‘And where was the aunt at the time?’ said Molly very politely and she saw the casting director bite her lip; whether it was to stop herself from coughing or laughing or crying, Molly could not be sure.

‘In our story the aunt, at that moment, is tying a tin can on the exhaust pipe of the bridal car,’ said Waylon Jones. ‘Hey, we must think of a name for her,’ he said to the producer.

‘Ah,’ said Molly.

She stood up, very gently, gracefully and with charm. This was something she’d learnt long ago at the Academy, where she’d been taught never to outstay her welcome in an interview; latterly the grace and charm came in handy in protecting her own self-esteem.

‘Thank you so much for seeing me,’ she said. ‘It sounds fascinating and I look forward to perhaps seeing the script when the aunt has a name.’ And she smiled at the three of them. They would never have known she had not worked for five months. The casting director came out of the room with her.

‘Thanks for coming Molly,’ she said, ‘thanks so much. Sorry if it was a bit, you know, well you know what Americans are like. Oh hello Evie, thanks so much for coming in.’ For waiting outside the door was Evie Thompson, another actress who’d played lots of television leads in her time. Evie and Molly saw one another, raised eyebrows and only smiled. They realised they were both up for the same small role along with, probably, most actresses of their age in London. Evie Thompson’s newly washed brown hair, cleverly highlighted with auburn streaks to hide the grey, shone in the light that slanted in from the Soho street as she stood up to follow the casting director into the cigar-smoky room; Molly went out into the muggy morning.

People in the street looked at her as they passed, recognised at once that she was an actress from that TV series, some called out a cheery greeting. As usual it was mostly the name of her television character: Louise... hey Louise! She smiled and sometimes waved an acknowledgement and kept walking on briskly, thinking her thoughts. She hated it but she was used to it. The people didn’t guess, as she swung along the street, that she was in her mid-fifties and hadn’t worked for five months, the longest period of unemployment she had ever had, that she had begun to despair, to think that this time she would never work again. Nobody would know that this was the pattern of Molly McKenzie’s life as she swung along the street in the sunshine. It was only midday, Banjo was probably still in bed; she could go back. She knew he would be glad, would hold out his arms, pull her down into the warm bed and the tangled sheets where they had made love only a few hours before.