‘Okay,’ I shrug. I don’t say why don’t we just dump him in the bathtub, put some soap on the floor? It would be a hell of a lot easier. Nobody appreciates script notes in the middle of a performance.

So we drag him out the door, down the corridor and into the elevator. Luckily, nobody sees us. When we ping out into the basement, it’s only a short drag along a smooth stone floor to the poolside.

I must say, by this time the realism’s getting a bit too much and my muscles are straining. The guy playing Harry Warren hasn’t moved at all; he’s clearly a very dedicated actor with a high pain threshold. Then again, I don’t really care about his comfort. He really hurt me when he grabbed at me – this Stanislavski shit’s going to leave bruises.

‘Damn,’ the woman says. ‘If he came down here to swim, he’d be in his trunks, wouldn’t he? I’ll go check his room. Can you strip him in the meantime?’

‘No,’ I say, backing away. ‘It’s been fun, but I’m heading out now.’

The woman comes over and grabs my arm, presses her face towards mine so all I can see are her big, smeared eyes. ‘Please, for God’s sake. I don’t know what else to do. Why are you acting so… calm about this?’

‘Very funny,’ I say as I leave the scene and go back to my room.

Saturday, 14 September

2:21

At two in the morning there’s a knock on the door. I’m not asleep – wired from the evening and jetlagged, I’ve been churning the information I’ve gleaned from the players, determined to solve mysteries that don’t even exist. The green neon throbs outside my window as I stare into the dark corners.

I open my door to a man in a cheap black suit slouching in the doorway, his white-banded fedora askew on his head. I remember seeing him earlier in the night, thinking he was cast as a musician, but now that I think of it, there was no live music.

‘Can I come in?’ he says.

‘No,’ I say.

‘I have something important to tell you,’ he says. But his face and his voice are bored, like he’s running lines for a grudging favour.

‘You can tell me from there,’ I say.

He shrugs and then goes on to tell me that I’m in danger, that I was chosen to do something I shouldn’t have done. That Olivia wanted me to kill Harry Warren, that it’s not a game.

‘Sure, okay,’ I say, closing the door on him. I’m tired. They can advance my character arc in the morning.