Her life, her work, her self-confidence, her relationship with Banjo had kept her young at heart quite literally; she had simply not thought about ageing except in regard to the parts she was offered as an actress: she hadn’t equated this with her life, not aching joints and greying hair and loneliness. She thought of all the women of her age she knew, some with families, some without: how so many husbands had left for younger women (in her profession, younger actresses), a chance for the men to start again, to be young again. But this did not happen for women. Age was different, for women.

She actually shrank from young men who were pleasant to her, her self-confidence gone. There would be no more young lovers for her, she could not bear the thought of such a recurrence; maybe she would have no real lovers again. All these thoughts devastated her, showed in her face. She had been with Banjo when she turned the corner into age and had not noticed. But he – and she remembered again the holiday in Greece when he had turned away from her – he had noticed.

He had left her, and she had become old.

*

So Molly McKenzie decided to spend Christmas Day in a hotel in Hastings.

The morning Anthony had woken her with his phone call about Banjo and Viola – when just for a moment, waking so early, she had thought, like a dream, that it would be Banjo on the phone, wanting to come back to her – that day she had accepted the part of the Nurse at the Royal Shakespeare Company’s new production of Romeo and Juliet in the coming Stratford season. Mainly because she knew she must work or die and that was the only work she had been offered; but also partly because it was the same director who had directed Othello.

If I’m going to be old, she said aloud to herself, I’d better be old in a good production.

And then, as often happens, she immediately got a good role in a new television play, playing – she had laughed aloud – a palmist. She thought Anastasia Adams meant a psalmist, a religious nut.

‘No,’ said Anastasia, and then more doubtfully, ‘Well I don’t think so. I think they meant a fortune teller.’

Molly had laughed: psalmist, palmist what the hell. Her laugh had echoed in the empty Clapham house – no Banjo to say what? good! sleepily and pull her back into bed.

‘A nut but a different kind of nut do you mean Anastasia?’

Anastasia was used to Molly, knew she was unhappy. She never encouraged her clients to talk about their private lives, it wasted too much time, but she sometimes heard things on the grapevine and she indulged Molly this time.

‘Everyone over fifty is a nut darling, we know that.’

‘Every woman over fifty,’ corrected Molly.’

‘Every woman over fifty,’ agreed Anastasia.