I will try to describe what took place during those first few days at Shepperton, as I remember it happening, in the right order. But films, like the dreams my father’s poet compared them to, do not lend themselves to order. Time in dreams shifts backwards and forwards, and images come and go, and so it is with the making of a film. Unfamiliar sights, people, language and experiences tumbled like a kaleidoscope, and dazzled me.

As soon as I entered the studio on that first day, the man whose banal questions about my train journey had encouraged me during my screen test strode towards me, extending his right hand with an expectant look. “Miss Hope? I am David Penn.”

“Oh!” I shook his hand. “So that was you!”

“You seem surprised,” he said, smiling.

“Um…” I was embarrassed, but found myself so struck by his appearance that I could not look away. I had seen him before, of course, but I had not seen his smile before. It covered his entire face, from his eyelashes to his ears, from his hairline to his moustache. He carried the fact that he was the best-looking man in the room with ease, from the collar of the jacket draped over his shoulders to the tips of his brogues. For the second time, I was charmed by his attention. “I am a little surprised,” I admitted. “You are such an important person, I—”

“And you are not?”

My embarrassment increased. I did not know what to say.

“Very well,” he said, “I will cease making you uncomfortable, and instead I will welcome you most humbly to David Penn Productions and Shepperton Studios. I trust you are being well taken care of?”

“Oh, yes! Very well, thank you.”

“Splendid.” He looked around the studio, then turned back to me. “Miss Hope, I promise you, by the time a few days have passed, you will feel you have been doing this your whole life. I am convinced you are a natural actress.”

“I am glad you think so,” I told him shyly. “I have no such confidence myself. And please, call me…” – I hesitated; it was the first time I had uttered my new name to anyone – “Clara.”

“Of course, and you must call me David,” he said quickly. “Now, Maria will show you to your dressing room, and someone will bring you whatever you would like to eat and drink, and then you will have your costume fitted and your hair and make-up done. We will be taking some more test shots, just to see how you look. And there will be a script conference with Aidan when he arrives. You have read the script, have you not?”

I nodded. The story involved my character, Eloise, a serving girl, falling in love with an aristocrat during the French Revolution. The aristocrat, Charles de Montfort, was beheaded in the end. “Who is Aidan?” I asked tentatively.

“It is not his real name,” said David. “I believe it is Irish, though he is not. He probably considers it exotic. You will get to know him quite well, my dear. He is playing de Montfort, your leading man.”