‘Here’s to Emmy Lou,’ she said, picking up her champagne glass, ‘who didn’t cook turkey, God bless her soul wherever she is.’ And after they’d drunk she added, ‘And to you Franny, I’m so glad you’re being a successful actress at last, it’s so nice to see you on the telly nearly every day.’

‘I’m not sure I’m an actress,’ said Frances wryly.

‘Yes, yes you are,’ said Mrs Kitson firmly. ‘When you sang you can’t get a man with a gun with your father at those shows at Blackpool and places I always knew you’d make it one day, and I know God moves in mysterious ways, but it doesn’t matter that it’s adverts dear, you haven’t finished yet, think of your father and how he struggled, you’re on telly almost every day and getting paid for it. You’re an Actress.’

*

Izzy Fields had cooked Christmas dinner for ten people; her two other children had arrived with the grandchildren; there had been a huge decorated Christmas tree, Christmas laughs and tears and food and fights and hugs and delight and sulks and joy. The usual Christmas.

Now, late afternoon, Christmas paper and presents lying everywhere, dishes in the kitchen lying everywhere, people too lying everywhere – on chairs and beds and couches – a sort of peace had descended on the house in Tufnell Park; she could hear the television droning from the sitting room but no one was watching. Her husband had borrowed her bicycle to go for a ride to clear his head and escape the dishes, his bike had a puncture.

She too left the dishes, took a coat off the back of the kitchen door, walked out down the snow-covered path and on to the slushy road.

She had just received another long contract from the National Theatre: a raise in salary; more small parts, a couple of which looked as if they would be quite fun; more understudying. Izzy Fields would be employed as an actress forever, she probably worked more regularly than any other person from the class of ’59.

She walked slowly down to Kentish Town Road. It was just beginning to snow again. It had been a happy Christmas, no more rows than usual and the children made it fun. But all the same there had still been that heavy feeling round her shoulders, that burden.

She had not yet recovered from the death of her friend Emmy Lou Brown.

She found she thought of Emmy every day. The sad little funeral at the Actors’ Church in Covent Garden, the subdued gathering of friends who all knew exactly why Emmy Lou was dead. The cast list had gone up at the National Theatre for the new year production of Lives by Eurydice Smith, directed by Pamela Angel: the part of Alice was to be played by Dame Helen Storey. And Izzy was to understudy her.

That was Show Business.