On the last night Harry and Frances went again to see their friend; the play had changed slightly as the actors grew into their roles, was clearer, better in parts. Pamela Angel was the kind of director who came to almost every performance, gave notes to the actors, talked to them long into the night when some of them were anxious to get to the bar. Some of the actors grumbled, found ways of dashing out straight after the show, my agent’s here darling, but not Emmy Lou. She worked always, never let her performance quite settle; her friends saw there was something intangible there, luminous and true.

On that last night The Three Stooges, as they sometimes called themselves, went out to dinner afterwards; after they’d had quite a few drinks in the pub below the theatre Harry decided, I insist darlings I insist I insist, on taking them to one of his favourite Indian restaurants.

‘It’ll sit on our stomachs,’ objected Frances, ‘we’re too old to eat Indian food at eleven-thirty in the evening.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Harry, ‘this is vegetarian and light, you’ll see,’ and he brandished two bottles of very good white wine from the depths of his raincoat pocket.

‘Isn’t it even licensed?’ groaned Frances.

‘Trust me,’ said Harry. Emmy Lou hummed along the road beside them. They were all slightly and pleasantly drunk. She’d made a small private farewell to Alice, as the other actors called goodbye, cajoled Pamela Angel to remember to send them their forty pounds, collected make-up and coats from the crowded dressing room. She knew she and Alice would be meeting again.

In the restaurant they ate poori, light pancakes filled with vegetables and spices; the women exclaimed with delight, Harry smirked and poured the wine.

‘Here’s to you Em,’ he said, raising the thick glass tumbler the waiter had brought for the chardonnay.

‘We’ll be at your next first night too,’ and Emmy smiled and smiled.

Frances told them again about Milton and their sexual debacle although each of them had heard a version of the story on the telephone.

They laughed, the three of them, sharing again their rackety and yet brave lives, huddled over the wooden table drinking the wine, trying to cheer Frances, knowing she had been hurt. Harry put his arm across her shoulder often.

‘Darling Franny,’ he said, ‘be reasonable, you couldn’t have gone to Switzerland, we need you here, you’re our family, what would we do at Christmas? And it’s your turn this year, you can’t get out of it that easily! We all belong together, we’re family.’

And Emmy Lou said, ‘I couldn’t survive without you Franny.’

And Frances shrugged and laughed her infectious laugh, good old Franny, and they drank more wine.

‘I can dream,’ she said.

‘Darling I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but he was – odd,’ said Harry.