Dante watched her face, reading it without difficulty, and his eyes darkened. He raised a hand to summon the attendant, and when Ferne looked up she found Dante filling a glass of champagne for her.

‘I felt you needed it after all,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe I do.’

‘So what was the film actor doing in a play?’ Dante asked.

‘He felt that people didn’t take him seriously.’

‘Heaven help us! One of them. They make a career out of being eye candy but it’s not enough. They want to be respected.’

‘You’ve got him to a T,’ Ferne chuckled. ‘Are you sure you don’t know him?’

‘No, but I’ve met plenty like him. Some of the houses I sell belong to that kind of person-“full of themselves”, I believe is the English expression.’

‘That’s it. Someone persuaded him that if he did a bit of Shakespeare everyone would be impressed, so he agreed to star in Antony and Cleopatra.’

‘Playing Antony, the great lover?’

‘Yes. But I think part of the attraction was the fact that Antony was an ancient Roman, so he had to wear little, short tunics that showed off his bare legs. He’s got very good legs. He even made the costume department take the tunics up a couple of inches to show off his thighs.’

Dante choked with laughter.

‘It was very much an edited version of the play because he couldn’t remember all the long speeches,’ Ferne recalled. ‘Mind you, he made them shorten Cleopatra’s speeches even more.’

‘In case she took too much of the spotlight?’ Dante hazarded a guess.

‘Right. He wasn’t going to have that. Not that it really mattered, because everyone was looking at his thighs.’

‘I don’t think you’re exactly heartbroken,’ Dante commanded, watching her intently.

‘Certainly not,’ she said quickly. ‘It was ridiculous, really. Just showbusiness. Or life.’