‘It saves money,’ said Claud, abashed but unrepentant. He had invited Laura’s nosiness, he told himself.

‘If you keep a stall in the market, you will be able to afford digs. Maeve’s mother, sorry, Mavis’ mother has a spare room, I happen to know. A cosy sort of loft.’ Laura gulped the coffee, which invigorated and exhilarated her. Buttering her croissant, she remembered that she had skipped breakfast. This would account for her elevation of spirit; it could not at her mature age be due to Claud’s appearance. ‘How old are you, baby?’ she asked, her mouth full of croissant.

‘What?’ Claud’s coffee nearly went the wrong way.

‘I said, how old is your baby?’ Laura emended.

‘Oh, I see. Two paragraphs and sixteen sentences, to be exact.’

Claud sucked in his breath. Too late now to confess the true size of his manuscript, an unwieldy pile of much corrected typescript which haunted his nights and plagued his days. It contained, he realised as he looked at Laura, a mass of half-digested ideas, poor jokes, unresolved situations, phony descriptions of love-making and long descriptive passages in no way relative to the plot. What plot? Nervously he repeated, ‘Two paragraphs and sixteen sentences.’

Laura was amused. They laughed. Claud felt immensely relieved. He was saved the risk of showing her his writing; he guessed she would despise it; he would jettison the bulk of it, start afresh.

Laura took off her hat and tossed back thick, springy hair.

‘D’you want your bill?’ asked Mavis, hovering.

‘Not yet, thanks,’ said Laura. ‘I did ask for more butter and jam, Mavis. Is that loft of your mother’s still to let?’

‘Yes, she’s upping the rent. There are people who want your table,’ muttered Mavis.

‘Then want must be their master; I get claustrophobia if squashed. I’ll bring Claud round to see it. Do bring us our butter, Mavis.’

‘Those people—’

‘Perhaps they hope to share with us?’ Laura looked dangerously round. ‘Who are they?’

Three people waiting nearby moved away and squeezed themselves round a table for two, much cluttered with used cups, buttery plates and cigarette stubs squashed into saucers.

Laura munched her croissant and watched Mavis clear the table of its detritus, give it a perfunctory swish with a cloth and take the people’s order. ‘Mavis is an actress. She doesn’t go on the dole, she takes this mean job and from this lowly position she observes human nature. She will weave all our mannerisms into her future parts. I shudder to think how I am contributing to some future box office draw. Perhaps you’d rather write plays?’

‘No, thank you, that’s not my line at all.’ Claud shuddered at the thought.

‘Well, at least you know that.’

‘That’s not a very kind thing to say, not in that tone of voice.’