‘Just the same,’ he said again, looking at Molly’s face, looking at her mouth, his eyes lingering there, remembering. Then he seemed to pull himself together. ‘Let’s go in and get it over with,’ he said. ‘Jesus it’s hot, Jesus I need a drink,’ and he took Molly’s arm, whether to support her or comfort himself she could not tell, and they entered the building.

*

The grey-haired old woman, who was actually fifty-four, paid off the taxi, saw Anthony Bonham and Molly McKenzie disappear into the old building, stood alone on the pavement, staring up at the carved stone figures of comedy and tragedy over the doorway. She closed her eyes; she was so assailed by memory she almost fell. But she breathed deeply, as she had learned to do and then opened her eyes again. London Academy of Drama 1897 was chiselled into the old stone. If she was fifty-four, so were all the others, more or less – slightly older in fact because she had been the youngest. But she had not dyed her hair nor had her teeth capped nor bought a house in Portugal or France. She had lived somewhere very different and just for a moment, remembering, she closed her eyes again at the weight of all the changes.

‘Nicky? Oh my God, I’m sure it is, but I – it can’t be – is it...?’ and the voice wavered for a moment, unsure, ended the sentence on a nervous note, ‘...Nicky?’

The old lady opened her eyes and saw Juliet Lyall, one of England’s most well-known, best loved, actresses. Standing there, pale, in the sunshine.

‘It is you Nicky,’ said Juliet, her voice shaking very slightly. ‘My God – it is you.’

‘Yes,’ said the old woman after a slight pause. That unforgettable voice. ‘It is me.’ And just for a moment the two women stared at each other and between them something flickered, almost tangible on the air, something there in the midday sun on the shimmering hot pavement in the unseasonable London heatwave.

More taxis, more voices, more cries of greeting and recognition. Someone called Juliet’s name.

‘Juliet, Juliet, saw you in The Seagull you were wonderful darling.’

Juliet waved vaguely at the taxis, turned back.

‘How – how are you Nicky?’ she said uncertainly to the old woman.

‘As you see me.’

‘What I mean is...’ Juliet’s voice faltered again and then came out in a rush. ‘Nicky why on earth are you here?’

‘It’s a reunion.’ The voice that Juliet Lyall knew – had known – so well. Dark and smoky, like autumn. It had sat oddly, and memorably, on a young girl of seventeen.

‘But... I never thought for one moment – I mean, I didn’t expect...’ Juliet’s voice fell away.

‘No,’ said the old woman. ‘No, I don’t suppose you did.’ She stared up again at the carved stone figures.

Voices called Juliet, Juliet. Juliet looked trapped. ‘We’d better...’