‘I don’t think so, thank you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t we be going to your Wig and Piglet?’

‘Perry’s taking the witches first. We’ve lots of time.’

‘Still, I’m obsessively punctual and shan’t enjoy my oysters if we’re cutting it short.’

‘If you insist.’

‘Well, I do. Sorry. I’ll just tidy up. Where’s your bathroom?’

He opened a door. ‘At the end of the passage,’ he said.

She walked past him, hunting in her bag as she went, and thought: If he pounces I’ll be in for a scene and a bore.

He didn’t pounce but nor did he move. Unavoidably she brushed against him and thought: He’s got more of what it takes, Highland or Lowland, than is decent.

She did her hair, powdered her face, used her lipstick and put on her gloves in a bathroom full of mechanical weight-reducers, pot plants and a framed rhyme of considerable indecency.

‘Right?’ she asked briskly on re-entering the sitting room.

‘Right.’ He put on his overcoat and they left the flat. It was dark outside now. He took her arm. ‘The steps are slippery,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to start off with a sprained ankle, do you?’

‘No. That I don’t.’

He was right. The steps glimmered with untimely frost and she was glad of his support. His overcoat was Harris tweed and smelt of peat fires.

As she got into the car, Maggie caught sight of a tall man wearing a short camel overcoat and a red scarf. He was standing about sixty feet away.

‘Hullo,’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s Simon. Hi!’ She raised her hand but he had turned away and was walking quickly into a side street.

‘I thought that was Simon Morten,’ she said.

‘Where?’

‘I made a mistake. He’s gone.’

They drove along the Embankment to the Wig and Piglet. The street lights were brilliant: snapping and sparkling in the cold air and broken into sequins on the outflowing Thames. Maggie felt excited and uplifted. When they entered the little restaurant with its huge fire, white tablecloths and shining glasses, her cheeks flamed and her eyes were brilliant. Suddenly she loved everybody.

‘You’re fabulous,’ Dougal said. Some of the people had recognized them and were smiling. The mâitre d’hôtel made a discreet fuss over them. She was in rehearsal for a superb play and opposite to her was her leading man.

She began to talk, easily and well. When champagne was brought she thought: I ought to stop him opening it. I never drink before rehearsals. But how dreary and out-of-tune with the lovely evening that would be.

‘Temperamental inexactitude,’ she said quite loudly. ‘British Constitution.’

‘I beg your pardon, Maggie?’

‘I was just testing myself to make sure I’m not tiddly.’

‘You are not tiddly.’

‘I’m not used to whisky and you gave me a big one.’