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whether he was ever going to make a move. They smiled at each other lingeringly, and Chris’ nostrils flared a little. Suddenly he put his arm round Maggie, took her in his arms, and kissed her.
    Ooh, she thought, he’s the strong, silent type. Wants to be in charge.
    “Let’s lie down,” he murmured, and they did.
    Forty-five minutes later they said a friendly goodbye outside the hotel, and departed with an equal sense of purpose: Maggie to the Assembly Rooms to further the cause of feminism, and Chris to the opening event of the television festival, to debate with his colleagues on weighty matters of broadcasting.

 
    Chapter Two
    Nicky played down the incident when he told the youth theatre about it later; he was worried it might get back to his dad, who was a sergeant at Ilford police station. I could tell he was dying to brag about his street-fighting prowess, but he restrained himself as his mam and dad would disapprove. He asked me and Steve not to mention it to them.
    He needn’t have worried on my account, because my role in the NYT ended shortly after the Edinburgh trip; I had too much work on in my final year of study and teaching placements. (And yes, if you must know, Steve’s wife found out.) I lost touch with them and to be honest I forgot all about Nicky until years later when I read an article on him in a broadcasting paper, which brought back that period of my life in vivid memories. It’s funny how certain times become completely closed off to you as you move forward, and then someone opens a door suddenly and it’s all there again, laid out in a dusty old room at the back of your mind.
    Anyway. Back to the boy.
    Nicky had wanted to join the police force ever since he was a toddler. He hoped to become a detective, and planned to join the force as soon as he left school. He worked hard to pass his exams, and his dad, Les, told him there was no reason why he wouldn’t be accepted. When the application forms arrived they went through them together.
    Nicky’s mum, Doreen, watched them through the serving hatch as she cleared up the kitchen after dinner. They sat at the dining table in the living room, heads bent over folded arms. Nicky was built just like his dad, neat and well-formed, and only just tall enough to qualify for the force. He had the same handsome features, dark hair and healthy complexion, but in Nicky flowed all the energy and impatience of youth which had long since evaporated from Les.
    Doreen was proud as anything. She and Les had waited ten years to have their baby, suffering three miscarriages before he arrived. Hopes of a large family were put aside as they accepted their fate and celebrated their one great blessing. Nicky was much loved, but never spoiled. They believed in discipline and instilled respect in him. When Nicky was five, they left their council flat in Canning Town and moved to a police house in Ilford. It was a step up for them, they now had two good-sized bedrooms and a garden front and back.
    She was delighted for Les that Nicky had stuck to his ambition. They would have been just as happy for him to choose another career – as long as it was a sound one – but Doreen knew that it meant a great deal to Les. While it was nice to be hero-worshipped by a little boy, it was a real compliment to have a young man follow in your footsteps.
    They had wondered whether the interest in drama would give him other ideas, but had refrained from warning him against trying to make a career in the theatre. They had the sense not to provoke a reaction, having seen plenty of youths do precisely what their parents warned them against. Nicky had spent four years in the Newham Youth Theatre, and they had attended all his shows, complimenting him without going overboard, and never complaining about the politics, which often struck them as unnecessarily left-wing. Les did, however, allow himself to comment on the director’s sexuality.
    “Camp as a row of tents, that Steve,” he