‘Jane Austen or Charles Dickens or George Eliot?’ asked Anthony, and Harry grinned. He had cornered the market almost in slightly roué British eccentrics of days gone by, the Tory nostalgia market he called it. Old ladies were always accosting him in the street.

‘Thomas Hardy this time,’ he said, ‘but before that thank God I’m off to Morocco soon for a fortnight’s holiday. What about yourself?’

‘I’m at Stratford,’ said Anthony, affronted.

‘Oh God yes of course, good reviews, really good – I read them Tony, congratulations, you’re playing Iago aren’t you?’

‘And Claudius,’ said Anthony stiffly.

‘Of course, Claudius, of course – I knew, I knew, it just slipped my mind. What’s that new young chap like, playing Hamlet?’

‘Middling,’ said Anthony. ‘He’s got a lot to learn.’

‘Ah,’ said Harry, nodding wisely (thinking that playing Hamlet to Anthony’s King might have its drawbacks for a young actor).

‘No voice,’ said Anthony. ‘Young people coming into the business can’t do it, they can’t speak Standard English properly, they don’t know how to use their voices in a big space; they mumble for telly and then they think they can do that on stage.’

‘Ah,’ said Harry.

‘Still, no performance tonight, that’s the joy of repertoire,’ and Anthony let the remains of the bottle trickle down his throat. Then he stared at the empty bottle gloomily and gave a huge sigh. ‘Do you notice the smell of this place?’ he said, dissatisfied, perplexed. ‘I’ve always heard that smells can distill memory somehow, in some subtle way, but when Molly and I walked in the door I swear that smell of furniture polish and cabbage hit me in the stomach like it was 1959 again and all the rest hadn’t happened, nothing subtle about it. How utterly depressing.’ He shook his head.

‘The smell of your youth,’ said Harry. ‘We’re the older generation now, it’s hard to believe isn’t it?’

‘We are not old, we are in our prime,’ said Anthony, ‘only people who’ve been unhappy in their youth grab at old age the way you do, welcoming it.’

‘I wasn’t quite welcoming it,’ said Harry wryly, ‘just mentioning it. Anyway I’m a character actor, I’ve been old since I was young.’

‘That’s not the point. We are not old!’ Anthony’s face had become quite red. ‘I’m playing Iago; Iago is not old.’

‘In the terms of his time you could definitely call him menopausal,’ said Harry mildly, ‘worrying about where he’s got in the world, jealous, feeling his life a failure, someone else getting the job he wanted, maybe even sexually... and of course, as for Claudius—’