Laure drew Maria close. She needed to put her arms around someone – a child, a lover – and to feel them as they would feel her. To hold someone, or to be held, was proof of being alive. For too long she had felt herself to be a mute, cold thing.

Maria’s head fell back against Laure’s chest.

‘Here,’ said Tomas. ‘You can stretch her out across our laps.’

The curtains pulled back. Jan sat up. Offstage the recorder played a marching tune as the handsome peasant son embarked on his search to find the princess, which included making friends with a black bear who helped him hack through the hedge of thorns. Eventually, he discovered a comatose Princess Aurora. Strings swaying, wooden knee joints buckling, he bent over to kiss her awake. A child in front of them bellowed in delight. Maria sat up.

A memory pushed to the front of her mind, so unwelcome that she closed her eyes. It was of Rob Dance dressed from head to foot in black, sitting in his studio at Brympton. She could summon every detail: tins of tobacco shedding their guts over the floor, Rizlas on every surface, and photos pinned up like scales on the walls.

First love had to be got over, and as quickly as possible. Laure had read that somewhere and agreed. But it hadn’t felt quick.

At the touch of the peasant-prince, Aurora woke up and their marionette shadows merged on the backdrop behind them.

Despite the heat in the room, Laure was in a cold sweat. Rob had taken her virginity. Very rapid. Very indifferent. Almost dutiful. Afterwards, feeling cheated of the sensations about which she had so often speculated, she had wriggled back into her jeans and watched him buckle his belt. ‘You have to leave’, he said. ‘See you.’

At the finale, Tomas eased Marie gently upright and she bounced on the bench with delight. Children and adults were applauding noisily and so did Laure. ‘I’m glad you approve of the company,’ said Tomas, brushing back damp hair from his forehead. ‘It’s destined for great things.’ He peered at Laure and his smile widened. ‘I can truthfully tell them that we play to an international audience.’

‘Any time you like,’ she replied. ‘I can be French or English.’

He put his head on one side and took a good look at her. ‘Sexy French or sensible English. I’ll have to think about which,’ he said. ‘And I’ll let you know.’

She couldn’t help the grin that stretched across her mouth.

He held up an arm that had a half-sucked boiled sweet stuck to it. ‘What’s that?’