‘How do you think it’s going?’ I asked him.

He grimaced. ‘Tirian missed out two lines in the first scene,’ he said. ‘And the bloody projector got stuck again.’

The projector was used to make the picture on the wall change from one image to another during the performance, but it had to happen slowly so the audience didn’t notice. It had seemed fine to me, and I hadn’t noticed the missing lines. It struck me that Ewan was even more nervous than I was, but then this was his first London production for some time.

‘Otherwise it’s OK,’ he went on. ‘I think they’re enjoying it.’

‘The critics?’

‘I mean the audience. You can never tell with the critics, sitting there, making notes. Did you see that Harriet Throsby from the Sunday Times is in the house?’ I was surprised by the hatred in his voice.

‘Is that so surprising?’

‘I’d have thought she’d have sent an assistant rather than coming herself. We’re an out-of-town production.’

‘Maybe that’s a good thing.’ I was thinking we might get a more prominent review if she wrote it herself.

‘Nothing about that woman is good. Nothing! She’s a complete bitch, and you might as well know that I’ve never had a good review from her.’ Ewan hadn’t raised his voice. His anger was all the more striking for being expressed in such a subdued way. He stared out at the rain, which was falling harder now. ‘Some of the stuff she writes is pure vitriol,’ he went on. ‘She chooses her words carefully, rancid opinions carefully laced with deeply personal insults. They say she started life as a journalist but wanted more power. That’s what it’s all about. I don’t think she even likes theatre.’

‘Well, there are plenty of other critics.’

‘She’s the most influential. People read her because she’s so vile. It’s like watching a car crash.’

‘She might be enjoying the play.’

He sniffed. ‘What she thinks is one thing. What she writes is another.’

I remembered this conversation as the second act began and as a result, I wasn’t able to enjoy even a minute of it. All the doubts and misgivings that had been at the back of my mind suddenly came rushing to the fore and I remembered that audiences in the provinces and audiences in the capital are noticeably different. Expectations are considerably higher in London. So are the seat prices. Outside London, people tend to be more forgiving, more determined to enjoy themselves. Could we pass muster as a West End show? It suddenly struck me that the set was looking shabby and fragile after months on the road followed by several weeks stacked up in a warehouse in Slough. The second half was too long. I couldn’t stop myself glancing at Harriet Throsby, her face in the light reflected from the stage. She was wearing glasses that hid her eyes, but I could see that she wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t showing any emotion at all. Was she my enemy? She certainly seemed to be Ewan’s.