There was a kind of nagging anxiety somewhere just on the outskirts of his mind. He hadn’t talked to Pauline for over a week and all he got every time he phoned home was the answering machine. How dare she not be at home last weekend without at least an explanation. Viola had not been there at all either; on Sunday he and Benedict had morosely eaten a cold chicken from the fridge and a homemade apple pie that Benedict had been instructed to remove from the freezer. Benedict had seemed uncurious as to the whereabouts of his mother and his sister, they’re always out these days, he had said, had removed himself to his friend Jeremy’s house and computers for almost the whole day. And Anthony, crossly wandering about the empty house, turning down the central heating which – as if they thought he was a bottomless financial goldmine – was on full in every room, had finally fallen asleep for most of the afternoon, snoring with his mouth open on the sofa by the television, surrounded by the Sunday papers from which photos of Terence Blue smiled up at him. He’d woken with a headache and gone to bed alone again The whole business put him extremely out of sorts.

Pauline had better have a pretty good explanation when he got home again tomorrow night.

From his Stratford dressing room he phoned Molly yet again; her answering machine said she was not available at present.

He tried his home number again. His own actorly tones informed him that he was out.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen of the Othello company in the Swan Theatre, this is your half-hour call, half an hour please,’ and his dresser knocked again at the door.

The next evening Anthony rather brusquely informed the young actress that he could take her to Hammer-smith only if she could be ready ten minutes after the show ended; the young actress, who was used on a Saturday night to hanging about with a devoted look while Anthony fielded compliments from visitors and drank a rather dashing amount of whisky, was ready in five at the stage door. She was quite devastated (she is a tedious girl, thought Anthony) when he only gave her a quick peck on the cheek when they came to the Hammersmith turn-off.

Pauline was at home as usual sitting in front of the television with a long glass of Campari and soda in her hand.

‘Now look here Pauly...’ said Anthony, cross and yet oddly relieved at the same time.

‘Sssshhh,’ she said, ‘that dreadful old film of yours about Oliver Cromwell is on.’

‘What!’ Anthony stared at the screen. ‘That old rubbish?’ He poured his own whisky, sat beside her on the sofa. He’d made that film before they were married, when Pauline’s career was more successful than his own.

‘Oh Jesus,’ he said, ‘will you look at those wigs!’