Anthony Bonham had recently read in a health magazine that molasses could halt baldness. He came marching crossly out of their bathroom, rubbing the sticky black mess into his hair. But even as he spoke he still stared at his hair in the mirror in the bedroom, turning his head from side to side looking for signs of success.

‘Did you say you’re not going?’

‘Yes.’

‘But this is ridiculous. You sent an RSVP; you said you’d go.’ He sounded indignant, as if Pauline’s manners left something to be desired and it reflected badly on him; she knew of course that he was indignant because he hated going to such things on his own.

‘A great crowd of actors all talking about themselves in a hot stuffy room!’ she said wryly. ‘I shouldn’t really think my absence will be noted.’

‘I thought we were going together. After all it’s where we met.’ Anthony spoke grumpily, stalked back into the bathroom, still massaging. ‘You ought to come. It’ll be interesting to see everyone, see how they’ve done after all these years.’

She looked out to where the River Thames flowed past the bottom of their long garden; it would be another hot day in this endless, endless summer. ‘See who you’ve done better than?’ she asked.

In the bathroom mirror Anthony viewed himself again. ‘There’s that too of course, yes,’ and Pauline Bonham, née O’Brien, once named the Most Promising Newcomer of the Year to the West End stage, gave a slight smile, looking at the river. Anthony Bonham of course was now more successful than almost everyone.

Anthony rubbed particularly hard with the molasses where his hair was disappearing at the front. ‘I wonder who’ll be there,’ he said. And then suddenly thought, but did not say: I wonder if Molly will come.

Pauline regarded the holdall Anthony always brought home from Stratford-upon-Avon full of dirty socks and underpants. She thought, but did not say: I suppose Molly will be there.

‘Do you suppose Terence Blue will come?’ she said.

‘Terence? Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll be in Hollywood swanning about.’ Anthony stepped into the shower in irritation but did not turn on the water; he hated getting the taps sticky. He did not like to have to consider Terence Blue. The only actor from the class of ’59 who’s more successful than me, became a bloody film star, lives in bloody Hollywood, the whole bloody lot.

He wiped the molasses carefully off his fingers with a flannel and then turned on the water. Automatically he began to exercise his voice: MAHNAHLAH MAYNAYLAY MEENEELEE MAWNAWLAW he sang, and his voice echoed around the bathroom. And just once more the thought came to him: I wonder if Molly will be there.

His wife turned away impatiently at the sound of the voice exercises and went downstairs with the holdall of dirty washing.