For a fleeting, absurd moment, Becky wonders if she might not have been the only person to walk in on that scene. Plenty of their friends wander in and out. What if another woman, a friend of Antonia’s, walked in and out just as she had done? And called Antonia the next morning, to relate what she had seen? Then Becky would not have had to exist in this story. Erased from the scene, scrubbed out in post-production like an anachronism removed from the frames of a period drama. Gone, and so much lighter for her absence.

As Antonia moves between kettle and coffee and milk, she shows no sign of letting up on the diligence and care with which she talks about her husband. There is no reference to any indiscretion or other such thing. Instead, this is a crisis inflicted on them from beyond their gates.

‘Matthew is attached to his phone. He’s really suffering with spondylitis now, with his neck bent at that angle the whole time. I’m sure he’ll be out in a moment but it’s wall-to-wall calls. But you know that. Of course you do.’

Antonia turns, leans back against the butler’s sink with both palms bolstering her. ‘He’s not sleeping, I’m not sleeping. We were both shuffling around the kitchen in our dressing gowns last night before dawn. Like the living dead.’

Antonia’s eyes change, like storm clouds passing and in that moment Becky sees that Antonia has thought of something that cannot be voiced, cannot be shared. Becky is, after all, an employee.

‘It makes it all the more important to have good people around you, times like these,’ says Antonia instead. ‘Makes all the difference. So thank you, Rebecca.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘No, it means a lot to him. And to me.’

‘He’s been so supportive through my whole career. I mean, he is my career. I’d never let him down.’ Becky’s eyes travel to the sofa grouping. The rug.

Antonia passes her the mug of coffee. ‘I do wish I had something else to offer you.’

‘This is perfect. Thank you.’

Close up, the tension in Antonia’s body is manifest. Her face is drawn and pale. She holds herself as if she has a glass globe on her shoulders instead of a head. But above all else she holds herself like she still has her dignity. Despite these accusations of her husband’s infidelity, possibly his violent infidelity, she is calm. There will be no plates thrown by Antonia. Not in front of the children, not in front of the staff. Becky knows a little about that herself, the battle to look poised when inside it is all waves threatening to engulf you, filling the lungs and mouth.

Becky wonders whether Antonia has seen the words written by trolls on Twitter and in the blog posts. The comments under clips of Amber’s films on YouTube.