But for a battle the kingdom was lost.

All for the want of a horseshoe nail.

But for my mother my nerve was lost. But for my nerve, my career was lost. But for my career my ‘no’ was lost. But for my ‘no’ my world was lost . . . All for the want of a loving mother, all for the want of trying to please, pandering, putting everyone else’s needs first. Rose got her thorns into me, ensured I was compliant, and that other people could continue the process. Over and over again, until I reached my limit.

And the headache intensified, increasing to a pitch where I couldn’t bear it any more, had to do something, anything to take away the pain, make it go away. So I took the drugs, and got knocked out, and since then something has been unhinged, flapping madly, directing me, telling me what to do, what camera angles are needed, writing the script for this day, this day when I take back the kingdom.

* * *

After leaving Bigwig in the cloakroom with an accommodating attendant, I barrel back into the main bar area and run slap-bang into Vince.

He folds his arms. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

I don’t have time for either. There’s a call sheet in my head and we’re on a tight schedule.

‘The good news?’

‘The good news is I’m saving money because you’re not getting any kind of a raise. And the reason you’re not getting your raise is because of the bad news. David pulled out.’

‘What? I swear I nailed it. He was putty in my hands.’

‘You keep using these disgusting phrases that aren’t even true. He phoned me to say he doubts your authenticity as a producer.’

I can’t understand it, and don’t have time to try. ‘I’ve got to go . . . got some other stuff to deal with.’

‘You can deal with David, when he arrives. I’ve invited him here, for one last-ditch effort. So don’t fuck this up.’

‘Right. Right.’ I’m moving away from him, pushed and pulled by the crowds who are eager to let their hair down, to celebrate the wrap. Like the Beatnik night in the vicarage, spirits high, morals low. After these past years of lockdown, cancellations, scaling back, this lot are ready to party. The music is thumping, reminding me of my headache, giving me another one. But I’ve got to keep going, get this done.

I scour the place, seeking him out, heart pounding at the potential proximity. He must be here, he’s on Imogen’s list. Where is he? I don’t want to see him, but I must. I must. Just as I’m starting to panic that I’ve missed him, he’s there, across the crowded room, and then it’s a different kind of panic. He’s talking to Flora, my assistant producer, and my hands tighten into fists just looking at the way his head is bent towards hers. Although he’s nearly twenty years older, he doesn’t look so different – still handsome, in a weather-beaten way. White teeth shining under the disco lights, no trace of middle-aged paunch. I guess that’s what two decades in LA will do for you. Despite – and because of – my best efforts, I look very different. The lines and sags of a woman who bore and raised twins. More expensive clothes. Crazy hair. And also, I am different. A different woman from the one who couldn’t say no to him. I suspect he hasn’t changed. I start my mindful breathing, to steel myself.

‘Thought I might run into you again.’

Turning, I let out an exclamation. It’s the woman from the train this morning. Seeing her here, in this setting, I immediately know who she is, and can’t believe I didn’t recognize her before.

‘Marcia!’ She was a floor manager at the BBC, and we worked on a show together shortly after I met Robbie. I never saw her without a headset on. ‘You still at the Beeb?’

‘Still there.’ Her gaze follows mine, watching him chatting up Flora. ‘On the Entertainment commissioning team now, came over today from London to see this new dating show. We might be interested. Were you involved?’

‘Nope, not me. You going back tonight?’ I’m keeping my eye on him, to check he doesn’t head off, or worse, take Flora with him.

‘No, I’ve got a hotel – that’s what I’m looking forward to the most, actually. Air conditioning and no kids.’

‘Enjoy.’

‘I see old Fingersmith over there is up to his usual tricks.’

My heart jumps in my chest. ‘Do you . . . know him?’

She grimaces. ‘Know him of old. Thought he had to do a runner after his antics caught up with him.’

‘Hmm.’ I’m finding it hard to speak, can’t decide if what I’m feeling is horror or relief. He’s done it before. Or after. It wasn’t just me.

‘Anyway, lovely to catch up.’

She moves away, and I spend a couple of seconds getting my breathing back to normal before I’m ready to go. Spotting Oz hogging the bar, I head his way.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ He shifts along to make room, casting me a sour look, obviously annoyed by the short shrift I gave him this morning.

‘Hi, Oz. I need some cocaine.’ There’s no time for beating about the bush. He’s got it, and I need it.

In the process of taking the first sip of his pint, Oz splutters and spits it all over the bar. I possibly should have beaten around the bush a bit, just to ease him into this unexpected request.

‘Sorry. Er, hi, Oz, how are you? Love the show, do you happen to have any coke on you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What are you talking about? As if I would ever, ever—’

He trails off as I reach into his pocket to pull out the bag. I really don’t have time for this – like Petroc said, it’s a quick turnaround, getting quicker with every second.

‘For God’s sake, don’t wave it about!’ he hisses, slapping at my hand, which slips the bag into my own pocket – this dress is excellent.

‘Sorry about this, but think of it as a confiscation. This stuff is illegal and besides, you’re really too old to be doing it.’

To my surprise he nods, wiping his mouth on a napkin. ‘I know, you’re right. You’re probably doing me a favour. I just felt like I needed it to take the edge off.’

‘The edge off what?’

He shrugs, then gestures to the gabbling crowds. ‘All this. It’s my show. What if it’s shit?’

I’m genuinely amazed that Oz gives a toss. ‘I’m sure it’s not shit.’ I’m not at all sure, but it feels like the thing to say right now, since I’ve stolen his only other solace.

‘Might not come to the screening. Can’t face it.’

‘Whatever you feel is best.’ I’ve scored my hit, and need to move on, not get stuck here counselling Oz in his hour of need. Leaving him nursing his pint, I make my way across the room, weaving through crew, commissioners, producers, lawyers and secretaries, heart hammering, vision blurring, as I head towards a man I never wanted to see again, a man I wish I’d never met.

‘Hey there. Vince has sent me to look after you.’

He appraises me, as Flora drifts away. I’m too old for him, but he’s intrigued all the same, by the novelty of the approach. He’s the one who does the approaching, usually. My heart is thumping painfully, but I keep my expression open and friendly, smiling like it never happened. I don’t want him to remember yet, until I’ve got him where I need him to be.

‘Vince is an excellent host, so kind and thoughtful.’

I know for a fact that Vince will have already wooed him and other favoured buyers in the private dining room, greasing the wheels. ‘He’s very kind, when there’s a potential deal on the table.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen the show yet.’ He flashes his teeth, American-white, enjoying his power.

‘Maybe we can help you enjoy it even more. A little birdie told me you might be in the market for a pick-me-up before the screening.’ Opening my pocket slightly, I reveal my stash. In the Beatnik era, his predilection was well-known; he was always nipping off to the toilets during meetings, coming back buzzing with ideas. He once offered it to me, and pinched my chin affectionately when I stammered no. Like Oz, he’s really too old for it, should have moved on to milder recreationals, but of course his eyes widen when he sees it.

‘This format just got a lot more interesting,’ he murmurs.