You can tell instantly that Percy (Stephen Tompkinson), a fumbling 42-year-old virgin, and Cyrenne (Michelle Collins), a sharp and flinty prostitute, are cut from the same cloth. In the play's publicity shots, they wear tops that blur into one big white thing. Each, it seems, is both lost and pure.
And each has been on telly, which is certainly a blessing in the first half of Charles Dyer's wooden drama of sexual mores, set in 1962. The only early laughs are thanks to the familiarity of the actors. Of the two, Tompkinson is the most assured, settling into his role with an eagerness Collins takes a good while to match. She, in her first West End theatre role, appears nervous, relying on pouts and grimaces that would smoulder on the small screen, but are too easily lost here. Only in the last 15 minutes does she hint at what she might be capable of.
The characters are thrown together when a squiffy Percy, in town to watch his beloved football team, is taken home by the worldly-wise Cyrenne. The writing feels dated and claustrophobic, and throws up no surprises, but there is a tenderness about the play, especially where Percy is concerned. For Cyrenne, it's all bad luck and bad lines ("You're not old-fashioned, Percy, you're unbelievable").
For all the glimmers of hope - there are a couple of genuine belly laughs, and Tompkinson is a naturally warm performer - this is a flat piece with little to engage us. Dusty Springfield, playing in the auditorium before hand, had so much more to say about loneliness in the brittle world that the 1960s could be.
· Until August 28. Box office: 0870 060 6622.