‘Why in God’s name am I doing this? I don’t want to go out there and be stared at. And I don’t want to act opposite her. How can I?’

Helen jumped to her feet.

‘There isn’t time for this now. They’re waiting.’

‘Let them wait. I want just one drink.’

‘Afterwards.’ Almost bodily, Helen propelled him from the room and down into the wings. There was the faintest stir of relief among the knot of people standing there.

Out on the stage, old Adam was waiting. Oliver half went to join him, then turned back to Helen.

‘Where’s Darcy?’

Startled, she said, ‘I don’t know. At home, I suppose.’

‘Pity. I’d have liked to see old Darcy.’

Then Oliver took up his position. He pressed the palms of his hands to his temples, as if he was trying to suppress the noise in his head. From beyond the curtain the dull murmur of the audience was quieter but infinitely more threatening than the night before.

Helen fled, unable to watch any more.

She found her way to the green room. By an odd chance it was completely deserted. Helen crossed to the controls of the tannoy speaker, turned up the volume, and waited.

Then Oliver’s voice came crackling out with the opening lines. Helen forced herself to listen, critically sharp-eared. But he was all right. His voice was still flat, but it was firm. By degrees she let herself relax. There was none of the surrender to enchantment of the night before, but at least the play was on. Oliver was walking blindly through the part, but he was on stage and that would have to be good enough.

Then it was time for Pansy to make her entrance. Even up in the green room, listening to the distorted, tinny sound of the relayed voice, Helen sat up. If Oliver’s performance was wooden, Pansy’s was incandescent. She was playing as she had never done before.

In the auditorium, the spaces in the wings, even in the lighting box, nobody moved. Tom sat in his director’s seat, a half-smile lifting the taut lines of his face. And in Pansy’s dressing room, Stephen Spurring stared down at his hands, where Pansy had printed kisses before running down to the stage, unbelieving.

Somebody came into the green room. Helen looked up to see Chloe. Her face was dead white under the careful make-up and her eyes were swollen. She gave Helen a small defiant smile and then, as if intent on giving herself something to do, began to tidy the room. She swept empty paper cups into a wastepaper basket and then began to stack up discarded newspapers. The bundle slipped and pages drifted to the floor. Chloe stared down at them for a second before tears spilled down her face.