Rosemary Norbridge resembled a cabbage. As wide as she was short, time had folded deep creases into her face and despite vigorous brushing, her hair crinkled into layers that refused to lie flat.

‘Just look at me, Mrs Pringle,’ she was saying. ‘You can see I’m not Stella.’

Edith Pringle placed her tea cup back on its saucer.

‘My eyes may not be as keen as they were, Miss Norbridge, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears, and what I hear is pure Stella Logan.’

Rosemary suppressed a sigh, sinking a little deeper into the chintz-covered sofa.

She’d first become aware of Mrs Pringle a couple of weeks previously, at the end of a working week that had wrapped up, as it always did, with the show’s catchphrase:

‘... and remember, always trust your instinct!’

The actors had laughed as their signature tune faded up under the sound effect of cocktail glasses clinking. The producer had flicked off the studio’s red light and leant on the talkback button.

‘Well done folks, another episode in the bag.’

Rosemary had gathered up her knitting and followed her on-air husband through the soundproof doors. The bald patch on the back of his head was larger than it used to be and his shirt collar frayed at the edges. What would the listeners think if they could see how the suave hero of “Ralph Logan’s Adventures” looked in real life? What, indeed, would they think of her?

The secretary had been waiting for her in the corridor, brandishing a letter.

‘You’ll like this one, Miss Norbridge. One of your fans wants to remember you in her will.’

Rosemary had noted the heavy quality of the paper, the neatness of the handwriting and the clarity of the message. Mrs Edith Pringle intended to leave Rosemary her entire estate, and wished her to know in advance so she could take the bequest into account when planning her future.

Was it wishful thinking, tiredness after a long day… or just weakness? Rosemary was usually wary of listener correspondence, but something told her Edith Pringle was not a typical show devotee. The letter contained no gushing prose, no heavy underlining, not even a request for an autograph. There was, however, only one appropriate response.

‘Tell her “thank you, but no thank you”.’

A week later the secretary had reappeared.

‘She still wants to leave you her money. Should we send her your shot?’

Rosemary grimaced. She wasn’t vain, but her cabbage-like appearance in the latest set of publicity photographs had been a disappointment.

‘If we must, we must.’

Listeners who tuned in to their radios each Friday night knew Rosemary as Stella, Ralph Logan’s adoring wife and plucky sidekick. Stella Logan deployed feminine wiles in crystalline tones and attracted fan mail by the sackload.

The Logans’ fictional lifestyle revolved around foreign travel, fine restaurants and fast cars, buoyed by a rousing orchestral theme. Each episode opened on a note of high energy, peaked at a moment of peril and ended by unpicking the plot over cocktails, in case any listener might not have been paying close attention.

Real life for Rosemary Norbridge was far less glamorous; she spent her days reading scripts, recording in windowless studios and knitting scarves for other cast members when not needed at the microphone. The only hint of drama came from the constant fear of losing her job. Rosemary had landed the part of Stella in her mid-thirties and by sheer good fortune, her cut glass received pronunciation still maintained its youthful qualities twenty years later. Her leading men had not been so lucky; Rosemary was now on her third make-believe husband.

She knew her voice would betray her eventually. The call from management would come, a younger actress would step in and Rosemary would be shown the door. Mrs Pringle might be thinking of Rosemary’s future; Rosemary herself preferred not to.

The third time the secretary had appeared, she’d simply shrugged her shoulders and flapped the latest missive from Mrs Pringle.

Enough was enough. Appealing though the idea of a windfall might be, Rosemary felt it simply wouldn’t do to take someone’s money on the basis of an illusion. She’d instructed the secretary to send a telegram announcing her intention to visit in person.

The following day Rosemary had boarded the 2.10 from Paddington, changed at Reading, then allowed herself the rare luxury of a taxi to Edith Pringle’s wisteria-clad cottage.

Now the two ladies sat eye to eye over a Victoria sandwich and a pot of Earl Grey.

‘It’s very kind of you, but I can’t possibly accept. Think of your family, Mrs Pringle.’

Edith Pringle wafted a dismissive hand.

‘My husband died years ago and we weren’t blessed with children. Can I tempt you to a piece of cake?’

‘You must have other relatives.’

‘I do, and I wish they came with the added bonus of an off switch. Radio is generally a delight to listen to. They are not.’

Rosemary was about to protest further, but Mrs Pringle paused half way through cutting the cake, her knife hovering above a sprinkling of caster sugar.

‘Do you live alone, Miss Norbridge?’

Rosemary nodded.

‘Whose is the first voice you hear when you wake up in the morning? And the last before you go to sleep?’

Rosemary thought of the presenters, newsreaders and continuity announcers whose voices filtered through her portable wireless at all hours of the day and night. Her working life was filled with people, but yes, radio drowned out the emptiness at home.

Mrs Pringle plunged her blade back into the sponge.

‘Radio is such a comfort. It transports me to other worlds and gives me people to share a joke with; the way you tease Ralph, his digs about your shopping trips and those lovely phrases that keep popping up: “Always trust your instinct!”

Her eyes twinkled as she handed Rosemary the slice of cake.

‘Think of the fun we’ve had! I’ve drunk pink gins with you, I’ve shared the thrills of your adventures... and all those wonderful cocktail parties where clever Ralph explains the clues I missed. You have to admit it’s been quite a ride.’

Despite herself, Rosemary smiled and nodded. Her job was exhausting and poorly paid, but she couldn’t imagine having done anything else.

‘So you see,’ continued Mrs Pringle, wiping cake crumbs from her delicate fingers, ‘you’re as good as family, if not better. I never reach for the off switch when “Ralph Logan’s Adventures” is on the air. Stella is as real to me as any flesh and blood relative, and indeed, here you are having tea with me!’

‘I’m not Stella, Mrs Pringle. It would be lovely if I were, but I’m not.’

Mrs Pringle leaned forward.

‘I’m going to have to spell this out, aren’t I? If anyone is deluded here, Miss Norbridge, it’s you. I speak from experience; my husband was an actor too and earned barely enough to feed a hamster. We lived quite comfortably, as you can see, but only because I inherited money. You’ve had a successful career, but I suspect you’ve very little put by for when it all ends in a puff of smoke. Am I correct?’

Rosemary put her cake plate on the low table between them. Suddenly she didn’t trust herself to hold it steady.

‘Miss Norbridge, Stella Logan will outlive us both, but through her you’ve given me a great deal of pleasure. Let me return the favour. I’m very old and I’d like to die knowing I’ve helped someone who has shared so much joy.’

Rosemary breathed deeply, taking in the room’s perfume of beeswax and roses, and allowed herself to relax for the first time in as long as she could remember. Her intuition had been right: Edith Pringle was no ordinary fan, and this was an offer she could not afford to refuse. She pulled herself up straight.

‘Mrs Pringle, I will accept your bequest, on one condition.’

Edith Pringle lifted an eyebrow.

‘Give me your blessing to spend some of the money on my very own “Ralph Logan Adventure”. I’ll travel somewhere exotic where Ralph and Stella have been, I’ll wear a ridiculously expensive outfit and I’ll raise a pink gin to your memory!’

‘Now tell me I’m not having tea with Stella Logan.’ Mrs Pringle raised her cup in triumph. ‘Always trust your instinct!’

Rosemary laughed and, this time, the joy was real.