There was a long silence once everyone had read it.

It was Ewan who spoke first. ‘Well, at least she’s given us a quote,’ he said. ‘“Run to get tickets”! We can put that outside the theatre.’

I didn’t know if he was joking or not.

It was a gut punch; there could be no denying it. The fact that it was the first review – and out so quickly – only made it worse. Would other critics read it? Was this to be the opening volley in an onslaught? Almost every person in the room had been insulted by Harriet Throsby and I could imagine each one of them obsessing about the parts of the review that referred to them. Ewan Lloyd on autopilot. Jordan Williams grandiloquent. Tirian Kirke childish. Only Sky Palmer had got off relatively lightly. She was a talented actress undermined by the idiot writer. And what of me? Harriet had devoted more words to me than to anyone else, cheerfully apportioning me ‘much of the blame’. Of course, I would have to pretend that I didn’t mind, that it was just one review, that she didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was already overwhelmed by a sense of failure that had fallen on me like a huge wave, dashing away any chance of a long West End run, a transfer to Broadway, the film of the play, the sequel. What struck me more than anything was the malice that ran through the review, the sense that she had enjoyed thinking up her little bons mots and spitting them in my direction. That joke about the stool, for example. Did she really have to do that?

‘What is “jejune”?’ Ahmet asked. There was a suggestion of hopefulness in his voice. Perhaps he was thinking that it might be a compliment.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Maureen said. She was standing right next to him, white-faced, her lips pressed tightly together.

‘The bitch!’ Jordan had not raised his voice, but the words exploded out of him. His eyes were staring, his face filled with fury. ‘This isn’t a review. This is a filthy piece of slander! And it’s the third time she’s done this to me. Everything I do – every time – she has it in for me. I’ll kill her. I swear to you … !’ He was holding the dagger that Ahmet had given him. He slammed it down into what was left of the cake.

‘It’s just one review.’ Ewan was echoing exactly what I had been thinking, doing his job as director, trying to hold us all together. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘This is just her opinion,’ he went on, tiredly. ‘The other critics often disagree with her. It was the same when I directed Antigone.’

‘Someone should put a knife in her!’ Jordan hadn’t finished yet. ‘She’s a monster. She shouldn’t get away with it.’

‘How did she manage to write it so quickly?’ I asked. ‘The curtain only came down a couple of hours ago.’