Gregory Wright-Hanson had been chosen for his physical resemblance, at a distance, to Aidan. But his behaviour off-screen could not have been more different. He did not forever have a cigarette in his hand, nor did he keep a bottle of whisky in his pocket. He did not amuse himself by antagonizing David. And time was not wasted while he argued or had to have his wig straightened or his nose powdered again because he had walked off the set to blow it on a borrowed handkerchief.

Furthermore, Gregory made no attempt to befriend me, advise me or take me out to dinner, but treated me with sycophantic respect. I could not even prevail upon him to call me Clara. To him I was Miss Hope, always. He repeated his lines perfectly and did everything David wanted, however many times he wanted it, without complaint. He was, as Godfrey had suggested, rather dull.

But he was pretty good at his job; once the camera started rolling, his movements were as “big” as David wanted without looking unrealistic. But he lacked something I struggled to name. Presence? Personality? Charm? Whatever it was, I missed it sorely during those final weeks. Watching the rushes at the end of each day, I noticed how much more skilful an actress I had become, so much so that having to re-do some of my scenes, and a large number of what Harry called “headshots”, hardly seemed a difficult task. It was merely work. Over the last six months I had, I suppose, transformed myself from a beginner into a professional.

Aidan would be amazed. But what did it matter what Aidan thought? When the filming was over, I was going to go away with David, to Brighton for the weekend. Every time I thought about it my heart quickened and a picture leapt into my imagination. My darling David and me on our first holiday together, away from everyone, wrapped in each other’s arms and enduringly in love.