When Mary Cecilia jumped

She finally made the grade

Her name was in the obituary columns

Of both of the Daily Trades.

Pamela Angel sent flowers to the funeral.

Frances Kitson sent them back in a taxi to the National Theatre. On the back of Pamela Angel’s card she wrote: NOT WANTED ON VOYAGE.

31

The next Saturday night, late, Anthony Bonham drove home from Stratford (dropping off the young actress at Hammersmith again, whose kiss lingered on rather tediously he decided) to find his wife wasn’t home. She was not watching television, nor in the kitchen with her Campari, nor in bed and when he finally thought to check he found the pink Mercedes was not in the garage. Benedict was asleep, Viola was out. Anthony was very thrown by this: Pauline always said where she would be; it was one of her efficiencies.

He slouched crossly in front of the telly with a very large whisky, desultorily reading Saturday’s Daily Mail; it seemed to be full of nothing but show business stories, almost all of them connected with what everyone now called the Jinxed Reunion. The obituary photograph of Emmy Lou Brown unsettled him further: he had been genuinely fond of her, had admired her as an actress, vaguely thought they might find her something in The Immoralists. He had seen the good reviews she’d so recently had in Lives which were quoted in the obituary. Why should she kill herself? Silly sad girl. Nothing in the world was worth killing yourself over. He threw the paper on to the floor, uneasy.

Where was Pauline?

And Molly? He’d phoned her, he’d even written to her. He knew their last meeting would have stayed in her mind, as it had in his. But he got only her answering machine. He left urgent messages about the TV series, which were not returned. Didn’t she realise the chance he was putting her way? And didn’t she miss him? She must miss him.

And the activity surrounding The Immoralists seemed to have slackened. He hadn’t talked to Joseph Wain for some days. His agent said it was probably finance. But I want it settled.

Where was Pauline? When had he last spoken to her? Wednesday was it? Thursday? He’d told her he’d be home; she hadn’t said she wouldn’t be here. It was – he looked at his watch – Jesus Christ three o’clock in the morning.

Alarmed now, he went and woke Benedict, with difficulty.

‘Sorry Benny old chap.’ He knew how hard it was for Benedict to wake up in the morning let alone in the middle of the night. ‘Where’s Mum? She’s not here.’

‘Gone away,’ mumbled Benedict.

‘Gone away?’

‘She said she had to go away for the weekend.’

‘Go away for the weekend? Go away where?’

‘Didn’t say.’

‘Where’s Viola?’

‘With her boyfriend.’

‘What boyfriend?’

‘That guy.’

‘What guy?’