‘Make the scholarship girl talk again!’ the actor playing young Curtis Worthing chuckled, looking around the table for support. The resemblance was striking; Petra could recognise the older man in his features. The other night in the studio was still fresh in her memory. Instantly the lights over the whole table came up, freezing the faces around it in an accusatory strobe before plunging them away into the darkness again. Apart from Olivia, Rashida and Curtis Worthing, she’d glimpsed two men and two women. She thought there was something familiar about the blond in the peach off-the-shoulder dress opposite Worthing, but she didn’t have enough time before the lights softened and centred on Worthing’s end again.

‘God, grow up,’ Olivia said.

‘Watch your tone, Liv.’ The mirth fell off Curtis’s face and shattered against the stone floor. All that was left was a substrate of cold, hard malice in his eyes, a bitter grey pallor to his skin. ‘And you,’ he scowled up at Petra, ‘refill our bloody glasses.’

Petra fulfilled her part, clamping down her offence. This is a scene, she reminded herself.

‘Leave the bottle on the table,’ young Curtis ordered Petra, ‘and go away.’

Petra backed off a few steps and watched as Rashida took a sip of her champagne. ‘This is nice,’ she announced to the table in a fragile tone. In a studious effort to pretend to give a shit, she drew the bottle towards herself and studied the label. ‘Never heard of it. Must be the good stuff, right?’ She smiled at the judging panel, getting only blank, appalled stares in response. Petra was mortified, watching the scene; how well the authoritative woman from outside channelled this insecure, fragile girl, who turned back to the label and read it aloud: ‘Georges Perpignan Prestige. Hmm.’

Curtis let out a bark like a shot seal and some of the men opposite snorted. ‘Purr-pig-nahn. Vehry nars,’ the man clutching the hand of the peach blond snuffled. Had Petra seen this actor before? One of the estate agents at the pub, what seemed like years ago.

‘That’s not how you say it,’ the fourth woman explained with a sigh, not meeting Rashida’s eyes.

Rashida shook her head, dropped her napkin, which probably hadn’t been lying in the right place to begin with, onto the table, and stood, scraping her chair back on the flagstones. ‘I’m going to go. I’ll see you later,’ she said to Olivia. ‘Thanks anyway.’

Curtis grabbed her elbow and yanked Rashida back. ‘You will sit down,’ he commanded. ‘This is not a pot luck dinner round your parents’ gaff.’