But she wonders if the editor and his old pal aren’t intent on grinding axes. Is it possible that years of disappointment and bitterness have clouded the editor’s judgement, that he’s after the Tubals as a proxy for this Maxwell? She’s Googled Maxwell and his story is almost unbelievable: an absolute fantasist and liar who was once a Member of Parliament and ended his life by jumping off his boat, the Lady Ghislaine. She tells herself she must just stick to her story – it has the great advantage of being absolutely true – that an unnamed source picked up on her blog, which was innocently wondering why Artair had lost his grant, and he gave her some information. She’s already rehearsing an interrogation: I met the source – no idea at all who he is – and passed on the information to my editor, who ran with it. It was his decision and his judgement to take it further. But she can’t help thinking that the Globe and Mail is pushing its luck taking on Tubal and Co. and the City of London. And she is troubled by the fact that she doesn’t know what Alan39 wants. Mr Tredizzick is not interested. He’s hell-bent on bringing down capitalism.

Artair is about to send his final version of the script off to El Camino Drive for onward transmission to Daniel Day-Lewis. He has revised one aspect of it substantially: the screenplay is, following O’Brien, going to demonstrate its own artificiality. There will be shots of the filming taking place, and the whole concept of a movie as a contained reality will be exploded; it will be a self-evident sham and the viewer will be offered the opportunity to distance himself, or herself, from the illusion with which most film-goers willingly collaborate. He, Artair, will participate in the movie, although the viewer will know that he is also the writer and director. He will strive to contain his characters. He will demonstrate that there is no such thing as a single objective reality. He’s rehearsing a speech in his mind: