‘An ending doesn’t have to be happy for a new beginning to spring up; it will follow anyway, just as surely as the sun chasing the moon. There is always hope. And we must set our gaze ever upwards, ever onwards. We keep fighting for the next chance. Cory is still fighting, even though his life as he knew it ended that day on Supertubos Beach in Peniche, Portugal, October 2017. And he has shown through his fight, his strength and courage that while champions may shine in the light, it is heroes that light up the dark.’ She held up the glistening trophy. ‘So thank you, BAFTA, for giving us another torch along the path.’

The applause had erupted again, even before she’d finished speaking; several people were on their feet. Then some more. And more.

Four – three – two . . . The spooling numbers stopped at zero but the clapping didn’t as she looked out in wonder at the sight before her. Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, Gillian Anderson, George Clooney, all nodding their heads and holding out their claps towards her in a show of unity. Of course, she knew it wasn’t her they were applauding, but Cory. This was their show of support, they were standing beside him. She hoped he was watching.

Clover raised the trophy with triumphant victory as she made for the side of the stage, where a backstage manager in a headset was waiting to usher her off and prepare to shoo the next presenter on. Only as she was squeezing past him did she notice it was Daniel Craig.

‘Congratulations, Ms Phillips,’ he murmured in that familiar voice. Her mouth parted in surprise that Daniel Craig knew her name but in the next instant, he was announced on stage and had stepped out into the lights. The show must go on, from her moment of glory to the next one.

She was led away from the wings and people began shaking her hand and patting her shoulder again, offering congratulations in low voices. She looked down at the trophy in her arms as she walked through the backstage area towards the exit that would allow her re-entry to the auditorium.

The door was opened and a wave of sound rushed over them. For a moment she stood in the doorway, staring out again at the honed and chiselled profiles of the seated audience. It felt strangely dreamlike.

‘Mick will direct you back to your seat,’ the backstage manager said, handing her over into someone else’s care.

‘Follow me please, Ms Phillips,’ Mick said, striding quickly up and along the rows. The film excerpts for the nominees in the next category were playing out on the massive stage screens, providing cover as she slid back into her seat at the end of the aisle. Her victory lap had taken all of three minutes.