Laure glanced at Milos who was working away with a secret little smile on his lips.

‘Spejbl, so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,’ said Laure.

‘I deny absolutely that I come from a bourgeois background,’ said Spejbl.

‘But Spejbl,’ said Milos severely, ‘your father was a well-known shop owner.’ He glanced at Laure. ‘You mustn’t tell lies in front of visitors’

‘Don’t you mean, don’t tell lies in front of people you know. Visitors won’t know if you are lying and, therefore, won’t care.’

‘I’m not a visitor any more,’ said Laure.

‘No, you’re not. You’re part of the team.’

A small glow lit up in Laure.

‘Earn your keep. Next time you come bring some coffee. This marionette is dying for a good cup.’

Working calmly and methodically, Milos kept his head down.

Laure recollected the kitchen in the Kobes’ apartment where packets of coffee were stacked in a cupboard. ‘I’ll try. I didn’t realize it was so difficult to get hold of.’

‘Foreigner.’

It was said so affectionately that Laure grinned.

Milos slotted the final string into place. ‘Is that better, old man?’

‘Jawohl.’

Milos tapped the battered nose. ‘Wrong era.’

‘Don’t you give me history lessons.’

Backstage, the atmosphere was building as it always did. Nerves and tension boiling together. The possibilities were many. A performance could soar. A performance could bomb.

A performance could be watched, noted and reported.

That uncertainty triggered a rush which Laure had grown to relish. Every day brought a new sensation, a new experience – exquisitely intense.

She left Milos tidying up and went into the room used as a kitchen by the troupe to fetch the water for the backstage.

The room did not merit the term, having only a sink, a tap and a rickety table in the centre. Someone had brought in a gas ring on which the kettle was boiled and a couple of cups, one of which was minus its handle.

Laure filled a jug with water, wiped a tray decorated with a peeling transfer of the Charles Bridge and located the glasses. As she lifted the tray, someone grabbed her shoulder and she almost dropped it. Rattled, she whirled round.

Laure was confronted by Lucia in her black subfusc and concealing black headscarf. ‘My English is not so good today.’ Anticipating a clash, Laure set down the tray. ‘But you must be told. You think he likes you? Think again.’

‘Tomas?’

‘Who else? He’s making use of you because of who you are. He does that.’

At that moment, Laure discovered that being forewarned did not make dealing with a painful situation easier. ‘I know I’m not Czech, if that’s what you mean.’

‘No, you are not.’ Lucia spun out the words. ‘And you won’t understand.’

‘Perhaps I don’t mind.’