‘I can’t,’ Gay said between her teeth. ‘I can’t.’ She twisted in her chair. He lifted his fingers away from her face quickly, with a wide gesture. ‘Jacko,’ she said. ‘There’s a jinx on this night. Jacko, did you know? It was on the night of the Combined Arts Ball that it happened.’

‘What is this foolishness?’

‘You know. Five years ago. The stage-hands were talking about it. I heard them. The gas-fire case. The night that man was murdered. Everyone knows.’

‘Be silent!’ Jacko said loudly. ‘This is idiocy. I forbid you to speak of it. The chatter of morons. The Combined Arts Ball has no fixed date and if it had, shall an assembly of British bourgeoisie in bad fancy-dress control our destiny? I am ashamed of you. You are altogether too stupid. Master yourself.’

‘It’s not only that. It’s everything. I can’t face it.’

His fingers closed down on her shoulders. ‘Master yourself,’ he said. ‘You must. If you cry I shall beat you and wipe your make-up across your face. I defy you to cry.’

He cleaned his hands, tipped her head forward and began to massage the nape of her neck. ‘There are all sorts of things,’ he said, ‘that you must remember and as many more to forget. Forget the little freak and the troubles of today. Remember to relax all your muscles and also your nerves and your thoughts. Remember the girl in the play and the faith I have in you, and Adam and also your Uncle Bennington.’

‘Spare me my Uncle Bennington, Jacko. If my Uncle Bennington had left me where I belong, in fortnightly rep, I wouldn’t be facing this hell. I know what everyone thinks of Uncle Ben and I agree with them. I never want to see him again. I hate him. He’s made me go on with this. I wanted to throw the part in. It’s not my part. I loathe it. No, I don’t loathe it, that’s not true. I loathe myself for letting everybody down. Oh, God, Jacko, what am I going to do.’

Across the bowed head Jacko looked at his own reflection and poked a face at it.

‘You shall play this part,’ he said through his teeth, ‘mouse-heart, skunk-girl. You shall play. Think of nothing. Unbridle your infinite capacity for inertia and be dumb.’

Watching himself, he arranged his face in an unconvincing glower and fetched up a Shakespearian belly-voice.

‘The devil damn thee black thou creamfaced loon. Where gottest thou that goose-look?’

He caught his breath. Beneath his fingers, Gay’s neck stiffened. He began to swear elaborately, in French and in a whisper.

‘Jacko. Jacko. Where does that line come?’

‘I invented it.’

‘You didn’t. You didn’t. It’s Macbeth’ she wailed. ‘You’ve quoted from Macbeth,’ and burst into a flurry of terrified weeping.