How much of the modern story is autobiographical?
Hmm, a handsome Englishman, a cache of never-before-seen papers…. If only. I did loan Eloise my basement flat in Bayswater, as well as a rather bizarre party featuring models and glo-sticks, but the rest is pure imagination. And, no, no boyfriend of mine ever smooched another woman in the cloakroom of the Faculty Club, nor did I go abroad because I was thwarted in love. (Believe it or not, I’ve actually been asked that several times since the book came out—including by an old family friend!). It’s called fiction for a reason.
