Of course, the next morning I felt ill. I staggered downstairs and into the car, and at the studio Maria looked at me, smiled and brought me a glass of water. I drank it, and several more, and took with gratitude the aspirins she offered. “I must be sickening for something,” I told her apologetically. “I hope I don’t start sneezing in the middle of a scene.”

She was still smiling. “You won’t.”

Luckily, David wanted to film other people’s scenes first that day. I lay on the sofa in my dressing room, waiting to feel better. In the middle of the morning, there was a knock on the door.

Assuming it was David, I sat up eagerly. “Come in!”

It was Aidan. He was in costume, without his wig, as usual, and looking untidy; it took me a few seconds to realize that he had not yet shaved that day, and the make-up people had not started on him. “Your dressing room’s bigger than mine,” he said mildly. “I suppose that means you’re the star of this fiasco. So, I hear you and David hit the town last night.”

“Well, we went to the Ritz,” I told him blankly. Keeping my voice unenthusiastic would, I hoped, encourage him to go away.

“Judging by the look of you, you must have put away a fair amount.” He smiled, not very sincerely. “More than David, I’d say.”

I neither remembered nor cared how much David had drunk. I did not reply but closed my eyes and lay back on my cushions. I heard nothing for a couple of minutes. Then, assuming Aidan had gone, I opened my eyes. He was sitting on my dressing stool, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely. On his face was a look of such … intensity, I can only call it, that I actually flinched.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked.

His tone was not his usual light, careless one, nor was it his “acting” one. There was something in it I had not heard before. And he went on looking at me, his eyes full of questions.

“I do not know what you mean,” I said truthfully.

“Just then, when you saw me. You started, as if afraid. Why?”

“I was surprised. I thought you had gone.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course.” I swung my feet down to the floor and faced him squarely. “Aidan, I do not feel well, and I do not wish to answer these pointless questions. Will you please let me alone? I will see you later in the studio.”

Suddenly his hands shot out and grasped both mine. “Clara, you must take care. Promise me you will take care?”

I tried to pull away, but he held my hands very tightly. “Let go!” I protested.

He did not loosen his grip. Understanding that he wouldn’t do so until I answered him, I sighed and spoke patiently, as if to a child. “Look, Aidan. What could I need to ‘take care’ about? Nothing the slightest” – what was that word David had used about Aidan’s behaviour? – “untoward has happened.”

“Very well.” Dropping my hands, he took hold of a pen I had left on the dressing table and fumbled under Comte de Montfort’s embroidered jacket until he found a small piece of paper. He smoothed it out; it was a cigarette paper. “Please, Clara, take this.”

I waited, irritated, while he wrote something on the paper. “And be aware, too,” he went on, “that some people care about you a great deal and will be there if you ever need their help. Do not disregard them.” He looked at me sadly, holding out the cigarette paper. “And do not disregard yourself.”