At the end of that uneasy drive with Simona I found myself in the intoxicated company of my fellow actors in a dark, smoky cellar full of noisy people and moody waiters. I ate and drank little; I had no appetite for food, alcohol or company. The thoughts in my head were alien from them, and from the place, as if my surroundings moved in a dream around the real, conscious me. I did not want champagne and dancing; I wanted only David, who was not there.

Where was he tonight? He had not spoken to me except as director and actress for weeks. Had he avoided Godfrey’s birthday party because he knew I would be here? Was he now regretting having been so nice to me that night? Was he at his house on the island? Was Marjorie there too, or had she gone back to New York?

I looked around me. Aidan, who was seated at the other end of the table, ignored me. Robert was at his elbow, and Godfrey at mine, while Simona, opposite Aidan, made eyes at him, which he also ignored. The woman who played Simona’s maid no longer appeared on the call list; she must have finished her scenes with Simona and gone. Having no scenes of my own with her, I had never even met her.

Toying with my glass, I pondered on the haphazard nature of filming. There was something called a “shooting schedule”, but it was often disrupted by someone not appearing punctually or David changing his mind about what he wanted to do that day. Scenes were done again several times or filmed in sections, days or weeks apart. Kitty’s job of photographing the film set and the actors at the end of every scene was vital. Each evening David looked at the “rushes”, the bits of filming done that day. Each morning he wanted something done again.

I found it baffling. The beheading scene had been filmed in the second week because the sun was out. As Eloise, I naturally would be in despair at Charles de Montfort’s death. But this scene had not been filmed yet, all these weeks later. It would probably be done indoors in the studio, with artificial light shining on me instead of the sun, and I would have nothing to show my despair to but the unblinking eye of the camera. The close-ups would be filmed separately, after a long session in the make-up room. Then the bits of film from the outdoor guillotining scene would be “spliced”, as they called it, onto the bits of film of me despairing, and the audience would think it was all happening at the same time. A film, I reflected despondently, was all lies.

Fairyland indeed. And full of witches, like any children’s story.