Evie was close to tears. “I might lose the part.”

Daisy said: “I can’t imagine this will do the movie any damage—quite the reverse.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Evie.

“I’m so sorry, Evie,” said Jasper, with all the sincerity he could muster. “I feel I’ve really let you down.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Evie said.

Jasper had got away with it. Around the table, no one was looking accusingly at him. They saw the Echo report as nobody’s fault. The only one he was not sure of was Daisy, who wore a slight frown and avoided his eye. But she loved Jasper for his mother’s sake, and she would not accuse him of duplicity.

Jasper stood up. “I’m going to the Daily Echo office,” he said. “I want to meet this Pugh bastard and see what explanation he can offer.”

He was glad to get out of the house. He had successfully lied his way through a difficult scene, and the release of tension was enormous.

An hour later he was in the newsroom of the Echo. He was thrilled to be there. This was what he wanted: the news desk, the typewriters, the ringing phones, the pneumatic tubes carrying copy across the room, the air of excitement.

Barry Pugh was about twenty-five, a small man with a squint, wearing a rumpled suit and scuffed suede shoes. “You did well,” he said.

“Evie still doesn’t know I gave the story to you.”

Pugh had little time for Jasper’s scruples. “Bloody few stories would ever be published if we asked permission every time.”

“She was supposed to refuse all interviews except those arranged by the studio publicist.”

“Publicists are your enemies. Be proud you outwitted one.”

“I am.”

Pugh handed him an envelope. Jasper tore it open. It contained a check. “Your payment,” Pugh said. “That’s what you get for a page three lead.”

Jasper looked at the amount. It was ninety pounds.

He remembered the march on Washington. Ninety pounds was the fare to the USA. Now he could go to America.

His heart lifted.

He put the check in his pocket. “Thank you very much,” he said.

Barry nodded. “Let us know if you have any more stories like that.”

• • •

Dave Williams was nervous about playing the Jump Club. It was a deeply cool central London venue, just off Oxford Street. It had a reputation for breaking new stars, and had launched several groups now in the hit parade. Famous musicians went there to listen to new talent.

Not that it looked special. There was a small stage at one end and a bar at the other. In between was room for a couple of hundred people to dance buttock-to-buttock. The floor was an ashtray. The only decoration consisted of a few tattered posters of famous acts that had played there in the past—except in the dressing room, where the walls bore the most obscene graffiti Dave had ever come across.

Dave’s performance with the Guardsmen had improved, thanks in part to helpful advice from his cousin. Lenny had a soft spot for Dave, and talked like an uncle to him, although he was only eight years older. “Listen to the drummer,” Lenny had told him. “Then you’ll always be on the beat.” And: “Learn to play without looking at your guitar, so that you can meet the eyes of people in the audience.” Dave was grateful for any tips he could get, but he knew he was still far short of seeming professional. All the same he felt wonderful onstage. There was nothing to read or write, so he was no longer a dunce; in fact, he was competent, and getting better. He had even fantasized about becoming a musician, and never having to study, ever again; but he knew the chances were small.