I first met Agnes Wilcox as one of the coterie of friends that were one of my husband’s inadvertent wedding gifts to me. She, too, was married to a theatre critic, Bob Wilcox, but in addition was running The New Theatre Company, which she’d founded. This meant, theoretically, that she was someone about whom I was to remain neutral.
As anyone who knew her will attest, that proved to be impossible. Agnes shimmered. Yes, she was physically attractive, but that wasn’t the thing – energy radiated from her, and enthusiasm as well. She wasn’t one of those hyperactive types – at least not when she was off duty, which is where I knew her – but she was interested in pretty much everything, not just theatre.
It’s not fair to say she collected interesting people. That makes it sound like deliberate, curated choices. People from many backgrounds, not just the arts, were drawn to her, and, more significantly, gathered in by her. The people at their house came from all over the globe and represented all sorts of occupations. One of her great skills was that she was an asker of superb questions, no matter the age of the person on the receiving end. And she would listen carefully and grasp the answer, allowing the other person to expound at any length needed. Only occasionally was a tactful diversion ever needed. This made her a fine hostess, and an exceptionally good friend.
Memories of everything from running into her at a resale shop – the source, she said, of much of her elegantly boho wardrobe – to hearing her guffaw at a ribald story told in her kitchen as we broke the set after a party run through my brain.
Dear God, what a hole she leaves.