He caught a taxi home to Kentish Town, he heard the swish of the tyres on the wet road as he half dozed, thinking of Michael, the beautiful, golden boy.

He was annoyed with himself for not switching his answering machine off; when he went away he always turned it off, let his agent know where he could be found and this time in all the excitement he’d forgotten. So it flickered and flickered its red light, call after call.

He ran a bath, flicked the switch, the tape rewound. He fast-forwarded the first calls which were from Juliet before she’d found him in Morocco.

But rewound when he heard a woman’s voice he didn’t quite recognise.

Mr Donaldson, it’s Mrs Beale from Copperfield Hall. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Roger Popham died in his sleep last night. I thought you might like to know, he was very taken with your visits. There’ll be a very small funeral on Friday if you should be able to come – he didn’t have any family so it will just be a short private service, at the church down the road near the Hall. Perhaps you could ring me.

Harry put his head in his hands, sitting naked on the edge of his bath.

As he sat there the messages ran on, inconsequential pieces of his life. Till he heard Frances’ cheery voice welcoming him home, telling him to phone her about Emmy Lou’s opening night, and about her new Swiss Gentleman Friend, chattering on, making him smile, good old Fran, he loved her. He got up, jumped into the bath.

The last message was from Pauline.

Harry darling, it’s Pauline, I think you’re coming back about now. Mrs Beale said she’d phoned you, I went to the funeral and I’m glad I did. Thank you for what you told me Harry, about meeting my father when you were young. I hope you had a lovely time. Phone me when you’ve got a moment.

Harry lay back in his long Victorian bath. It was nearly two o’clock. He had yet another costume fitting at Berman’s at three. Maybe he could see Pauline before he went to Michael’s, he wondered if she was sad. He must talk to Frances, he’d missed her, and to Emmy Lou about her rehearsals, she’d sent him a funny postcard and sounded so happy, it had warmed his heart. His agent had reminded him, when he phoned him in Casablanca yesterday, that the publicity people on the Thomas Hardy series wanted to speak to him urgently as soon as he got back. He would have to phone Juliet eventually. How quickly real life returned. He was just rather reluctantly pulling his sunburnt body out of the bath again when the telephone rang. It was Annabel.