‘Where do you get your inspiration from?’ This is probably the question I get the most, and the short answer is everywhere. Nothing is sacred around me, so don’t tell me your secret, because I probably won’t be able to keep it. I lived abroad for 16 years, and one of the most irritating things about living in countries where you don’t speak the language is not being able to eavesdrop easily. It still annoys me that I never knew what that couple were arguing about on that train platform in Rome before she got on the train by herself, and he sat on the platform and cried. And that other time in Italy where two police officers came out of the bushes looking very dishevelled, straightening their uniforms, picking leaves out of each other’s hair before having a conversation and carrying on with their rounds of the park. I mean, I think we can all guess what they were saying, but it would have been nice to have it confirmed.

The plot for my second book came from a conversation my mum overheard in an M&S café, thanks Mum. My first book was borne out of a newspaper article I read, while my third was sparked by seeing a woman on the tube wearing a necklace with half a heart pendant, and my fourth book came from a Van Morrison song. My fifth, was from a note written on a wall under some wallpaper my sister was removing during her house renovation and my sixth one, well, I’m still waiting for inspiration to hit for that, so if you see a 40-something woman with a hat over her bright red hair, dark glasses, hiding behind a magazine next time you’re telling a friend your deepest darkest secret, maybe whisper. Or failing that, just speak in Italian.