The announcement was perfect. Worded exactly as it ought to be. Mrs Foster despised announcements that included adjectives like ‘delighted’ when referring to the parents’ response, or ‘beautiful’ when referring to the Abbey. It was absolutely correct and spot on. Except, of course, for the name of the bride-to-be.

6

WARRINGTON WAS PLEASED with Howard, although the entire company was aware that his approval was fitful; often swiftly bestowed and hastily retracted. The man had an obsessive need to feel he was forever sharpening his game. His ambition sustained him, fed him and would quite likely ruin him, but not just yet. Competition was fierce; new theatres popped up all the time like mushrooms in a boggy field. Warrington tried to take comfort in the fact that other, newer actor-managers might not be classically trained, they might take short cuts, be lazy or unoriginal, but it was impossible to deny that – even if the actors needed prompts, the scenery was rickety or the costumes lacked authenticity – the new companies were novel. Novelty went a long way with audiences, who were not always as discerning as Warrington desired. It took daily effort to push the doubt from his head, to ignore the fact that other theatres were discounting seats or serving several flavours of ice cream in the interval, and to stay focused on the important matter of the acting.

Howard was an ace up Warrington’s sleeve. His writing was perceptive and witty; in tune with the spirit of the age but challenging too. He was so very young and yet already causing a stir; Warrington could only imagine how far his young prodigy might go, under the correct guidance. The early-morning rehearsal had been extremely productive. Howard alone was prepared to drill Warrington, correct him, coach him, offer unflinchingly honest feedback. He understood nuance and character like no other writer. Today he was the favourite.

As a reward, Warrington had invited him for drinks at his club, an undoubted honour that was occasionally bestowed and always gratefully received. Howard enjoyed visiting the mahogany and leather rooms in St James’s that smelt of cigars and stored masculine secrets. When he arrived, he found Warrington sitting with an assorted group of men, none of whom Howard knew personally, most of whom he knew by reputation. There was an eminent barrister who often visited the playhouse, a renowned novelist, two popular artists and several journalists. A gifted and influential bunch. He felt a shard of pleasant pride shoot through his belly at the thought of being counted amongst their number. He sat on a worn green velvet armchair and drank whisky without ice. The fire and laughter roared simultaneously.

One of the journalists was a fellow called Basil Clarke. He worked for the Daily Mail and was considered quite the bright young thing, even though Howard guessed he must be in his mid thirties, more than a decade older than Howard himself and therefore hardly young in Howard’s opinion. Clarke was prematurely bald and wore glasses; the two factors conspired to give him the appearance of a middle-aged man. However, alert intelligence oozed out of every pore and somehow countered the physicality, made the man young again. If he happened to glance your way, you felt interrogated and invigorated; he was the sort of man that made other men up their game. He was witty, caustic, it was known that he didn’t suffer fools gladly, and however good anyone considered him to be, he believed he was better still.