And then the unthinkable happened. One night Juliet Lyall, one of the most respected and well-known British actresses, dried on stage. Forgot not only her lines, but also where she was in the play, where she should be on the stage. She almost fainted with fright: the old Actor’s Nightmare had come true. Somehow the play went on; the other actors, seeing the look of absolute panic on her face, moved her about the stage; she at last picked up the thread; the play continued. Almost nobody in the audience noticed a thing.

But Juliet’s supreme confidence, with her all her life, was gone. Every performance was a nightmare as she came to the same part in the play and feared she would forget again. The other actors, some of whom disliked Juliet very much, nevertheless felt for her, tried to support her, watched her like a hawk every evening on stage. For they superstitiously knew that the sickness passed from actor to actor when least expected: it could be their turn one day.

Juliet’s days and nights, so ordered and so full, became a nightmare of panic and distress. Her osteopath became worried, booked extra appointments, clicked her neck; her psychoanalyst sat with her, felt her despair, but was unable to touch her thoughts. Her masseuse, a kind and sensitive young woman, could feel the extraordinary tension in Juliet’s body, tried to stroke it out, put her hands gently on Juliet’s head, relax, you must relax, she said over and over again trying to smooth out the terror that seemed to be there.

At last, one night after another frightening show, suddenly leaving the theatre at once, suddenly refusing to see the Japanese professors and the American academics (so sorry, she has a previous engagement, said her dresser, so sorry), Juliet sped home in a taxi. In Cheyne Walk she picked up the phone before she had taken her coat off and dialled a number she had never forgotten. Let him be there, let him be there.

‘Grover here, good evening.’ He answered, as always, courteously.

Juliet could hardly speak for a moment. ‘Grover, it’s me. It’s Juliet.’

‘Juliet?’ The voice sounded very surprised but also, almost at once, amused. ‘Juliet Lyall?’ He knew quite well it was her although she hadn’t contacted him for nearly four years, had vowed last time she saw him never to again.

‘Grover, can you come?’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

‘After all this time?’

‘Yes.’

‘After vowing you’d never call me again?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘I have a – client in the next room.’

‘Grover please. I’ll pay whatever it costs. Please please please come.’ Juliet Lyall was begging. ‘I need you.’

Grover was brisk. ‘Have your chequebook ready. I’ll be there in an hour. Are you on still on HRT?’

‘Yes of course. Why?’

‘Never mind. See you.’