Looking round the long, successful gardenful of people talking and laughing Emmy Lou felt, once again, out of things. Only her fierce belief in herself sustained her at such gatherings: she watched almost in fascination as Iona Spring held court; it turned into disbelief as she heard a BBC director talking to Iona about Strindberg. As she turned away to look for her friends, Frances and Harold and poor Michael, she bumped, literally, into a short, very plump woman whose (luckily empty) glass rolled on to the grass.

‘Oh my God, sorry,’ said Emmy Lou and bent to pick up the glass. The plump young woman smiled, accepted her glass back and then looked at Emmy Lou more carefully.

‘You played that lovely neighbour in a wheelchair in the West End, I remember you, that was such a good performance in all that shit.’

When Emmy Lou smiled, as her friend Frances had noted often, her whole face lit up, all the lines and pulls of disappointment suddenly turned upwards and surprised the observer. She smiled now at the plump woman, who was obviously an American, who went on: ‘I was at Cambridge and I had already decided I wanted to be a director but while all the other wankers were drooling over Shakespeare and Ford and Pinter I used to haunt the West End whenever I could and see the rubbish and try and decide why it was successful, why it made money, that’s how I saw that garbage and that’s how I saw you.’

Emmy Lou laughed. ‘I’m taking all this as a compliment!’

‘So you should. My name’s Pamela Angel – and I am a director now and I’m directing a play on the fringe and we’re starting tomorrow and we’ve lost one of our actresses and oh my God it would be such a good part for you. Look this is totally bizarre, I don’t even know your name – could you read the play? We only pay expenses of course, look what is your name? Forgive me for not remembering.’

‘Emmy Lou Brown—’

‘Are you free now Emmy Lou Brown? Like literally tomorrow?’

‘I’m free,’ said Emmy Lou, dispensing with all the small face-saving talk about waiting to hear about another job.

‘OK Emmy Lou Brown, who’s your agent?’

Emmy Lou told her. Pamela Angel whipped out a pen and notebook from her voluminous handbag, made a note, pulled out a script, snapped the handbag shut again.

‘Would you read this? The part of Alice? And come and see us at the Holborn Centre tomorrow at ten o’clock? There’s no salary as I say but we pay expenses and I promise you this is a play in a million.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Emmy Lou.