us quite mad!’

Antonia gave another polite smile. She was wondering what to do. Shouldn’t she simply rise, apologize and say she had an important engagement? ‘Where do you live?’ she heard herself ask instead.

‘Oxfordshire. Wallingford. It’s a pleasant enough place but quite dreary. It’s our first visit to Hay-on-Wye and I am loving every moment of it. I find the smell of new books intoxicating!’ Beatrice shut and opened her eyes in a show of ecstasy. Her bosom rose and fell. The finest perfumes of Arabia might have been paraded for her inspection. Everything about her was heightened, exaggerated – dress, words, gestures. ‘Is that Kinky Friedman? Over there – look!’ She pointed excitedly. ‘The tall man with the drooping moustache and the desert boots? Or is it one of the Village People? I heard they were here – they have written a joint memoir, haven’t they?’

‘I am afraid I have no idea,’ Antonia said.

‘Apparently -’ Beatrice went on in a loud whisper, choking with silent laughter, ‘Apparently, Kinky Friedman thought Hay-on-Wye a sandwich, when he first heard about it! I’ve read two of his books.