The theatre foyer was a seething mass of people. They spilled out through the open doors and stood in gossiping groups on the pavement. The constant new arrivals peered with interest at the production photographs in their glass boxes on the theatre walls. Oliver and Pansy as a pair of wistful boys in the mock wooing scene, jerkins and white open-throated shirts over breeches, stared out at the world.

‘Ve-ery fetching,’ someone said. ‘That’s Lord Oliver, but who’s the girl?’

Inside, in a discreet corner, Tom looked at his watch. Seven-twenty. Another ten minutes to go. The audience was already beginning to filter into the auditorium, rustling programmes and banging seats and greeting each other across the aisles.

Tom glanced at the heavy red curtains that hung motionless across the stage. Time to go backstage and wish everyone luck. Before he moved away he saw, in the centre front stalls, that two of the seats reserved for the critics were already occupied. The serious national dailies always sent someone to the annual Oxford University Dramatic Society’s major production and they would be here with added interest this year to see how Greg Hart’s son performed. Tom stuck his hands in his pockets and stared across at them. The bland-looking critics were talking desultorily together. He recognised both of them. They were important names, and he felt a momentary pleasure that the papers had sent their top men.

I’ll show you, he thought. And you too, Greg. This may only be half-assed student drama, but by God it’s going to be the best.

Now he saw Lord and Lady Montcalm sailing majestically towards their seats in the front stalls. A little flotilla of attendants and subordinates fussed behind them. Tom crossed over to speak to them and was greeted almost warmly.

‘So brave of you to cast Oliver,’ Lady Montcalm said. ‘I can’t imagine how you’ve coaxed anything out of him. He’s such a frivolous boy.’

‘Oh, I think he might surprise you tonight.’

‘And dear little Pansy, too.’

Lord Montcalm’s face turned a little redder when he heard her name and he cleared his throat, running his finger around under his black tie.

‘Pansy’s quite an actress,’ Tom said. ‘I think she’s got a long way to go. I hope you enjoy the show. Will you excuse me now?’

Backstage there were white faces under heavy make-up. Oliver’s gold head was bent as he stood already in position, waiting. Beside him the face of the actor playing old Adam was, at this close range, an unconvincing mass of brown and grey lines and wispy tufts of stuck-on grey hair.

Stagehands in jeans and T-shirts were padding to and fro making last-minute checks. Tom saw Chloe in the wings. She winked at him.

Tom went over to Oliver and touched him on the shoulder.