The River Thames sparkled in the bright afternoon sunshine as Izzy cycled up to Waterloo Bridge. She had expected only to enjoy the reunion; somehow it had thrown her, unsettled her. She got off her bike, stared down the river for a moment, at St Paul’s Cathedral, hazy in the distance. It was true what she had said to Anthony and Harry at the reunion: despite everything, she loved her profession. She now, at Britain’s National Theatre, sat in on some of the most prestigious rehearsals in the world, always playing a small part, or understudying a couple of the other actresses. And she saw how it was: even in this famous company there were good actors and bad actors. And among those good and bad actors there were the usual Show Business Luvvies as members of her profession had begun to be dismissively called; there were the celebrity appearances and chat shows and scandals in the newspapers.

And sometimes it was the people in the headlines that got the work, not the people who could act.

It was a bit like the Royal Family, mused Izzy. Her profession that had once been so admired had become so unpopular. At the last film and television awards one of the papers instead of praising any actor for a good performance headlined their report: LUVVIES, EGOS ABLAZE.

She got on her bike again to cycle over the bridge but she wasn’t concentrating. She wobbled dangerously and a taxi hooted angrily. Automatically she smiled and rang her bell. The taxi-driver gave her two fingers and she calmly gave him two fingers back. The taxi-driver looked shocked.

The real magic, the magic of acting, had nothing to do with luvvies and headlines in the newspapers. The real magic came when something sparked suddenly between director and actor, between actor and actor, between actor and writer: some absolute meeting of minds, some instinct, some miraculous energy; almost always the result, though, of hard, hard work.

And the real, real magic came when that was transmitted, as if through a kind of electricity, to the audience. Izzy Fields had seen Emmy Lou Brown do that.

She sighed, got off her bicycle again, chained it to the side of the bridge, pulling at her blouse that stuck to her back in the heat. Then she plodded down the concrete steps to the ugly concrete South Bank complex and the stage door of the National Theatre and, pulling off her safety helmet, went in through that door: part of the profession that she admired, and respected and loved.

4

All the papers said it was the hottest summer for nearly twenty years. That Saturday afternoon the temperature rose to thirty-five degrees.