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all her magnificence, and Henry saw that she too had a suit carrier, the dreadful truth struck him. The people with suit carriers were his fellow contestants. He alone had brought no clothes to change into, having had no idea that he would have a dressing room. He alone was a naïve son of Thurmarsh.
    Denise Healey didn’t look in his direction and he hadn’t the courage to approach her. God, this was all a mistake – and what on earth had possessed him to invite Hilary to witness it?
    The researcher wasn’t Nicky, but a vapid young man with acne. Henry’s relief was enormous, almost as enormous as his disappointment.
    ‘Chefs? Any chefs?’ enquired the unprepossessing youth. ‘Chefs this way, please.’
    The chefs converged on him. The moment Mr Wiggy realised that Henry was one of the chefs, he returned Henry’s smile some ten minutes after it had been given.
    The spotty young man walked rapidly and vapidly down labyrinthine corridors. Henry with his relatively short legs could just keep up, and he was relieved to note that Mr Wiggy was panting.
    Henry found himself beside Denise Healey. It would be the simplest thing to say, ‘Hello. You came to my café’, but he couldn’t. He felt naked without a suit carrier. This was dismal.
    He’d never had a dressing room before, with his name on it, ‘Mr Henry Pratt’. Just for a moment, as he turned the key, he felt that he was already a celebrity chef. Then he saw how small and empty and bleak the dressing room was, and his brief sense of assurance slipped away.
    Another shock awaited him on entering the vast studio with its high ceiling, studded with equipment. What were all those seats for?
    ‘What on earth are all those seats for?’ he asked the vapid youngster.
    ‘The studio audience.’
    ‘Ah. I hadn’t realised there was one.’
    ‘Ain’t you never seen the show?’ There was incredulity in the young man’s voice.
    ‘No. Sorry. The series hasn’t been on air since I was asked to do it, so I haven’t been able to.’
    ‘Should have asked for tapes. Should have been sent them. But your wife’s coming. Where did you think she was going to sit?’
    The young man’s voice sounded as acne would sound, if acne had a sound. It irritated Henry, but what irritated him far more was that Nicky hadn’t sent him tapes. She had failed him. She was a selfish cow. He had suspected it all along.
    He was introduced to the chairman, who was the famous TV quiz programme chairman, Dennis Danvers. Henry had never seen him perform, but he knew of him, of course. Every spat that Dennis Danvers had with every girlfriend was recorded in the tabloids.
    ‘You’re in Simon’s team,’ Dennis Danvers told him.
    Henry hid the fact that he hadn’t even known that there were teams. Why hadn’t he asked for tapes? Why had he been so naïve and unprofessional?
    It turned out that Simon was Simon Hampsthwaite, the self-confessed Bad Boy of British Catering. Henry had never see him perform, but he knew of him, of course. His every tantrum was recorded in the tabloids.
    The third member of his team was the tall, slim lady in the dark green trouser suit. Seen at close range she was older than Henry had thought, probably well into her forties. Her face was sagging ever so slightly, and she had a few worry lines, but she had a disturbingly kissable mouth. Her name was Sally Atkinson and she had the only Michelin star in Dorset.
    The rival team was captained by Denise Healey. Its other members were the cool smooth man in jeans, whose name was Jean-Paul Gascaud, and by Mr Wiggy, whose name was Bradley Tompkins.
    Henry felt much better for a moment when Denise Healey realised who he was and blew him a friendly kiss, but before they could talk they were all shepherded to their seats in the scallop-shaped set.
    The floor manager called for ‘Silence’ and ‘Action’, and the rehearsal began.
    ‘Welcome to another edition of
A Question of Salt
,’ said Dennis Danvers, suddenly all