Out on the street again she thought with rising excitement that although this was a play on the fringe it could probably lead to other things, felt an extraordinary feeling of relief that she would be working again at last. On the tube, deciding to go home and change before rehearsal, she had, by the time she got to Highbury and Islington, transferred the successful play to the National Theatre, had it chosen as Best New Play of the Year and then had it made into a movie. It wasn’t until she got almost to Finsbury Park that she realised that she called this thing she was so grateful for work – but that she wouldn’t be paid for doing it.

*

In a film studio in north Wembley the money was better but the enthusiasm was somewhat different: it was the first day of Frances’ two days on her advert for the Wise Insurance Company playing The Plump Woman.

Frances had also got up early, like Juliet Lyall thousands of miles away, no actual exercise but a shower under alternate hot and cold water until her body became at least a little alive, because the car was coming at 6 am. It was the third commercial she had done and she knew that they picked her up in a car – not allowing her, as with some jobs, to find her way by first light on public transport – not because of respect for her person but because they were so anxious about the advert – about their client, about time, about money. They wanted the ‘talent’ as it was called, usually dismissively, where they could put their hands on it.

So she sat back in the comfortable car, pulled at her padded bra, reminded herself to think of the money she would earn and not to get angry no matter how she was treated. There’d be a laugh in it, somewhere.

At the small studio The Thin Woman turned out to be an Australian actress she had worked with years ago with an unfortunate name in Frances’ opinion: Davinia Fook, although it sounded slightly better in Australian. Davinia had been struggling to bring up a son on her own since he was born. They sat in the make-up room: the two actresses and two make-up girls, warm and cocooned, early morning radio playing softly in the background. The rest of the crew except the first assistant had not yet arrived.

‘How’s your son Davinia, he must be grown up now?’

‘Twenty-four. He’s a sound technician, loves it. How’s your jolly husband, a dentist wasn’t he, did you have any kids?’

Frances’ mouth fell open. ‘Sorry,’ she said to the make-up girl who was applying a thick foundation. ‘Davinia, is it that long since I’ve seen you?’