‘“I’ve done it!” he said. Silly bugger. It was only the start, the first floor up. He got off there; but I went on up without him. All he really wanted was a blasted Aston Martin and a recommendation to Wentworth and the Garrick. A social actor. But there is more to it than that. I knew. I went up on the ride alone. He started the slide; I wanted highest! I pushed, I bloody pushed, I want you to know!’ Endless tape. And she did. Pushed herself into a poor contract with a poor film company who swore to make her a star if she did what they wanted. And she did, only that didn’t do much good after all. A pretty, empty, shadow, that’s all she was; they always had to pad her tits, and even that gave her no dimension.

He wandered across the room, cigarette hanging from his lips, a sour taste in his mouth from just remembering: bitterness becomes physical. He stopped before the tall wooden wardrobe, ran an exploring finger round the carved panels, leant his forehead on the shiny surface. Face to face, on the wall beside it, with an engraving of a pudgy child in a shift, little red slippers, a feathered hat clutched in one hand, the finger of the other coyly placed to pouting lips. He squinted through cigarette smoke. ‘The Mother’s Hope’. Engraved by Holland, 1807.

The mother’s hope. Me. Except that I was never that; her hopes went far beyond me. I was just a respectable part of her plans. The rising star at nineteen with a ‘bonny’ baby to dandle for the Sunday Express or the Mirror. Unwanted, as it happened, but quickly turned to her advantage.

‘Motherhood and Decca York!’ ‘Nappies and Stardom’. I was a useful ‘prop’, that’s all, and as quickly set aside when the scene was played. Hardly ever saw her at first. Studio calls at 5.30 a.m., then back exhausted to dress for a première or a party. ‘Don’t, Marcus, you’ll smudge my face.’

And the ‘Uncles’ started almost as soon as Jeremy went off on his tours. Ten weeks, sometimes more. They’d take her out to supper at Hurley or for the weekend to Le Touquet. I knew them better than I knew him. Kind, sometimes, some tall and thin, some short and fat, all with too much white cuff and brown suède shoes. I handed round the cigarettes and peanuts which they accepted to make me feel happy and ‘wanted’. The only thing I ever felt was hatred for those little bow ties, frilly shirts and god-awful velvet knickers I had to wear. Christ!

Remembered irritation moved him from his wardrobe support; he flicked his cigarette clumsily over a bowl of daisies. Reproved by the grey ash, he blew it off. A tidy mind.