He had in fact only just arrived, had flown from Aberdeen to Gatwick, driven from there to his bride of one week, who had just finished her own film Heartbreak; had opened the door of their house with his key, ran almost, so anxious was he to hold her; lifted her, kissed her, held her in his arms, his hands already on her breasts, her face suffused with happiness and desire as she pressed so passionately against him. And then the doorbell rang.

His face when he answered the door was puzzled, cleared when he saw Harry. ‘What have you done to your face Harry?’ he said.

And then he saw Juliet. Her face was so pale in the darkness and the light spilling from the hall that it almost shone.

‘She had to know Terry,’ sad Harry helplessly. ‘You should have told her.’

And Terence Blue stepped forward and took both of Juliet’s hands in his, as if some of his happiness could flow into her and she would understand.

‘I’m sorry Jules,’ he said. ‘I know. Of course I should have told you. Come in.’

In the front room just off the hall Nicky Abbott wore a white Victorian nightdress made of some warm material, she looked like a child. She was still slightly dishevelled and flushed. She smiled a little bemusedly at Harry and Juliet but said cheerfully, ‘Come and get warm.’ Unconsciously she held her hands gently together, over her stomach.

‘Have a drink everyone,’ said Terence, rubbing his hands together in an effort at friendly hospitality. He poured a large whisky for himself and drank it down at once, looked enquiringly at Harry. Harry kissed Nicky nervously, sat down uneasily on the nearest chair, asked for a beer.

‘A whisky Jules?’ said Terence, facing her at last.

Juliet Lyall, aged twenty-two, stared at Nicola Abbott who took her roles and her man. And then very deliberately she let her coat drop. She too was wearing white, a white dress, far too thin for the icy November evening. But her white dress was stained at the back, with blood. Juliet just stood there and as she stood, as if she had timed it, blood dripped slowly down one of her legs and on to the grey carpet in the room.

‘Sit down Jules,’ said Terence tensely, ‘have a whisky,’ but nobody moved still.

‘Are you all right Juliet?’ said Nicky in the husky, broken voice. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘That’s the remains of Terence’s last baby,’ said Juliet.

And she stood there in her stained white dress, her eyes shining with contempt and anger and pain.