When they had left drama school Molly and Juliet had both, like Emmy Lou Brown and Izzy Fields and Pauline O’Brien and Frances Kitson, gone straight into repertory companies in the provinces: Liverpool, Manchester, Salisbury, Worthing, York, Ipswich, Birmingham, Newcastle, Edinburgh. They criss-crossed their country by train, knew the times of every late-night train in the timetable, we could get jobs on the railways as speaking timetables, Frances had said, we know more about train times than the engine drivers. Molly and Juliet had played good big leads. Sometimes they even played the same parts even though they were different types of actresses: once they had both played Juliet in different theatres at exactly the same time because Romeo and Juliet was on the school curriculum; they met on a train and compared notes.

They both did so well, both soon joined the big national companies, a kind of equal battle – until Juliet’s film-producer father got his daughter the part in The Red Dress.

The battle was not equal, after all.

‘Is soap opera fun?’ Juliet continued, trying to make normal conversation as they walked along.

‘No Juliet, it’s not much fun,’ said Molly. ‘You have to work too fast for it to be fun,’ and they slowed down at the corner. ‘Do you know that for most TV jobs now you don’t even rehearse? You don’t even have a read-through. I’ve almost forgotten the joy of the work, the reason I started, that wonderful day after day concentration on a play, rehearsing a part, trying to make it work, and how I loved it. Nowadays all the young actors arrive with their part prepared, their performance ready, Thatcher’s children desperate to succeed, well who can blame them, no time to try and fail for a day or two. There’s a kind of – I don’t know...’ Molly fumbled for the right words ‘...a coarsening of the creative spirit, of the thing we loved. Or so I find it,’ she finished wistfully.

Juliet, who had had eight weeks’ rehearsal with one of the best directors in the country and a short provincial tour before The Seagull opened in the West End to critical judgement, appeared not to hear. She looked at her watch. ‘I think I’d better take a cab to the theatre, may I give you a lift somewhere?’

Molly shook her head. ‘No thanks, I’ve got my car.’

A taxi cruised by on the other side of the road. Juliet hailed it, dodged the traffic, turned back and waved to Molly, got in and gave the driver the name of the theatre in Shaftsbury Avenue. She sat back in relief, breathing deeply in and out in and out, calming her heart in and out in and out. At last she felt her heart beating more slowly. She had two shows to do: full houses, of course. She would be fine.