Where to begin? In fairness to myself, eight years ago, when I was twenty and in love with the actor, in that repertory up North. We weren’t really in love, but it seemed a good deal like it at the time, before we spoiled it; we both thought we were, and how can you tell for sure when it’s the first time and you’ve nothing to compare it with? Anyway it was very strong and we longed and longed to go to bed together. There was every opportunity and we discussed it; he was keen but not importunate, which naturally made me love him more and be more inclined to give him what he was so sweetly not insisting on, but something held me back. Part of it was my upbringing, of course, but I could easily have had a violent reaction away from that if it hadn’t been for the inhibiting atmosphere in the company itself. Three separate couples were sleeping together in the most overt and sordid way, one pair on a mattress in the theatre itself (we called it ‘the bed of Sin’). Another girl, who looked wretchedly unhappy and as if she might be going to fade away at any moment, practically had a miscarriage on stage one night as a result of some pills she’d been made to take by her awful lout of a lover. Then there was the complication of Malcolm, and one way and another it wasn’t the most ideal setting for the consummation of young love.