‘No, I don’t have to tell you. That’s up to Genevieve.’ Zora had suddenly grown a conscience, or at least a sense of discretion.

‘Come on, Zora. You can’t leave it at that. I need to know why they brought me in.’

But Zora would not be pestered. Making a face, she said, ‘Oh, go away, would you, Holly.’ She turned to the person on her left and started a conversation.

Ben said nothing at the time, but as he and Holly walked home from the tube, he said, ‘So you’re a scab.’

‘I’m not a scab!’

‘You are. That’s the definition of a scab! She withdrew her labour. You stepped in, didn’t you?’

He was prodding her on purpose, but Holly was not amused. ‘Jesus, Ben. I didn’t cross the picket line of a strike. I didn’t know anything about it, if anything happened. I’m not sure I believe it. Zora can’t be right. They would have told me if Owen did anything wrong. They would have warned me.’

She could think of plenty of objections to Zora’s version of events. If it was true and something untoward had happened, why didn’t the theatre get rid of the offender, instead of letting Genevieve quit?

Another thing – if it was true, Holly thought, why didn’t Owen try it on with her? Was it something about her? She wasn’t Genevieve, clearly. Could you be offended by the fact that you were not harassed?

She wasn’t sure if Owen was capable of such behaviour or not. From what she knew, he had done alright in the three years since Miss Julie. Her memory of him was curiously hazy, apart from the fact that he’d played a good Jean in the play, a fantasy – or nightmare – of an upwardly mobile villain. Don’t trust your servants, the play said. And lock up your daughters.

Still, she couldn’t dismiss the thought that something had happened. She was swamped by a feeling of bewilderment. Ben clearly thought there was something in it. Pulling off his boots at home, he shook his head and said, ‘I’m so fucked off they didn’t tell you. It’s shitty that they didn’t.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s not okay! They told you not to call her, remember?’

‘Yeah, that’s true,’ she said, remembering.

‘They probably told her not to speak to you either. Maybe she wanted to, who knows? Maybe she felt bad that she didn’t.’

Later that night, she woke up parched. Too much wine at dinner. She got up, made tea, and read over the next day’s scene, huddling under the lamp with a blanket about her shoulders.

Ben got up and found her. ‘The dark night of the soul,’ he said. ‘Are you still thinking about Genevieve?’