‘I’m a director.’

Later, she realised he knew more than he was letting on. He was the architect of the thing, in more ways than one.

Miles sold Holly on the part. He praised her performance in Miss Julie. ‘I’ve never forgotten it,’ he said. ‘And it would be amazing if you could bring some of that, what would you call it, that epic disastrousness to this role. Like, this estate is going down, the whole gentry is going down, so let’s put everything on the line.’

Miles favoured minimalist staging and a free hand with adaptations. Holly had worked with him before, so she knew what she was in for. Or she thought she did.

I’m doing Chekhov, baby, she messaged Ben when she accepted the part. She’s a glamorous widow, but a widow. Do I look like a widow?

Yes. In a good way. You would look great in a black veil.

But things got off to a rocky start. She was late for the read-through, the first gathering of the cast, because on leaving the flat, she spotted her pet rabbit – or a part of him – by the gate. At first she didn’t know what she was looking at. She saw a section of fur, very neat and precisely cut, like something that belonged on a furrier’s worktable. Picking it up, she saw the underside and recoiled. It was still warm and wet with blood but all the flesh had been stripped away, cleanly and surgically, as if with a scalpel.

‘God damn it,’ she said, dismayed.

It had to be a fox. She knew they were about. They loped at night across Weavers Fields, and nosed around the bins at the back of the chicken shop. The rabbit must have got out the night before, probably when Ben stepped outside for a joint. Pickles had a way of scampering out when you weren’t looking; he loved moseying about in the weedy courtyard.

Poor defenceless Pickles! He was so lovely, so rotund. Where was the rest of him? She couldn’t hunt for the body now. Not knowing what to do with the pelt, she laid it on the outside sill. Then, darting inside, she washed her hands and left again.

The violent fact of the rabbit’s death punctured the morning. Arriving at the theatre in Hammersmith with a sheen of perspiration, she found the others in a back room on mismatched chairs. She dumped her bag and took a seat, saying, ‘Sorry, sorry, hi.’ She chose not to volunteer the reason for her lateness, feeling that it did not reflect well on her as a pet owner.