‘May I be allowed to congratulate the marvellous Little Red?’

That’s what she says, the woman, as she limps towards them across the theatre bar. Her huge eyes blink behind strong lenses, a slightly manic smile on her face, the programme rolled up in her hand. Bridget half expects her to start bopping them all on the head with it.

To Bridget’s surprise, Rosie doesn’t clam up as she usually does in front of strangers.

‘Thank you,’ she says, all smiles, offering her hand to shake. ‘That’s really kind.’

‘Emily,’ the woman says. ‘Emily Wood.’

‘I’m Rosie Flint, and this is my mum, Antonia, and my auntie Bridget.’

‘Lovely, how lovely.’

As they say their hellos, the lenses in Emily Wood’s glasses flash under the downlights.

‘Now,’ she says, hands on hips, ‘I won’t beat around the proverbial; I’ll come right out and say it. I’m wondering if Little Red here would be interested in a conversation about possible representation.’ The woman is as rambunctious as Toad of Toad Hall, as hearty as Father Christmas.

‘Wow,’ Toni says, glancing at Bridget. ‘I was not expecting you to say that.’

Rosie meanwhile has gone pink. When Bridget catches her eye, her smile reaches her ears.

‘I’m in the business, as they say,’ Emily goes on, ‘but I’m moving from acting to agency, as it were. Scouting for talent, I suppose you’d call it.’ She leans back and chuckles – a real old-lady chuckle. ‘Scouting for talent, what on earth do I sound like? A silly moo, that’s what.’

Bridget can’t look at her niece or her sister. Knowing she has to be serious always makes her lose it, and if she gets the giggles now, she knows she won’t be able to stop. At Central, she had a reputation for corpsing, especially during scenes involving love or death.

‘Scouting,’ Emily continues. ‘Sounds like something to do with tents and knots and dyb dyb dyb, doesn’t it?’ She chuckles again, rounds it off with a kind of hoot and a sigh.

Bridget focuses on her boots, bites her bottom lip against growing hilarity, the increasing and horrific possibility of a full-on snort. The woman is crazy. Batshit, Rosie would say – will say, Bridget is sure, once they hit the privacy of the van. As for the woman, she’s borderline hysterical. She pushes up her glasses and draws her finger under her eyes to wipe away her stray tears.

‘Antonia,’ she says, letting the glasses fall back onto her nose. ‘Your daughter really is the full package.’

‘You make her sound like cheese,’ Toni says, laughing. ‘Or drugs!’

Bridget and Rosie exchange a smirk. Toni can be heroically tactless sometimes.

‘Sorry, yes, quite,’ Emily says, apparently not fazed in the slightest. ‘Cheese, indeed. What I mean is, she has the lot. She’s as beautiful as a peach – look at her skin! And she really can act. Her singing voice is… well it’s nothing a voice coach can’t fix. Does she have any other talents?’

‘She has a brown belt in taekwondo.’ Toni nods at Bridget. ‘Her auntie takes her every week.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Mum,’ Rosie mutters, rolling her eyes.

Bridget keeps her mouth shut, as she always tries to when things have nothing to do with her. She’s been careful to stay an aunt, especially since she had to move in. This conversation is about Rosie, and Toni is Rosie’s mother, no one else.

‘No, that’s good, that’s good.’ Emily closes one hand into a fist and swipes the air. ‘It shows athleticism. Fitness is so important in this game. And the martial arts are marvellous for discipline of mind and body.’

‘And self-defence,’ Bridget adds – can’t help herself.

‘Self-defence indeed.’ Emily blinks at Bridget a moment. In those glasses, the effect is of a fish stunned by a flashlight. Blink! She turns back to Rosie and smiles. ‘Yes. Really. The whole package.’

The crowd is dispersing, the hubbub quieting. Emily tells them that she trained at the Central School of Speech and Drama. Bridget almost chips in to say that so did she, and ask Emily which year, but again, it’s Rosie’s moment, so she keeps shtum.

‘I spent most of my career in the theatre,’ Emily says. ‘Character roles mainly, once the old beauty faded. Some television – Casualty and twice on The Bill – but that was when I was younger and prettier. The television work has dried up over the last ten years or so. Plus my dicky hip. Theatre work is so demanding physically, so I said to myself, Emily, I said, it is time for a change.’

‘Do you have a business card or anything?’ Toni says. ‘It’s just that I really need to get this little girl home and to bed.’

‘Of course. Silly moo, wittering on. Yes, yes.’ She digs around in her handbag. ‘I don’t expect you’ve thought about anything like this, and that’s fine. You’ll want to take a moment, I’m sure, but I think I could get Rosie a lot of work. Commercials at first, mostly, I’ll be perfectly honest. They’re not art, but they pay well. Obviously it won’t be Steven Spielberg straight away, but it won’t take long for this one to get noticed, mark my words. She would need a headshot of course, but I can arrange that.’ She throws up her hands. ‘Listen to me, getting ahead of myself. Shut up, Emily, don’t frighten the horses!’ She hands a card not to Toni but to Rosie.

‘Rosie,’ she says. ‘Such a pretty name. So feminine, and perfect for a famous actress, wouldn’t you say? And Flint. Flint is good too – shows strength, a cutting edge, a romantic heroine!’

Rosie giggles. Bridget can tell her niece thinks Emily’s a bit bonkers too. She will definitely imitate the woman once they get home: the frequent blinking, the jolly-hockey-sticks turns of phrase, her constant chuckling. But Bridget has begun to wonder if this last is a sign of shyness, no more than Emily’s way of being in the world, and the thought softens her. Everyone has to find their way of being in the world, don’t they? No one knows that more than Bridget.

‘We should go,’ Toni says, throwing out her hand to shake. ‘Nice to meet you, Emily.’

Seeming not to have heard, Emily traces her forefinger across the card. ‘Into the Light Agency,’ she says. ‘That’s the website address. Some small miracle there, I can tell you. Emily Wood is not exactly known for her technical savvy, to put it mildly. But do have a perusal. If you think you’d like to work with Madame Belle, aka moi, there’s an email on the old calling card there.’ For the second time she throws up her hands. ‘Stop talking, Emily! Rosie, my dear, you must be tired after your magnificent performance. Antonia, Bridget, lovely to meet you both. Goodnight, all. Bonne nuit. Buenos… nottes, noches, or whatever they say in Timbuktu.’ She raises her hand in a wave, blinking all the while. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

Off she goes, a lopsided heel-toe, heel-toe, her white-grey hair fading out of the theatre and into the night.