“Um — Babs, drink? Do sit, honestly, everyone sit. I'll get another glass.” I scarpered inside. Once in the kitchen, I peered back through the open doors. I could see Babs talking and undoubtedly flirting, but was she being dismissive and scary, too? She could be. She often was. I grabbed the glass and scuttled back. Still Edward was on his feet — was he oblivious to his condition? How could he be? Or proud? Encouraging everyone finally to be seated, I kept the conversation light and general. Babs was sizing him up in silence. She lit a cigarette and peered at him through smoke and narrowed, highly amused eyes. Meanwhile I labored on about which route he'd taken, and the joy of finally getting to Stonehenge. How it took me back to my childhood every time. How, in my day, there were no ropes cordoning it off, and we'd perch on the stones to eat our sandwiches. All the time Babs looked on, and smoked and stared. Finally she cut in.

“So what is it you do, Edward?”

I nearly lowered my forehead to the table. Indeed, it's possible I did. Edward's smile faded and it seemed to me the sun went behind a cloud. The birds stopped singing in the trees, and an icy chill fell upon the garden.

“I’m a playwright,” he told her.

"Oh, how fascinating! What have you written?"

He told her and she frowned. "No. Sorry."

“But Edward's shows are mostly in London," I told her quickly. “They're not provincial.”

"I come to London. Do you get good reviews?"

By the time Celia came down from her bath, it was all over. Babs had gone through every one of his plays - three - and asked why he thought they hadn't worked. Why the critics hadn't liked them. As he'd told her, at rambling, juddering, stuttering length, she'd finally got bored. She glanced at her watch, drained her glass and said she'd had a lovely time but she really must be going. She was going sailing with Roger. Blowing us dinky little kisses, she got up and swept away down the garden and through the little picket gate, taking the sandy path to the dunes, and the beach below.

Celia came out into the garden, beaming. She was looking ravishing in a pretty yellow summer dress, her arms already brown from the sun. Smelling gorgeous, she had a touch of eyeliner on, some lipstick, but not a slap job. She was altogether looking hopeful, expectant, and delighted with life. I got to my feet.