The heat and adrenaline and half a bottle of champagne have taken Becky’s edges off and now she is taking the first sweet and sharp sip of a mojito, figuring it as the most sensible chaser. She’d forgotten how fabulous and invincible alcohol could make her feel.

‘Becky, right?’ The woman who has appeared at Becky’s side is a little shorter than her and has long dark hair scraped back tight. It is impossible to tell her age; her skin is stretched like cling-film, flat and shining as if it were fresh out of a packet, but then the stories about her go way back. She needs no introduction but gives herself one anyway. ‘I’m Madeleine, Sharon McManus’s agent. So pleased to meet you.’ She grasps Becky’s hand. ‘Sharon is so looking forward to getting her teeth into Medea.’

‘I’m thrilled she’s come on board.’

‘She tells me the updating really works? That it’s timely. I’m afraid I haven’t read the script yet.’

‘Yes, there’s the whole toxicity of men and how they don’t see women coming because of it.’ Becky realizes that she’s garbling her words, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Not here, with the sea and this cocktail and the heat behind her.

‘Is Matthew producing?’

‘I’m its producer but it’ll be through his company.’

‘I see.’

Becky picks up on a fine skein of something she doesn’t want to see. Dissent? A problem? What hasn’t she thought of?

‘I spoke to DB earlier,’ says Madeleine cautiously.

‘Oh, I love DB,’ blurts Becky. Then, remembering his curt words on the phone to her and his anger with Matthew, she speaks in more sober tones. ‘He’s such a great agent. So tough.’

‘We go back a long way,’ says Madeleine. ‘It’s not like in Hollywood where they’re all slitting each other’s throats before breakfast.’ She pauses. ‘We talk.’

Becky has no idea where the conversation is going now but she feels the low thrum of dread, something bad is coming. She hopes she’s wrong, hopes they’ll simply talk about favoured lunch spots. Does she have a DB story that she can table? She thinks hard.

‘I saw DB recently, he told me that an ex-client of his came over to his house one Christmas Eve. He was working as an actual Father Christmas in a shopping centre because that was the only work he could get, and he’d got drunk in his costume after work and had come over to shout at DB. Only DB’s kids opened the door and were all excited and then this man apparently felt so bad that he went through with it and did his whole routine for the kids in DB’s living room.’