‘We-ell...’ the designer sat back, his pink tie over his black shirt matching the pale pink in the Harrods chintz. ‘You knew of course they’d made the parents of the two sons much more attractive than they are in real life so that they couldn’t complain about their portrayal. They’re a rather seedy couple actually, well in my opinion, you know two-up-two-down in Stirlingshire – well now both sets of parents are very glamorous, they won’t recognise themselves now and your part, the Aunt, has been changed, you’ll love it Miss McKenzie, it’s got much more bounce to it, I thought – I thought you knew,’ he hurried on, seeing Molly’s face, ‘she’s going to have an affair with the father of the bride.’

‘Her brother?’ Molly stared at the designer open-mouthed.

‘Well he’s now her brother-in-law, oh you know Miss McKenzie how it is, so they can bring in the guilt stuff when the bride is stabbed. And of course it’s no longer in Stirlingshire, it’s in Knightsbridge – the real family’ll never guess.’

‘What, they’ll never guess that a play about a bride being stabbed by her brother-in-law while she’s changing into her going-away outfit is the story of their daughter? What are they going to think? That it’s just an ordinary story of everyday folk?’ Molly stalked, as best she could in bare feet, across the Harrods carpet to the courtesy telephone, picked up the receiver – ‘press nine Miss McKenzie,’ said the Harrods dresser anxiously – and dialled her agent’s number.

‘Listen Anastasia,’ she said without preamble, ‘they’ve completely changed the fucking script of this murder thing and I’m here in my undies in Harrods hearing about it!’

‘Darling,’ said Anastasia Adams, ‘I’ve been trying to contact you, they’ve just biked the new scripts over here and I’ve just had a look. It’s great, your part is great, bigger than before, not a cameo any longer and they’ve even upped the money, most unusual, you have an affair with the bride’s father and you’re in bed with him upstairs after the wedding when the stabbing happens in the room next door.’

‘Jesus wept,’ said Molly.

‘It’s a showier part,’ said Anastasia, warningly. ‘It’s what you need, you were the one complaining about the boring parts for middle-aged women.’

‘But – they aren’t going to get permission from the actual family it happened to!’

‘What are you talking about? This is fiction, a play, a three-parter for television, like Cracker, it’s sure to be a hit, you’ve got a better part than you first supposed! What’s the matter with you?’

Molly felt the Harrods carpet underneath her feet, knew the others in the room were watching and listening.

‘OK,’ she said at last. ‘Thanks. Talk to you later.’