Rahila Gupta

I was my daughter’s plus one at a posh do at London’s Savoy hotel when she was nominated for the Evening Standard‘s most promising new playwright award in 2010. I still smoked in those days, mostly OPs (Other People’s cigarettes), so I snuck out with another young promising playwright at our table who had a packet of cigarettes on her.

In the small group of smokers that congregated outside, Benedict Cumberbatch, a friend of the promising playwright, appeared to be the only one in possession of a light. About six of us, poised with our cigarettes stylishly hovering by our mouths, waited our turn.