From her accent she was clearly American and looked to be approaching forty, but thanks to the genius of modern make-up might even have overtaken it. ‘How are you, darling?’ she cried, and threw her arms around me, an opening that didn’t help as we were at a Literary Guild cocktail party, and anyone will throw their arms around you on such occasions, even the directors of the Book-of-the-Month Club. I realised I would have to resort to the old party trick of carefully worded questions until her answers jogged my memory. I racked that section of my brain which is meant to store people, but it transmitted no reply. She squeezed past waiters and guests and had reached me before I had a chance to ask anyone who she was. I waved back realising I knew the face but I was unable to place it. SHE WAVED AT ME across a crowded room of the St Regis Hotel in New York.
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