‘…Something pretty bad,’ the voice said irritably. ‘She’s gone to hospital…They said so but nobody’s turned up… Well, you know what she’s like, old boy, don’t you? We’ve been snowed under all day and I haven’t been able to do anything about it…auditions for the northern tour of the old piece…yes, yes, that’s all fixed but…Look, another thing: The Onlooker wants a story and pictures for this week…yes, on stage. In costume. Nine-thirty in the morning and everything still in the boxes…Well, can’t you think of anyone?…Who?…O, God, I’ll give it a pop. All right, old boy, thanks.’

To Martyn, dazed with brandy and sleep, it was a distortion of a daydream. Very often had she dreamt herself into a theatre where all was confusion because the leading actress had laryngitis and the understudy was useless. She would present herself modestly: ‘I happen to know the lines. I could perhaps…’ The sudden attentiveness, when she began to speak the lines…the opening night…the grateful tears streaming down the boiled shirts of the management…the critics…no image had been too gross for her.

‘Eileen?’ said the voice. ‘Thank God! Listen, darling, it’s Bob Grantley here. Listen, Eileen, I want you to do something terribly kind. I know it’s asking a hell of a lot but I’m in trouble and you’re my last hope. Helena’s dresser’s ill. Yes, indeed, poor old Tansey. Yes, I’m afraid so. Just this afternoon, and we haven’t been able to raise anybody. First dress-rehearsal tomorrow night and a photograph call in the morning and nothing unpacked or anything. I know what a good soul you are and I wondered…O, God! I see. Yes, I see. No, of course. Oh, well, never mind. I know you would. Yes. ‘Bye.’

Silence. Precariously alone in the foyer, she meditated an advance upon the man beyond the glass wall and suppressed a dreadful impulse in herself towards hysteria. This was her daydream in terms of reality. She must have slept longer than she had thought. Her feet were sleeping still. She began to test them, tingling and pricking, against the floor. She could see her reflection in the front doors, a dingy figure with a pallid face and cavernous shadows for eyes.

The light behind the glass wall went out. There was, however, still a yellow glow coming through the box-office door. As she got to her feet and steadied herself, the door opened.

‘I believe,’ she said, ‘you are looking for a dresser.’

As he had stopped dead in the lighted doorway she couldn’t see the man clearly but his silhouette was stocky and trim.

He said with what seemed to be a mixture of irritation and relief: ‘Good Lord, how long have you been here?’

‘Not long. You were on the telephone. I didn’t like to interrupt.’