‘Well do,’ he said, ‘it’d be interesting to see the old girl meet him again. Did he talk about the circus?’

‘Yes,’ said Pauline, ‘yes he did,’ and she turned into his arms. From his chest he heard a muffled sound and realised that his wife, who never cried, was crying.

Later, in bed, he pulled Pauline above him, felt the strength of her, felt her straining backwards as she always did; just as he came she moaned quietly.

He fell asleep almost at once.

But Pauline Bonham lay with hooded eyes, awake in the darkness.

*

Next day over lunch, with Viola and Benedict there, she herself brought up the subject of the television series.

‘I had lunch with Joseph Wain last week,’ she said.

Anthony suddenly looked very alert but said nothing.

‘He said he’d talked to you about the new TV series he’s doing.’

‘What new series?’ said Viola looking from one to the other. ‘Are you going to play another big huge lead Daddy?’

‘It seems there’s also a big huge lead for me,’ said Pauline, smiling at her daughter.

‘Really?’ cried Viola in delight.

‘Now just a minute.’ Anthony put down his knife and fork. ‘It’s all very early stages yet, the scripts aren’t ready, contracts aren’t anywhere near to being signed. I don’t know that the wife’ll be a good enough part.’

Pauline watched her husband very carefully indeed.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You think it might not be?’

‘You know the parts of wives,’ he said.

‘Oh indeed I do.’

‘Dad can I borrow your car?’ said Benedict who had been surly all morning, not looking at his father, the memory of his humiliation in front of Iona Spring still painful.

‘Why don’t you borrow your mother’s?’

‘The old Mercedes is a sissy car. It’s pink.’

Anthony frowned and then caught himself, decided to make peace – the appalling Iona Spring wasn’t worth it – and also to change the subject. He smiled at his son. Anthony’s car was the latest BMW.

‘Sure you can,’ he said. ‘And as soon as you reach the magical age of nineteen you can have one of your own.’

‘A convertible?’ Benedict’s face was red with surprise.

‘A convertible if you like.’

Benedict got up from the table smiling for the first time for a week, Iona Spring forgotten. ‘Thanks Dad, thanks for dinner Mum, see you tonight.’

‘Where’re you going?’

‘To Jeremy’s. He’s got a new computer.’ And Benedict was gone.

‘Now listen Dad,’ said Viola, ‘I don’t nag you, but what about my new car? I’m twenty-four and I’m driving a mini.’

‘You’re a girl.’ He dodged the flying napkin. ‘You know why Viola darling,’ he said, ‘you’ve had a year in America before you went to drama school—’

‘I worked!’ said Viola. ‘I was a waitress.’