‘O lordy lordy and heaven be praised, what a bit of luck. In that case I’ll phone my producer who’s having a nervous breakdown and tell him to stop this minute.’ And Pamela Angel gave a little salute of the hand and disappeared back into the crowd, rummaging in the voluminous handbag and then coming up with a portable phone which she started dialling. The whole exchange had taken about two minutes. Emmy Lou saw her again through the crowd almost at once, gesturing with the portable telephone and talking to the Artistic Director of the National Theatre. Emmy looked down at the script in her hand in something like disbelief, hugged it to herself, then went to fill her glass and find her friends and tell them that it did matter where you went and where you were seen, after all.

*

Molly’s young man Banjo had found another musician he knew, Chris, sitting right down by the river smoking a joint. They were soon sharing a second joint and talking about the music Chris had composed for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s productions some years ago. Molly, talking to an actor she’d been in a TV series with, sought out Banjo with her eyes, saw him sitting there, so peaceful and content, talking music and she smiled back at the television actor, who suddenly thought, Molly McKenzie’s beautiful I never noticed. And Molly McKenzie, chatting to the actor, smiling, was thinking, I am happy: I can feel the sun on my arms and I have my work and I have my Banjo and I’m happy.

‘I saw that production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with Molly,’ Banjo was saying down by the river, ‘and I remember that music really well. I’ve always thought I’d like to sample it, that stuff you had with the bells for Titania you know? I’m making an album now, have you got a copy of it? Would you let me sample it on my computer? It would work great with one of my songs. I’d pay you of course.’

‘I have to talk to you young lady,’ said Anthony at Molly’s shoulder, ‘about work,’ and smiling apologetically at the actor she was talking to he led her into the house.

*

Harry Donaldson, holding a prawn, called to Pauline, ‘Darling this is delicious, where were you last Saturday? We missed you at the reunion.’

‘Well that reunion’s been on every front page in town,’ said Pauline smiling at him. ‘Let’s hope this is not such a public one though who knows –’ and she lowered her voice ‘– with the appalling Iona Spring sitting under the oak tree like Little Miss Muffet. Ah Harry, I’m so glad you brought Michael. But, oh God he looks terrible, poor thing. He’s going to die soon isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry.