‘No,’ said Helen bleakly.

‘Because, as you see, he isn’t here. He only comes when he needs something. He’s at the rehearsal rooms. If you want him, you should go straight out and get him. Just like he’d do himself.’

Yes, thought Helen. She’s right.

Without moving or saying any more, Rose watched her leave. Then, very slowly, she shook her head and turned back to her knitting.

It was even colder outside than it had looked from her window. Helen shivered and plunged forward. She was thinking of nothing, not imagining what she would find when she reached the address that Rose had given her, except that Oliver would be there.

She was breathless when she reached the disused warehouse that was used as a rehearsal room. A blank grey door in the side wall had a rainwashed notice on it reading ‘PLAYHOUSE’. There was no bell or knocker, but the door opened when she pushed it. Inside was a little windowless lobby with a heavy steel sliding door blocking one wall. A flight of stone steps faced Helen, and as she ran up them, there was still no thought in her head except Oliver. At the top of the steps she groped in the airless darkness and then caught a breath of clearer air. Following it, she came out on to a catwalk that looked down into the main body of the warehouse.

In the middle of the bare concrete floor below her, lit by a single desk light, was a battered table covered with notes. On hard chairs drawn up to the table, Pansy and Oliver were sitting facing each other.

Helen heard Pansy’s voice first. It was soft but penetrating, filling the warehouse to the remotest corner. She was reading a scene and Oliver was following the lines, waiting for his cue.

Helen started forward to call out to them, then stopped herself. Don’t interrupt. She would let them finish the scene. She leaned back against the wall to watch, folding her arms patiently.

Oliver and Pansy were completely unaware of being watched. Pansy kept starting her speech and then stopping, trying new emphases. Oliver watched her face intently, and when Pansy looked up to meet his eyes, there was a ripple of laughter between them.

‘Perfectionist,’ Oliver murmured.

‘It will be perfect,’ Pansy whispered back. ‘It must be. When we stand up there …’

‘If you want it, then it will be.’

She was looking across at him, serious-faced. ‘What do you want, Oliver?’

The warehouse was a pool of silence. Helen’s spine crawled, icy with sudden dread.

As she watched, incapable of moving, Oliver’s hand reached out. Pansy’s was resting on the table and Oliver took it and touched each of the fingers in turn. Then he traced a circle in the palm.

‘You,’ he said simply.