‘Nein. Nein. Nein!’ Gründgens erupted again, storming down the main aisle of the auditorium towards the stage. ‘The voice is all wrong. It is disastrous! It needs work. Work. We will do the poison-in-the-lemonade scene instead. On stage, if you please, Ilse.’

As the dejected actor playing Ferdinand’s father left the stage, she walked onto it. The actor playing Ferdinand stayed where he was.

‘We’ll take it from “That letter. Prepare yourself for terrible disclosure.” And remember that you are dying, poisoned by the man you love. When this scene ends, there mustn’t be a dry eye in the house. OK, then. When you’re ready.’

Ilse paused, mentally slipping out of her body and into that of the dying Louisa’s. Her voice, when she began to speak, was the voice of a woman with only a precious few minutes left to live. Without conscious effort her fingers trembled with convulsive emotion.

‘My hand wrote what my heart abhorred,’ she continued, unaware that Nicholas Schulenburg had quietly entered the auditorium. ‘It was dictated by your father! Oh, that sorrowful act! Ferdinand—I was compelled…’

The words came faultlessly. Not once did she have to refer to the text. In the seconds before she fell down dead, she heard someone clear their throat, but at no time did Gründgens shout, “Nein,” or ask her to stop and repeat a line, or, worse, ask her to leave the stage.

As she picked herself up from the floor, Gründgens merely nodded, but there was satisfaction in his voice as he said, ‘Right. Lunch. I want you all back here in an hour’s time.’

‘And I think you have a lunch date,’ the actor playing Ferdinand said to her, indicating the presence of Nicholas as they walked from the stage. ‘And you were stunning just then, Ilse. Absolutely magnificent.’

She could tell by his voice that he meant what he said and the knowledge that she had been good made her feel as if she were flying. ‘I was just passing the theatre,’ Nicholas lied smoothly when she joined him, ‘and wondered if we could have lunch together.’

‘That would be lovely.’ She slipped her arm companionably into his. ‘Max is in Munich this week. Barings seem to treat him almost like a commercial traveller. The week before last he was in Bremen.’

Nicholas had no desire to hear her talking about Max, especially when she did it with such love in her voice. ‘I heard Gründgens say you had to be back in an hour,’ he said, as they stepped out into the busy street, ‘so perhaps we should settle for something light in a café, rather than a restaurant lunch.’

‘Something light in a café would be lovely.’

She gave him her bewitching smile, happy to be with him, for she counted him one of her dearest friends.

Even today, dressed casually for rehearsals in an ivory silk blouse, nutmeg-brown straight skirt, her hair hanging in a single waist-length braid, she turned heads every step of the way.