Playing a Mature Woman with a Youthful Lover

It’s a good thing in an actor to know how to make an entrance, and Helen McCrory does. She arrives late – dashing in every sense. It’s not possible to walk into a room unobserved wearing a coat like hers: the colour of wet sand, with fur cuffs and lapels. Nor can it pass uncommented upon. Is it as comfortable as it is beautiful? “Comfortable on me as it was on the fox,” she says, with an air of self-mocking defiance, shrugging inside it: “It’s from Paris,” she adds, settling into the red leather corner banquette in Colbert, Sloane Square – a cafe engaged in a more doomed attempt than hers at recalling Paris.
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