‘Yes,’ said Nicky, ‘I expect it is.’ Still she looked up at the Honours Board, the place with her name; she did not look at Juliet Lyall. All her strength was needed to remain where she was, to remain calm, not to run away. She held one hand with the other, to stop the trembling.

‘Nicky – I can’t stay long, I’ve got a matinée but – please – we’ve got to meet, we’ve got to talk, my God how could I possibly imagine you’d be at something like this, will you come to my house, or – I don’t understand, are you living in London? I mean – could I come to see you? Could I Nicky?’

Then at last the grey-haired woman turned to face the beautiful woman of a certain age (she would be fifty-six, Nicky knew) who stood beside her: Juliet Lyall, one of the renowned and respected actresses of her generation.

‘No,’ said Nicky simply. And then she looked at Juliet with a small, strange smile on her face. ‘Tell me Juliet,’ she said, ‘what would we talk about?’

And she walked away, further down the dark corridor.

Juliet Lyall remained, motionless, under the Honours Board. She was shaking.

A group of people spilled out of the Music Room laughing, saw Juliet, called Juliet there you are Juliet darling saw you in The Seagull you were marvellous darling, simply marvellous, and finally Juliet walked back towards the voices.

There was no sign of an old lady; like the smiling, crying and blank-faced masks she had disappeared.

*

The Academy principal, who had enthusiastically welcomed the class of ’59 (though he was a keen, young, new administrator rather than a thespian, and not of their era), announced from the raised platform at the end of the room that he thought it would be a good idea if Terence Blue, their most illustrious graduate, said a few words. Several actors groaned quietly.

Terence, who had had several drinks, finished another one and then stepped up on to the platform. He smiled his famous smile at his audience and launched into a story about their youth. He charmed them into listening, even those who didn’t want to: he had a sort of self-deprecating humour that made people smile back at him, despite themselves.

Standing near, listening, transfixed, was the woman in the purple dress who had anonymously phoned his answering machine from the Dorchester Hotel so early that morning. When he had arrived in the Music Room she had pulled at his arm and smiled and smiled and said in her little girl’s voice Remember me?

Terence spoke easily, used to telling stories, reminding them of their first day at the Academy in 1959 and making them laugh.

Then out of the corner of his eye he saw Nicola Abbott standing by the door, looking at him.