‘Then why is she here?’ Tirian asked. He was as surprised as I was.

‘God knows. It doesn’t make any difference to what she’s going to write, but I think it gives her a sense of power. She knows we’re all scared of her.’

‘I’m not scared of her,’ Tirian said.

‘Then she’s probably never given you a bad review.’

Tirian thought for a moment. ‘I haven’t done much theatre – and I don’t care what she thinks. I’ve already got my next job and there’s nothing she can say that can change that.’

‘Tenet,’ Sky said.

‘Yes. We’re going to be shooting in Paris. I’ve never been to France, so I can’t wait. And we might be going to Denmark and Italy too.’

‘Who are you playing?’ I asked.

‘A spy. The character doesn’t have a name. In fact, he doesn’t even have a character. They sent me the script last week and the truth is, it’s completely insane. There are bullets that travel backwards in time, something called the Algorithm that’s going to either destroy the world or save it – I don’t know – and doors between dimensions. It’s total nonsense. Christopher Nolan may be a big-shot director, but he’s got his head right up his arse. Not that I care. Eleven weeks shooting. A ton of money. And I go to France.’

‘Shh … !’ Sky warned.

It was too late. Harriet Throsby had made her way over to us and had heard what he was saying. It certainly wasn’t the best way Tirian could have described his big breakthrough, and he was startled when he saw her standing behind him. She glanced at him and I saw a spark of malevolence in her eyes. Tirian twisted away awkwardly.

‘Good evening, Harriet,’ Ewan said, with no enthusiasm.

The Sunday Times critic stopped and examined us, measuring us up as if she was intending to review the party as well as the play. For the first time, I was able to examine her properly.

She was not large but she certainly had presence, expensively dressed in a cut-off jacket with a faux-fur collar and pearls. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses that might have been deliberately chosen to make her look antagonistic, and she had a bulky black leather handbag – big enough to hold a laptop – looped over her arm. Her hair was obviously dyed, which was odd because it was an unpleasant colour, somewhere between brown and ginger. She had cut it short with a fringe, like a flapper girl from the twenties, which was exactly what she wasn’t. It didn’t suit her at all. I guessed she was about fifty. Her skin was pale and her make-up – the rouge, the lipstick, the eyeshadow – was so pronounced that it concealed her face rather than highlighted it. She could have been wearing a mask.

The girl who had arrived with her had followed her across and I decided that I was right and that she must be Harriet’s daughter. She also had short hair, the same eyes and turned-up nose, although in almost every other respect the two women could not have been more different. She looked downtrodden, miserable. She had deliberately chosen to dress down for the occasion with a denim jacket and a loose-fitting T-shirt printed with a photograph of Kristen Stewart in her role as the star of Twilight. Nor did she make any attempt to connect with the people in the room. Everything about her appearance and her manner suggested an archetypal stroppy teenager, dominated by a mother she didn’t like. The trouble was, she was actually quite a bit older, probably in her early twenties.