It was Irene who had insisted on inviting friends round to watch him in the film, which the production company had sent them on video weeks ago but which tonight was live on tv, Adrian’s name appearing near the end of the credits, in smaller faster letters than those of the main parts. The TV Times called the film ‘pointless’, and privately Adrian agreed, but Irene had said they should mark the occasion nevertheless. She had asked fifteen people they knew well and a few of them had invited extras, so it ended up with twenty-two of them altogether in the small sitting room, with the table pushed back against the wall and chairs and cushions arranged around the tv screen. Irene made little crescents of puff pastry stuffed with tomato and cheese that split open in the oven and disgorged their contents, blistering darkly over the pan. She bought slabs of Cheshire with vinegary pickles, crusty baguettes that she warmed in the oven; bags of satsumas with pocked and pouchy skins and deep-filled mince pies with lattice tops, and got a crate of beer and a case of Chilean red wine, on special offer, from the off-licence. She searched out their chipped plates and assortment of glasses and tumblers to set upon the table, along with paper napkins left over from Sasha’s birthday party, and candles that she pressed firmly into their glass holders. And then their friends had arrived, bringing sparkling wine, popping corks at the ceiling, getting drunk enough not to notice or to care how paltry the film really was. Irene had intended it as a gesture of confidence, but it had at the same time something elegiac about it. Maybe this was the start of a new era, as their friends insisted as they raised their glasses in a hearty toast, or perhaps it was simply the undramatic coda to a career that had never taken off.

Now Irene was upstairs and only Frankie was here, her elbow splayed on the table and smiling at him, while behind her a candle flickered down, casting shadows. She stood up, swayed slightly, giggled.

‘I should go,’ she said. ‘Look at the time. I’ll be hopeless in the morning.’

‘Don’t leave,’ he said. ‘Once you’ve gone there’s no one left and it’ll all be over and what will I do with myself then? Stay. Keep me company. Have another drink.’

‘No, really. I never meant to stay so late.’

‘It’s not late. It’s only –’ He stared at his watch face, squinting. The numbers swam.

‘I’ll call a cab, if that’s OK. The underground will be closing down, and anyway I don’t want to walk through Hackney at this time of night.’

‘Go ahead then.’ He gestured to the phone. ‘I can’t move.’