‘What did you say?’

‘I called you what you are – a counterfeit,’ he said.

I cast a quick look over my shoulder but thankfully there was no one else around. Did this African not understand the danger in what he said, the reaction of the punters if they discovered my deception, not to mention the police?

‘You shouldn’t go around making accusations like that,’ I said. ‘You don’t know the trouble you could cause for me, for the theatre.’

‘You are no African. What have I said that is not true?’

How dare he talk to me like that? I bristled while his eyes raked me, but I did not move. I was accustomed to being looked at by men fascinated by my body, but the African’s gaze went deeper, through my skin, right into my soul. I sensed his disappointment.

I shifted to block his view of the poster that stood behind me. Less than an hour before he had watched me dance Amazonia’s dance, but now I couldn’t bear to lie to him. I wanted him to see me, Zillah. My eyes burnt with the effort of holding his gaze. There was a small scar beneath his right eye. The result of a fall in childhood, I guessed.

‘You speak like a gentleman. Are you not English too?’

‘You don’t have to be English to be a gentleman,’ he said.

The irritation in his eyes was gone, replaced by pity. Who was this man that felt he could look down on me? I was the main act at Crillick’s Theatre.

‘I am a son of Africa,’ he said as if I’d spoken out loud. ‘You may be gaffed but I would still help you.’

He held out his hand to me but dropped it to his side when I kept my arms folded tight across my chest. What on earth made this arrogant merchant think I needed his help?

‘Will you not shake my hand, Amazonia?’

‘Don’t call me that.’

He held up the programme I had seen him poring over while he sat in his seat waiting for the show to start.

‘Is that not your name?’ He cleared his throat and read in a mocking showman’s voice as good as the compère, ‘“The Great Amazonia – a savage woman from darkest Africa.”’

‘My name is Zillah.’

He chuckled to himself. ‘Is that so?’

I didn’t know what that meant, and I couldn’t bear to ask him. It was impossible to work him out. One minute he seemed angry, the next he was mocking. I hated how he wrong-footed me. I’d learnt to rely on my wits but when I reached for a retort there was nothing there.

Finally, he stepped away from the poster and leant his elbow on the bar. I breathed easier with a little more space between us.

‘We should begin again. Hello, Zillah. Lucien Winters at your service.’