10.30 P.M. THE IVY

10.30 P.M. Tables are turning. The non-theatre diners are departing and the theatre crowd arrives. The bar is a seethe of acquaintances passing.

‘How was it?’

‘How was the duck?’

‘How was the leading lady?’

11.00 P.M. The first-night party arrives with a bantering clamour like a lot of RADA students making their first entrance as Montagues and Capulets. An opening night at a small, trendy, sold-out theatre. The star, a young man tipped for Hollywood, is surrounded by attendant males and a droopy girl with bad skin and dead eyes. The director is all arms, like a man herding pigs. They settle at the table and immediately get up again to say hello to friends. The room is suddenly a junior school of waving hands and eyes searching for a meet. The peripheral tables look on and beam like proud parents at a sports day. This is what they come to the Ivy for. The young actor looks up and - through his famously long lashes, freshly glued with cold cream - sees his glittering future unfold in a string of adoring Ivy dinners. Chris raises his eyebrows to the waiter. Champagne. On the house.