The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

with whom.’
    Nina was shocked. ‘Oh, I don’t think anything of that sort is going on.’
    ‘It’s different from any residential course I’ve ever been on then,’ Holly said easily. ‘A hothouse atmosphere like this and away from the office, a couple too many glasses of Chardonnay and you can believe that you fancy almost anyone. The problem is sitting next to them at work the following week, and realizing what a prat you’ve made of yourself.’ She nodded across towards Alex. ‘He’s fit enough. If I weren’t a police officer, I could be tempted!’
    Nina gave a little laugh, but found that she was shocked.
    The main business of the evening started during coffee. It was clear that Miranda considered herself the star and the mistress of ceremonies. Any notion that she was there simply to serve them was quickly dispelled. They were still in the dining room, and she took her natural place once again at the head of the table.
    ‘This has been a disturbing and unusual week,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to thank the tutors and students for their concentration and their focus at such a difficult time. The quality of work produced has been outstanding and, instead of dwelling on the tragedy that occurred here, I think it right to celebrate this evening the fine writing that has been achieved.’
    There was no further reference to Tony Ferdinand. Again Nina remembered the pain the woman had expressed when she learned of his death, and she wondered at Miranda’s poise.
    ‘Tonight we each have the opportunity to share a short piece from work created this week.’ Miranda looked around the table. ‘Do we have a volunteer to begin?’
    A number of hands shot into the air. Diffidence, it seemed, was not a problem within the group. The students probably thought interest would wane as the evening progressed and more wine was drunk.
    ‘Lenny,’ Miranda said, ‘would you like to start us off?’
    Lenny got to his feet. He’d shaved since the afternoon and Nina had noticed that throughout the meal he’d only been drinking water. Despite sounding so defeatist at lunchtime, it seemed that he now intended to give this his best shot. As he picked up the sheet of paper from the table, Miranda saw that his hands were shaking.
    ‘Before I do my reading,’ he said, his accent so broad that Nina wondered if the southerners in the audience would understand him, ‘I’d just like to thank all the people who made this possible for me. The Bartons and the tutors, and the rest of the folk here who’ve given me so much support. It’s been like a dream come true.’
    Then he launched into his reading. Nina had expected a piece from the beginning of his novel, an action scene, following two teenage lads racing a stolen car round Blyth housing estate. That was what he’d told her he’d read, when they were discussing it at lunchtime. It was well written, fast, and developed the characters immediately. Instead, he’d chosen something else, something he’d written at her insistence after their first tutorial.
    ‘This is great writing, Lenny,’ she’d said. ‘But the story’s all told at the same pace. It’s fast and furious from beginning to end. Occasionally the reader needs time to catch her breath and it’s good to change the mood a bit too. Try to write something tender for me. A love scene or a conversation between a parent and child.’
    Now he stood, the paper shaking in his hand, like a sail hauled in too close to the wind, and started speaking. His voice was slow and almost without expression, but the tone of the piece was so unexpected, so sad, that he had them hooked from the first words. She stood at the window watching her man walk out of her life.
    He read for only a couple of minutes, then he stopped abruptly. Nina wasn’t sure if he’d intended to end the piece there or if he’d become so moved, by his own writing and by the occasion, that he was unable to continue. He sat down to applause and looked around him, confused, as if he’d just woken up.
    ‘Wow!’ Miranda got to her feet. ‘Well done, Lenny. I don’t envy the person who has to follow that.’ She looked around the table and Nina thought she would ask for another volunteer. She was deciding she might raise her hand herself and get the ordeal over with, when Miranda focused her attention on the ex-policeman, Mark Winterton. ‘Mark, would you like to try?’
    He stood up. He seemed unflustered. Nina supposed he’d be used to