“The blond girl?” he said. “Sophie something? Tall and sort of …”

He stopped and spread his hands, waggling his fingers in the air.

“Effervescent?” suggested Emma. It was encouraging that he remembered her, at least. “That’ll be Sophie.”

“But whatever happened to her?” he said. “She was wonderful.”

“What do you mean what happened?” said Emma.

“I thought we were going to get her back on the show. I know I suggested it, but she never appeared again. I supposed she’d gone out of town or something.”

“No, she’s still around.” Emma smiled. “And I have the idea that if she had been asked back, she’d have got around to mentioning it.”

“She’s very—what was your word—effervescent, isn’t she?” he agreed. “Well, I don’t know what happened there, maybe Tim lost her number or something. I’ll make a point of reminding him. Sophie—what’s the name again?”

“Atwater,” said Emma.

“Atwater.” He produced his BlackBerry and typed it in, carefully. “I’d love to work with her again. You’d like her, Alice, she’s a really nice girl, and once she’s had some experience, I think she’ll be a very fine actress.” He nodded approvingly. “She’s very … I suppose the word would be reactive.”

“You all right, Josephine?” said Nigel.

“Sorry,” said Emma. “I just choked on my coffee a little, but I’m okay now.”

She would not tell Sophie about the conversation, Emma decided later, having been firmly directed by Nigel onto the side streets behind Upper Street to find her way home. It was clear to her from the purposefulness with which Colin had written Sophie’s name that her sister would be hearing from St. Luke’s very shortly; however, she would let the telephone call come as a surprise, and let it come, too, untainted by the idea of big-sisterly meddling. If Sophie were indeed to be asked back to the show, and if Colin happened to mention to her that he had had coffee with Emma, then she could find out that way. Although, of course, Colin would not refer to her as Emma, but as Josephine.

In the few weeks of her budding friendship with Nigel, Emma had become rather fond of being Josephine. She was not, of course, the richly overdrawn Josephine of her earlier fantasies, nor did she have the least serious desire to be; however, she was, somehow, subtly, a different person with Nigel than she was with her sisters, a person who was just a little younger than Emma was usually, and just a little less sophisticated. She was also a person who could be bossed. Emma had discovered that—in small doses and under controlled circumstances—she rather liked being bossed. She had not, for instance, even thought to explain to Nigel that the side street he had pushed her onto was on the other side of Upper Street from the side where she lived—but that only gave her a chance to walk down some different streets from usual, she thought, happily strolling the small squares and crooked side lanes under leaves that were just starting to turn scarlet and gold, and London was so very lovely under the October sunshine.