She had the sense of standing at a junction, deciding which path to take. The world was very still and silent around them. How could she mind him kissing her, Darcy whom she liked and wanted to be with, just because he wasn’t someone else? Someone who didn’t even exist.

‘No,’ she said, so quietly that he had to stoop to hear. ‘I didn’t mind.’ Helen had to turn and duck into the car, away from the joy that leapt into his eyes.

At the same moment that Helen was groping into Darcy’s car, suddenly shivery even in the spring-evening warmth, Tom Hart was closing his script on the final dress rehearsal of As You Like It. The actors crowded forward on the stage, jostling each other silently, waiting.

Tom stood up and his seat snapped back, startling them with its clatter in the hushed auditorium. He walked thoughtfully down the aisle and stood below the stage, looking up at the circle of faces. The anxiety for his final verdict showed in each of them, from Pansy and Oliver to the non-speaking lords and shepherds. Everyone was fully costumed, and there was a faint starched whispering from Pansy’s petticoats under her hooped skirt.

At last Tom’s face broke into a wide smile.

‘You deserve a huge success. That was sensational. Do it as well tomorrow night and we can’t fail.’

A murmur of smiling relief spread round the circle.

‘You’ve all worked very hard. Thank you,’ Tom said simply.

At once a clamour of talk broke out. Oliver pushed his way to the edge of the stage and looked down.

‘Thank you,’ he said, grinning. ‘If anyone deserves a success, it’s you. You’re a slave-driving bastard, but you’re probably right to do it.’

In Oliver’s wake, everyone else crowded forward, calling their thanks.

‘Don’t get excited yet,’ Tom told them coolly. ‘It’s tomorrow that counts.’ He turned away and picked up his jacket. He felt, as he always did when the direction of a play was as good as over, drained and exhausted. It felt like a very long time since he had seen the inside of his home.

‘Come and have something to eat,’ Pansy called after him.

‘No. I want to go home.’

Tom walked through the darkening streets. The trees that lined the quiet roads were knobbed with sticky green buds, but he didn’t see them. His dark face was intent, marked by a slight frown.

He had done all that he could do, now, but anxiety still nagged at him.

Then when he reached his front door he shrugged as he took out his key. Just a few more days, he thought. If this fragile balance could only hold for just a few more days.

EIGHT