The little actress had hold of his script, where she’d written suggestions as to how he might, exactly, give her a part. She had fingered the ink-stained pages so often, they were not only crumpled and grubby, but actually wearing thin. He studied her neat bone structure and noted her skinny bottom, which didn’t feel especially comfortable on his lap; he understood she was hungry. Hungry for fame. Hungry for food. She might not even know how to tell the two things apart any more. It was the case for most thesps.

He addressed her in French to amuse and distract. ‘Ma chère, if it was up to me, I’d cast you as the principal, but it isn’t.’ He did not believe in leading them on. He didn’t have to. He was gloriously handsome, dark and tall. He found he could have whoever he wanted anyway.

‘Would you? Would you really?’ She was breathless and hopeful, but then became scornful and sulky when she caught him winking at the leading lady, who sat just three feet away, powdering her nose and scowling. ‘Don’t play with me, Howard R. Henderson, it’s not fair.’ She used his full name as it appeared on the script, searching for defence in formality.

‘I tell you what, I’ll buy you dinner after the show,’ he suggested affably. Kissing the top of her head.

‘Fine.’ It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was something. Her eyes dropped longingly once again to the script. She drew her forefinger over the print of his name. ‘What does the “R” stand for anyhow?’

‘Guess?’

‘Ronnie.’

‘No.’

‘Robert?’

‘No.’

‘Richard, Raymond?’

‘No, no.’

‘Reginald?’

‘No.’ He laughed at that one. ‘Do I look like a Reginald?’

‘Well I don’t know.’ Pouting now.

‘Rumpelstiltskin,’ offered the actress at the mirror, her eyes trained on him through the reflection. He let out a huge belly laugh and thought, that is why she is the one they queue to see.

3

VIVIAN STEPPED OUT on to the glassy wet pavement. Spring showers were a curse to the season. The doorman, spruce and energetic in his top hat, opened the door for her, bowing ostentatiously. It was impossible not to let out a little sigh of delight; the hired hall was such a ravishing, glinting place. The pillared entrance was awash with chatter and anticipation. A blast of mingling voices – sweet light ones, gossipy nasty ones, raucous low ones – drenched her like a wave. Cloaks were deposited, dresses smoothed by anxious hands, and then they climbed the stairs.

The ballroom was plush; the red velvet seats and heavy curtains, gold braid and tassels, purple walls and carpets made her feel like royalty. Men were wearing roses in their lapels; women carried small ivory or silver dance cards. There were multiple candelabras with protruding branches; gleaming silver, gleaming flames. The room was full of all the people Vivian had seen a hundred times already this season. A tight group of people she knew well, and the rest no longer strangers, although not quite friends.