Their meeting was in a small hired studio at Covent Garden, and she grabbed a doughnut and plastic beaker of coffee on her way in. Luckily Fran had the key, and was sitting on a black plastic chair looking decidedly fed up when Grace finally burst into the room. “I was about to phone you,” she said by way of greeting. “You did suggest ten this morning didn’t you? It’s now ten-thirty and my backside is numb from sitting on this horrible chair!” “Sorry,” apologized Grace, “I overslept.” “Busy weekend?” Grace’s mind flashed back to the moment Laura had brought her to a shattering climax, and she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “It was rather. Now…” “Were you with your rich financier boyfriend?” asked Fran. “What do you mean?” “Oh come on, David White, who could give us enough money to put my play on at the Young Vic if he wanted to. Only he wouldn’t want to, because he doesn’t understand the problems facing artistic people, especially in a recession.”
