Throwing open the back door to the garden, she then changed her mind about the stool and told him to go outside and look at the view. She generally bossed and scolded him, telling him he looked pale and to get some sun and that she'd bring him a coffee and to sit at the table — no, not in the shade, in the sun — talking at a million miles an hour.

I gave her a hand as she buzzed around, hangover all forgotten, nothing artistic or fey about her homemaking now.

“Did you know?" I murmured, throwing a handful of empty eggshells in the bin.

"No!" she hissed.

“So what's he doing here?"

“Search me."

“Shall I make myself scarce?"

"Yes!"

Right. That was fairly unequivocal. Abandoning whatever greasy pan I'd been about to wash up, I crept upstairs, needing no further prompting. No tragedy at all, actually. I very much needed a lie-down. I stole gratefully back to bed, snuggled under the duvet and hunkered down. I shut my eyes. Edward! Celia usually had to make an appointment to see him, weeks in advance. And even then he generally canceled if he was feeling too sensitive. Edward was a very sensitive playwright, frightfully talented, Celia always told me, although it seemed to me the sensitivity kicked in mostly when his plays were panned, or pulled, or not produced at all, which appeared to happen with increasing regularity. Maybe because they were too difficult? I'd loyally been to see a few, usually in some converted warehouse in Tooting, or Peckham. A particularly memorable one involved a man lying naked on stage for two hours whilst various cast members — well, the other two — had a long and boring discussion about him. Celia told me it was very exciting and provocative, but it seemed to me Beckett had done it all years ago.