Maggie’s eyes shone, and pride rushed through Sylvia. Years of ushering and studying part time at St Martin’s and it was all about to pay off. One last show here, and then later in the year, Maggie would be starting the job she’d wanted for so long. Her future was finally on track; a messy, creative, fulfilling future surrounded by paint pots and fabric and set designs at that new concrete behemoth on the South Bank.

The bell rang loud and shrill. ‘I have to go. I’m meant to be in there.’ Maggie jerked her head towards the doors of the auditorium. ‘Enjoy. And don’t wait up – I’m going to the after-show.’

Sylvia watched her sidle through the throng and then the crowds in the foyer began pushing past her and Jim – terribly sorry, do excuse me – shimmying shoulder to shoulder up the stairs, past the ushers tearing tickets and towards the auditorium.

Sylvia knocked back her drink, took a last drag on her cigarette and followed the hordes into the darkened theatre. When the house lights went down and Peggy Ashcroft stepped onto the stage, a trickle of sweat rolled down the back of Sylvia’s neck. What had she done? What had she done to her own future?

JUNE 2016 Montreux, Switzerland

JESS

I’m having my doubts already. I’d thought fifteen years of teaching literature to kids who would rather look at their phones than listen to me meant I could handle any child just fine, but of course they’re far harder to control when they’re out of the confines of a classroom.

‘Luca!’ Léa runs after her brother, who’s just charged down the ramparts, and I trot after the pair of them.

‘Shall we see the dungeons?’ I say. We’ve done the fancy-dress workshop and the face painting. Please let the dungeons entertain them for a while longer.

‘What is duggons?’ Léa’s face is smudged with brown streaks the face painters thought depicted a dirty peasant. I wonder what immaculate Julia would think of her daughter looking like this after only one day in my care.

‘The place where they keep the bad people.’

‘Can we put Luca there?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ I shake my head, though some part of me agrees with the suggestion. He didn’t seem too crazy back at the house under his parents’ gaze. But today he’s manic, running everywhere, whining, crying, chattering non-stop. Maybe he’s testing me, or maybe he’s just excited to be out, away from parents and pre-school and routine.