Encore!

  'What's happened to the pub?'  Wayne Reynolds stared about him, then jumped in shock at the sight of the alien glass in his hand.  'And what the fu...?'
  'It's wine, Wayne,' his wife Marie explained patiently. 'It won't kill you.'
  'What's it doing in my hand, though?'
  'You're drinking it, babe.'
  'But why would I do that?  I'm an Englishman!'
  'Because we're all in a cafe in Paris,' Daphne Randall explained.  'Since we only exist in our author's mind and she's over here in France for a few days.  If you've noticed, man, my beer est disparu as well.'
  'Oh Tom!  How romantic!' sighed Hilary, grasping her husband's hand.  'We do so love Paris, don't we darling?'
  'We do indeed, my love!'  Dr Appleby pressed his lips to her hand.  A smouldering look passed between them.  Tom took Hilary's other hand and kissed that too, never taking his eyes from hers.
  'If I was our author, I'd tell the rest of us to bugger off and stick with writing about those two,' Wayne said to Toby, with a nod towards Hilary and Tom.  'That's the kind of stuff that sells, innit?  She could knock twenty years off 'em and turn your man Tom into a millionaire banker instead of a boffin, and she'd be quids in.'
  'But that's absolutely not what she writes!'  Sally objected.  'We're the opposite to all that, an antidote to that stuff in fact, with heroes who are poor and ordinary, women who are courageous, wise and confident, and rich people who are slimy and dishonest - like they are in real life!' 
  'That's true enough, pet,' Daphne replied.  'But us characters still get to enjoy a bit of a bonk now and again, don't we - yourself and young Danny included!'
  'I know!' Sally laughed.  'But ours is sort of fun bonking, messing about and trying to sort out how to do it properly.  I bet there isn't a market for novels about that!'
  Daniel suddenly seemed even more fascinated by the views of the city from their Montmartre vantage-point, as he turned to face the window, but Sally could tell he was blushing as his ears were pink.
  'He's getting much better,' she added.  'Really.  And I am.'
  Dan's ears darkened.
  'Whatever,' said Wayne.  'You and the nipper might not be that hot, but Hilary and your decorator are a different matter.  She's missing a trick, I tell you.'
  'You've got a point, mate,' Toby agreed.  'It'll be just her luck if someone nicks those two for inspiration and rattles off a fan-fiction best seller - Fifty Shades of DLA, anyone?'
  'No chance!'  Tricia argued.  'Some of her readers already disapprove.  Don't tell H, but one reviewer says their romance is nauseating.'
  'Nauseating!  She would be well pissed off!'  Martin laughed.
  'That is somewhat uncharitable,' said Vaughan James.  'But I suppose if one bought the books for serious political and social comment, one doesn't expect to find two of the principal characters gallivanting around the garden in a state of undress.'
  'Or snogging in public - even in fucking France!' Wayne added.  'Oi!  You two!  If you're going to carry on like that, get a room!'
  The hand kissing had escalated.
  'Don't be so bloody British, man!' Daphne chided.  'Let them kiss and cuddle in peace.  You're in Paris, after all.  I certainly wouldn't say no if our author fancies sending me over here for a racy little adventure, investigating crime on the Canal St Martin with a dishy gendarme or two.  In those circumstances, I could even cope without a decent pint!'
  'You aren't headed anywhere more exotic than Manchester Piccadilly, from what I've heard,' Harry Biddulph grumbled.  'And, before anyone says anything, I aren't stripping off for her readers, neither.  I'll leave that full-frontal malarkey to the Appleby lads!' 
  Daniel was suddenly overcome by the need to photograph the view, rushing outside with his camera, while Tom was evidently oblivious to everything except the sweet lips of his beloved Hilary.
  'I don't mind doing a sex scene, ladies!'
  A stocky man in his fifties, wearing square glasses that really didn't suit him, wandered in to the café.
  'What are you doing here, Fishy?' Sally demanded.  'You're supposed to be in Woking, redeeming yourself by working for me, not making disgusting suggestions!'
  'Yeah, yuk!' Tricia said.  'You've totally put me off my steak tartare, creep!  If I was in publishing, I'd pay our author not to write that scene.'
  'I don't know, Tricia' teased Vaughan.  'Aren't you curious to know exactly how the night ended when Mr Pike and I shared a room, courtesy of the Hampshire constabulary!'
  Gary Pike fled the café, ashen-faced.
  'Actually, he's absolutely not my type...'  Vaughan insisted.  'And if anyone suggests otherwise, I will sue!'
  'I'm glad that horrible man has gone,' said Lyn.  'I quite like it here.  I've never been abroad before, and it is pretty and romantic.  I wouldn't mind spending a few days here.  We could do one of those little riverboat trips, and have a look in some of those nice shops, and stay in one of those elegant buildings George's son was photographing, before Sally went outside and started kissing him.'  She smiled fondly at the young lovers.  'What do you think, Terry?'
  'We've got to go, Lyn love,' he said.
  'Go where, Terry?  Why?'
  'Back to the book - she's writing again, and we're in the first scene.'  He coughed loudly in Hilary's direction.  'You too, darling!'
  Hilary disentangled herself reluctantly from her husband's embrace, smoothed down her hair and straightened her dress.
  Lyn swiftly swilled the last of her wine. 
  'See you all soon!' she said