Benedict was almost white under his summer tan with rage and humiliation. ‘Stop treating me like a child!’ he shouted at his father, and guests turned to listen. Anthony grabbed at Benedict’s arm before Frances, standing next to him, could stop him. Benedict pulled away, swung his arm back as if to hit his father. Banjo, who had reached the top of the lawn, grabbed Benedict’s arm, yet quite gently it seemed, or Benedict felt, for he stopped at once, looked at Banjo in puzzlement for a moment. Then he turned and walked back into the house.

‘Jesus Iona,’ said Anthony, and drank back the remains of the whisky that hadn’t spilled

‘He’s gorgeous and he’s got to start sometime,’ said Iona to Anthony cheekily, ‘although frankly I think you’ve got a dirty mind if you think I’d do anything with a boy. Perhaps you’re jealous darling, now that you’re old and balding and he’s so beautiful.’

Anthony’s face turned bright red. He swivelled around quickly and walked into the house also.

For a moment nobody said anything. Pauline had not spoken, but now she said, ‘Have another drink everybody, Iona I’ll call you a taxi.’

‘No no,’ cried the Strindbergian, ‘I’ll drive you Miss Spring, it will be a pleasure and we can talk about the Strindberg play further.’ There were several drunken guffaws, quickly silenced. Iona gave a little, real, sigh. Then she followed it almost at once with a big theatrical one.

‘Darlings I am exhausted, and no doubt the press will be waiting at the other end. I must go, and I would be eternally grateful Mr –’ she struggled and remembered ‘– Mr Hibberd, if you would drive me.’ She waved and was gone, the director in her wake. She hadn’t until that moment moved from under the oak tree all afternoon, she had looked beautiful continuously for nearly five hours, and the scent of Guerlain hung there still, in the air.

Suddenly Pauline began to laugh, and Frances, standing there looking after Iona Spring in amazement began to laugh too. They leant against each other now as if it was 1959 still, they laughed and laughed and laughed, so that everybody around them, unable to help themselves, began to laugh too.

‘Strindberg!’ cried Frances, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Strindberg!’

Laughter everywhere, in the summer garden.

‘Poor poor Terence Blue,’ said Pauline finally, wiping her eyes, ‘have a drink for God’s sake, everyone,’ and she and Frances giggled and murmured to each other still, and the chatter began again, the odd clink of a glass.