I could not think of an excuse quickly enough, so I found myself sitting opposite Aidan in the almost deserted dining room of my hotel. I pushed pieces of chicken around my plate while Aidan lounged in his chair, smoking, his other hand around a tumbler of whisky, his dinner cooling on the table.

It was not like being with David. I did not feel elated or even tipsy, though I had ordered wine in the hope that alcohol would anaesthetise me. I felt disappointed that David had ignored me and curious about the woman, and resentful of Aidan’s ability to needle me. Eventually, as Aidan at last picked up his knife and fork, I could no longer restrain myself. “So who is she?”

“Who?”

“You know perfectly well.”

He put his head on one side and considered his Dover sole and potatoes. “Jealous?”

“Why on earth would I be jealous?” I replied steadily. “I am merely asking for information, since no one introduced her to me.”

“Her name is Marjorie Cunningham.”

“I did not ask her name. I asked who she is.”

“She is Marjorie Cunningham.”

“Aidan!”

I had spoken louder than I intended. A waiter looked up from folding napkins in the corner, gave me a sour look and resumed his work. “Aidan,” I hissed. “You know what I mean, so please stop being so tiresome. Is she … well, is she David’s…”

“Lover?”

“I was going to say ‘lady friend’.”

He grinned. “How quaint!”

I strove for patience. “Can you not just give me the information without this performance?”

Setting down his cutlery, he sipped his drink and look at me with amusement. “Very well. She is an actress, like you.” He put down his glass and held it between his hands, his gaze still on my face. “Though not very like you, actually. She is unscrupulous, vain and grasping.” He mused for a moment. “But striking, I’m sure you will agree.”

I did not consider Marjorie Cunningham particularly striking. I had seen only a fashionably willowy frame, artificially gilded hair and a pricey fur. “Men’s appreciation of what is striking must be different from women’s,” I said. I put some chicken in my mouth and chewed while Aidan watched me, the amused look still in his eyes. “She is certainly glamorous,” I added, “but that is not the same thing.”

Aidan turned his attention once more to his plate. I noticed that his hair had too much oil in it and that he had not removed all of his make-up: a pale line of it ran round his hairline and chin like the beach at the edge of the land. For an actor, he took little care of his appearance. “She is one of David’s set. They are always at his parties, drinking and dancing and making fools of themselves. You know he has a house on an island in the river, not far from here?”

I did not know this. And to my knowledge, David had not given any parties since I had been working on the film. If he had, I had not been invited. My heartbeat stuttered.

“Marjorie’s been in America trying to get a part in a picture,” continued Aidan. “I think she has been in a play on Broadway or something. In any case, she must have failed to get into ‘the movies’, as they call them there, or she would not be back here in Old England.”

An unwelcome thought came to me. “Do you think she is hoping for a part in our film?”

He laughed loudly. The waiter looked round again. “Our film? Oh, Clara, you are sweet! Marjorie has not come to David for a part! And this film is not ours at all. It belongs to that band of scroungers David is in thrall to. His so-called backers. A worse pack of villains you could not wish to find. Now eat up your food like a good girl and let’s not talk about Marjorie any more.”