She was my godmother, a feisty, brilliant woman, theatrical agent to all the big names back then. She was tiny, smaller than me at 17. I looked down on her and I never looked down on her. She was beautiful, electric, always on the move and yet so able to pause, and listen, as she did with me, her definitely most difficult god-daughter of the three. I wonder if I will ever meet my godsisters. Maybe not. Maybe yes. Looking back I see her warm and welcoming in the home, me arriving all tense and curious and reckless and probably needing a shower/bath, with a brick building of parental tension and in the wrong shoes and with no clue about work in the Royal Court Theatre, Sloane Square, London, which is where this woman had negotiated me place. I very disappointed her, I know I did. I was too young, too wild, but the thing is, she never judged me, not even in a glance.

She wanted to know about my book. She called, I called, we talked and she was always encouraging, challenging at times, they laughed me, and she laughed back, but we liked each other. See, that thing matters because the link is to an older guide, that sparkle, I. see it now, the flash of her, the way she could turn a nothing into something. She did that all the time.

Her memorial is tomorrow. She’s gone, yes, but not just her. Her husband Peter was the best man I ever met. Still is.

I have loved you both, for years, and so much.