Before the house lights went down, Helen caught sight of Stephen. He was sitting to one side of the auditorium, alone, and looking straight ahead at the stage. It was as if he was willing the curtains to open, Helen thought, so that he could see Pansy again.

The play itself was subtly different too. Oliver was adequate, familiarity having given a kind of polish to his playing that compensated for his interest being so far from it. But Pansy was so good that she carried everything with her. The new warmth which Helen had detected from her hiding place in the green room was still there, even intensified. More, she seemed to inspire the rest of the cast to try to match her.

When at last the curtain fell on her epilogue, Helen turned to Darcy and saw that he too was blinking back the tears.

‘She’s going to be famous,’ Helen said, rising to her feet with the entire audience. ‘She must be. She’ll be a great actress.’

The applause was deafening. Pansy and Oliver took their curtain calls, smiling at the audience hand in hand, but never once looking at each other. Then Pansy came forward alone. She kissed her hand to the sea of faces again and again, laughing, pleasingly bewildered by the acclaim. Then a single white rose landed at her feet. She stooped to pick it up and stuck it into the bodice of her dress. Almost at once there were flowers all around her and she scooped them up until they spilled out of her arms.

In response to a new crescendo of shouts, Pansy held out a hand towards the wings. Tom ducked into the blaze of lights and bowed, quickly, almost formally. Then he took Pansy’s hand and kissed it, turned her to face her audience one more time, and then led her away.

The house lights came up to a long, last cheer of delight. The play was over.

Helen and Darcy joined the throng of people making their way to Tom’s party. Helen had never seen Tom’s home and she looked interestedly up at it. It was an elegant, flat-fronted house in a North Oxford garden square. The front door stood invitingly open.

‘Here goes,’ said Darcy, pulling at the ends of his bow tie and grinning at her. Helen squeezed his hand, and was still holding it in hers when they stepped into the warmly lit hall. Tom was greeting his guests at the door. He saw their linked hands and there was a flicker of something that turned into cool amusement in his face. Helen felt a prickle of irritation and wondered why it was that Tom still had the knack of annoying her, however much she liked him.

Their relationship should have been simple, but it wasn’t.