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where I parked myself with a double espresso and a complimentary Indic, I couldn't make out what the badges were, but there had to be at least half a dozen of them on his coat, dimly reflected in the window through which he was gazing across the lane towards Brimmers. He had a book open in front of him, but it wasn't getting much of his attention.

    Nor was I, come to that, which called into question Jenny's contention that I was the key to his interest in her. It also raised the issue of how I should best approach him, an issue I hadn't really thought about beforehand. He didn't have the video of Dead Against with him and had displayed no interest whatsoever in my arrival on the premises. He hadn't so much as twitched a toggle in my direction.

    My impression, based on a three-quarters profile view, was that Jenny had him about right. A middle-aged mummy's boy, whether his mummy was still around or not. There was an obviously home-knitted sweater visible beneath his coat. His hair was a pudding-basin mop of brown and grey. The glasses perched halfway down his nose were about fifteen years out of fashion. When he drank from his cup, he used both hands to raise it cautiously to his lips. He wouldn't have been out of place standing at the end of the platform, notebook in paw, as my train drew into Brighton station yesterday afternoon.

    But stereotyping, as every actor knows, is a treacherous business, as miserable to experience as it can be misleading to apply. I needed to handle this sensitively. I followed up the espresso with a latte and cobbled together the least worst cover story I could contrive. Then I moseyed over to join him.

    "Excuse me," I said, 'are you local?"

    "Yes," he replied, turning his head slowly to look at me. "I am." He spoke as slowly as he moved, with a slight lisp. Recognition failed to flicker in his eyes.

    "I'm a stranger to Brighton. I wonder if you could help me with some directions."

    "Maybe I could."

    The badges, I now realized, were actually painted enamel brooches, depicting characters from Herge's Tintin books: Captain Haddock, Snowy, Professor Calculus, the Thomson twins and, naturally, the legendary quiffed one himself. "I'm looking for the public library," I pressed on. (Pretty lame, I know, but there it is.)

    "It can be ... difficult to find." He smiled wanly. "They moved it, you see."

    "Did they?"

    "It's in New England Street."

    "Right. And that is .. ." My gaze drifted down to the book he'd been reading, which ironically had the yellowed margins and cellophaned cover of a library book. Then I noticed the title at the top of the page. The Orton Diaries. I said nothing, though my eyes must have widened in surprise.

    And at that moment of all the hellishly inconvenient ones my mobile rang. "Someone's after you," said chummy, as I wrestled it out of my pocket.

    "Sorry," I blurted out. "Excuse me." I had the blasted thing in my hand now. I turned and moved back to the table where I'd been sitting to answer. "Yes?" I snapped.

    "Toby, it's Brian. Not too early for you, I hope."

    If Brian Sallis, our indefatigable company stage manager, had woken me from a well-deserved lie-in, I'd have felt less irritated than I did.
    What in God's name could he want? The question was swiftly, though to my mind far from adequately, answered.

    "I just wanted to check you had a smooth journey yesterday."

    "I made it, yes."

    "Good."

    "Look, Brian '

    "You haven't forgotten our press call this afternoon, have you?" So that was really why he'd phoned: to ensure I wasn't likely to cop out of our meet-the-media session. "Two thirty, at the theatre."

    "I'll be there."

    "With the technical to follow at four."

    Every Monday afternoon of the tour had been the same: press call at 2.30; technical rehearsal, to get the feel of a new stage, at 4.00.
    Brian could hardly have thought I'd forgotten the schedule. My state of mind was probably his more immediate concern and it was actually none too good, though