‘Are you with me on this? The musical. Because I totally, totally understand if you’re not feeling it, and …’ he lowers his voice, moving his lips like a cartoon, ‘I know you’ve been unsure about staying or going, and I fully support you. But this means a lot to me.’

‘I’m in, Si. Chill out.’

‘Please don’t tell me to chill out. Can you prove it?’

‘Prove it? Si – erm, Mr Sullivan – I thought we were mates.’

He’s so jittery, I wonder if he needs the loo.

‘We are mates,’ he says. ‘But we’re also colleagues. I’m sorry, I don’t like saying this, but how do I know you won’t let me down? I’ve spent months working on this musical. I thought I might be left without a director. Gosh, I even thought you might leave the whole flipping profession!’

‘I never said for sure …’

‘I even asked! When you messaged me about being in London. I asked if you’d had a change of heart and can you remember what you replied?’

‘Erm, I can’t say I—’

‘Because you didn’t.’

‘Huh?’

‘You didn’t reply. You just left me hanging.’

‘There’s no need to be so dramatic, hun.’

‘Actually, hun, there is!’

‘Calm down, Si—’

‘I. Am. Calm,’ he whispers loudly. ‘But Chloe, I care about this musical. A. Lot. And yeah, most people won’t “get it”. It’s not a huge football game or a die-hard rock concert, but hey, it’s my passion. I love it. I created it. And I don’t want it to be anything less than the absolute best that it can be.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you?’

I allow Si’s question to digest. ‘No. I don’t.’

‘I really do want to work with you, Chloe, but I think I need to do this … without you.’

‘Ouch,’ I say, regretting my immaturity and closing my eyes.

He’s right, though. I’m not what Si needs. He’s put so much of his heart and soul into this. He deserves better. Not a half-arsed director who doodles on the register, desperate for a packet of salt and vinegar crisps to soothe a hangover.

The cast arrive, running in with their hands jammed into crisp packets and swigging from water bottles. Jonah Matthews has grown about two foot taller since July. A few latecomers whizz past murmuring, ‘Sorry, Miss,’ and, ‘Sorry, Sir.’

‘In the professional world,’ I project, ‘being on time is considered late. So be early. And if anyone pulls a stunt like this again, you’ll be replaced. Even if I have to squeeze into your costume and play the part meself. Don’t snigger. I am not joking.’

Si starts pounding the keys for the warm-up.

‘Well … good luck,’ I say, and leave.

Instant coffee and staffroom banter will have to do.

32