‘Now listen Molly darling,’ he said. He told her how he’d been approached over The Immoralists.

‘It’s the chance of a lifetime,’ he said. ‘It will be shown all over Europe, Africa, Australia, India, and most importantly in America; it’s multi-lingual, will have subtitles – all that is definitely arranged, they’re hoping for big stars from each country, including America even though it’s television and I’ve heard that Marlon Brando is interested. Nothing like this has ever been done before. It’s a six-part series about corrupt international politics, it will be filmed all over the world, they’re even hoping Mandela might appear in it – frankly I can’t imagine why it hasn’t been thought of before. It will mean absolutely international recognition, like a movie, only better than a movie.’ He chuckled across the table. ‘I will frighten you if I tell you how many hundreds of millions the projected viewing figures are, and I’m to play the British Prime Minister.

‘And the thing is Molly darling, I want you to be my wife.’

For one absurd moment Molly stared at him.

‘You’d be perfect,’ he went on, ‘and no one knows better than me how well you and I work together as a couple.’ He leant across the table, took her hand in his.

‘I want you,’ he said

All sorts of complicated emotions muddled and jostled around Molly’s head. She felt confused, gulped at the wine. Anthony poured more from the second bottle that had miraculously appeared, took her hand again.

‘You do realise what a chance this is? It’s a good part – it won’t be as good as the Prime Minister of course but it is a good part. Of course the scripts aren’t ready yet and I’m not signing them till I’ve seen something more but I’ve seen the breakdowns, it’s great stuff. You do realise what I’m saying?’

‘I do,’ said Molly. ‘But – do you have a say in all this? They may have their own ideas.’

Anthony smiled across at her. ‘They want me a lot,’ he said.

‘I’m not surprised about that, after tonight’s performance,’ said Molly almost helplessly.

The waiter appeared with small dishes of crème brûlée, Anthony did not even bother to let go of Molly’s hand.

‘After this,’ he said, ‘we’ll go back to my house for coffee, I’ll show you the breakdowns and I’ll make the coffee, you’ll need coffee, if you’re driving back.’ And very gently as if they were alone on a desert island not sitting in a busy restaurant he leant across the table and ran his hand down the side of Molly’s face, along her neck and down on to her breast. His concentration on her was absolute: he literally didn’t care whether anyone was watching or not.