Matthew rejoins them. ‘All good,’ he says to Becky. Then, to Alex, ‘Coming to the party on Freebird?’

‘What’s Freebird?’ asks Becky.

‘Petrovskaya’s yacht,’ replies Alex. ‘Apparently it’s been fitted with anti-missile technology.’

‘Won’t save anyone from a bad review,’ quips Becky, and Alex grins.

‘She’s funny,’ says Alex to Matthew. A two-word review, but a good one.

‘Did she tell you about Medea?’

‘Yeah. I’m sure she’ll make it work.’

‘If the stars align with the right people,’ says Matthew. And suddenly Becky feels naked: with these words, she senses the conditionality of Matthew’s help. Will he still support the project if the script doesn’t attract a glitzy and powerful enough cast? Or if its main financier ends up a little lukewarm on the whole thing and doesn’t make it a priority?

If it fails, it will be her failure. That is clear to her.

Isn’t that what she wanted? Something she could take absolute ownership of?

But she finds herself remembering how Alex had reduced her idea to something that people might snipe at or look down on and how he’d hooked his fingers into his jeans and bent his arms to make himself look bigger and wider, as he did it. And she remembers Matthew’s words again, allowing herself to feel the full force of what failure might bring. The exposure. The isolation. The fear, and the shame.

Becky excuses herself. She locks herself in a nearby toilet cubicle. Sits down on the seat, legs bent, leaning over with her head in her hands, as if she is about to be sick. She is so angry when tears come despite her efforts. They will leave her eyes red. For the rest of the evening she will look like a woman who has been crying. Soon she has cried enough to have blown her nose three times.