I felt a surge of relief when the curtain fell and then rose again for the cast to take their bows. I noticed Jordan Williams point in my direction and smile. He had spotted me in the audience and I was grateful for the gesture. The applause was loud and sustained but was it sincere? It was impossible to tell on a first night. The audience was on our side. They wanted us to succeed. But they might be acting too.

I made my way out into the street, shaking hands with people I’d never met, surrounded by smiles and congratulations. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the critics slipping away and tried to put them out of my mind. It was over. It had gone well. Now it was time for the first-night party and I was determined to enjoy myself. I would drink too much. This was my moment.

The Vaudeville Theatre was almost opposite the Savoy Hotel with its gorgeous cocktail bars and Grill Room, but Ahmet hadn’t been able to stretch quite that far. Instead, he had taken over a Turkish restaurant called Topkapi, on the edge of Covent Garden, which happened to be owned by his cousin. It was a small place, just off the piazza, with a wooden front decorated to look vaguely Byzantine and an outstretched canopy that was catching the rain. There was a bar as you entered and tables beyond, lots of mirrors, and lights that were a little too bright. As I walked in, I heard music playing and saw a three-man band in traditional costumes, sitting cross-legged on a square of carpet: lute, violin and drums. Waiters in tight-fitting black trousers and waistcoats were circulating with glasses of sparkling wine. The food – dolmas, borek and koftas – was spread out on the bar.

Ahmet, standing beside the door, greeted me with an embrace. ‘My dear friend! I am bursting with happiness. You heard the applause? One minute, thirty-two seconds. I timed it on my watch.’ He pointed to what was, I suspected, a fake Rolex. ‘We have a success. I know it.’

Standing beside him, Maureen looked less convinced.

Ahmet snapped his fingers at one of the waiters. ‘A glass of Yaşasin for the author!’ He beamed at me. ‘Or maybe you would prefer the Çalkarasi rosé? It’s excellent. The best.’

There were about a hundred people in the room, their numbers doubled by the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The cast hadn’t arrived yet – it was a tradition that they would come in late – but the entire production team was here, along with the actors I had noticed at the theatre. They were chatting to my sister, who seemed to know them well.

Meanwhile, Ahmet and Maureen had moved further into the room and were talking to a nervous-looking man – tall and slender, wearing a suit. I wasn’t sure why he was nervous. Perhaps he was one of our backers. I remembered him because he had been sitting exactly behind me during the play and I’d noticed him as I sat down. He hadn’t been looking too happy then either. I took a sip of the sparkling wine I had been given. It was too sweet for my taste, but at least it was cold. I was beginning to think that maybe I wouldn’t stay here long. I was walking distance from my flat in Clerkenwell. I’d go home with my family and celebrate there.