I am furious at Ingmar, who lets me go through this, and when the bell sounds for lunch I race out of the studio. To his wife in the corridor I shout in passing that I hate her husband.

Later that afternoon I go to find Erland, a cherished colleague and confidant. I march into his room without knocking, the anger and humiliation still raging within me. Full of aggression, I tell him secrets about Ingmar, lies about him. Reveal that the truth about Ingmar’s solitary lunches is a heap of tabloids he doesn’t want to be caught reading.

Erland has such a strange expression on his face; doesn’t look at me, doesn’t answer me. There is an abrupt silence, and I turn and look in the direction where Erland’s eyes are focused. Ingmar is sitting in a corner wearing a strange little smile, and looking sad.

Standing there, I die a little and exclaim, “This I can’t handle!” I bolt from the room, out of the Film Institute, far out into the courtyard until I see a small crate with a lid. I crawl into it, although I am much too big, pull the lid down over me and decide to stay there for the rest of my life.

Cilla arrives, peers down at me and asks me to come out.

Erland tries to persuade me. But I never want to reappear. I will have to sit where I am forever.

Finally—after a long, long time—Ingmar comes and knocks on the lid.

He waits to open it until I whisper, “Come in.” He asks me, “Do you want to be friends again?” and his face is kind.

Ullmann crawls out and work can continue.