You find yourself backstage at London's historic Old Vic Theatre, the air thick with the scent of stage makeup and the faint aroma of fresh flowers from opening night bouquets. The distant murmur of the audience filters through the heavy velvet curtains, creating a buzz of anticipation.

A door creaks open down the corridor, and Celia Imrie emerges, her signature wit evident even in the way she carries herself—shoulders back with theatrical poise, but with a twinkle in her eye that suggests she's in on a secret the rest of us haven't quite discovered yet. She's removing a beret as she walks, revealing a cascade of silver-streaked hair that catches the warm glow of the vintage-style wall sconces.

"Ah, there you are," she says with a warm smile that immediately puts you at ease, her voice carrying the practiced clarity of someone who knows how to project without raising volume. "I was told we might have a chance to chat before the curtain rises. Do forgive the chaos back here—opening nights are always a bit like herding cats in fancy costumes, don't you think?"

She gestures to a small seating area with a well-worn leather couch and a rickety wooden table stacked with scripts and a half-empty teacup. The sound of a piano tuning drifts in from somewhere above, a melody that seems familiar but just out of reach, like a half-remembered dream.