‘Did you see,’ she said, ‘that Juliet’s missing the last fortnight of The Seagull? It was in the late edition of tonight’s Standard. It said she was suffering from nervous exhaustion, she was taken by ambulance from the theatre the other night after the show and it’s just been announced she won’t go back, can you imagine Juliet Lyall of all people suffering from nervous exhaustion? She’s made of granite!’

Harry remained very still for a moment. And then he shrugged, and Frances thought how quickly his tan had faded, he’d been back from Morocco for less than a week yet he looked quite pale, but of course Michael’s death had affected him very much.

‘She’s making a film in America in a fortnight,’ said Harry, ‘perhaps she couldn’t handle everything, we’re none of us getting any younger Fran.’

Frances laughed, squeezed Harry’s arm affectionately across Milton. ‘Not us lot darling,’ she said, ‘we’re not weakening, we’re as tough as old boots, the class of fifty-nine, especially Juliet. Oh and listen, I went up for another advert today and you’ll never guess what it was for, Triumph Telephones, the opposition to British Telecom!’

Harry laughed and Milton smiled. ‘Ah my dear Frances telephones are obviously your métier,’ he said, ‘did you advise them you were employed by one of their competitors in another capacity?’

‘I was a jibbering idiot Milton darling, I should have asked you what to say, you represent clients, you know what goes down well, but there was no notice, I was just suddenly called in. I couldn’t decide whether it was a plus or a minus me being one of British Telecom’s employees, I kept starting to tell them and then changing my mind.’ Fran’s laughter bubbled up. ‘It must’ve looked as if I had St Vitus’s dance or something, you know, I thought they might think I could be very useful as a spy and then I thought they’d just think I was an unsuccessful actress, then in the end I did tell them and they looked nonplussed.’ She was laughing at herself, leaning against Milton slightly as she did so. The lights in the theatre started to go down. ‘Is your filming going well?’ whispered Frances.

‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘it’s rather good and frightfully English, I think it will go far, preferably America and West Germany where the royalties are highest.’

Frances smiled, they both leant back into their seats, the buzz of conversation faded, the theatre was in blackout.

When the stage lights came up after a few seconds Emmy Lou was sitting in a corner of the acting space in an old battered hat. She had dirty bandages around one of her legs. She had a small, rusty shopping trolley and she was folding and re-folding old newspapers, her tongue moving in time to her folding. These were her possessions.