In contrast, Abela grew up in Rottingdean, a village near Brighton on England’s south coast. Her father, a comedian and director, is of Maltese and Arab descent. And her mother, who is still a working actor, is from a Jewish background with Polish ancestry. They split up when she was four. It’s a background that, on paper, might predispose her to nepo baby allegations, but it’s more nuanced than that. “I grew up with no money from a single-parent family, and I got a scholarship to a very, very prestigious private school — an all-girls boarding school,” she explains. “I remember girls would come over to my house and just laugh at how small it was.”

How did she assimilate into a world where chauffeur-driven Bentleys (yes, really) would arrive at school to take her friends to Harrods for a shopping spree? Well, she didn’t. “I went the other way,” she remembers. “I leaned way more into a working-class vibe, [probably more] than I actually was — my mother was a trained actress, but we just had no money. I wasn’t like, ‘I’m going to be posh,’ so instead I was a gobby little shit!” She went on to study at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, landing the role of Yasmin before she graduated.

It’s a background that made Abela perfect for Industry — a show that, for the British characters in particular, is really about where they stand in the pecking order of the UK’s archaic social class system. Through a hailstorm of microaggressions and class signifiers, we learn that it’s not just about being rich, but having the right kind of (old) money and being the right sort of (posh) person. The characters are all tormented by their varying proximity to the ruling class — even someone like Yasmin, whose father was a member of Oxford University’s notorious Bullingdon Club.

At the start of season three, we saw Yasmin on a downward spiral. Her wealthy publishing magnate father had mysteriously disappeared amid an embezzlement and sexual harassment scandal, and the paparazzi had begun stalking her every move. Floundering, she found herself in a love triangle with Rob — a banker from a northern, working-class background, who arrived at Pierpoint & Co. naively thinking it would be a meritocracy — and Henry, the living embodiment of privilege. In the end, when she agreed to marry Henry, she was reunited with her one true love: status.

In season four, Yasmin (or Lady Muck, as she is now formally known) is finding her feet in Henry’s world, where everyone has a function. “Yasmin grew up with money, but she did not grow up in the aristocracy,” Abela says. “She’s playing the good wife — and she would fucking love it if Henry would just let her play that role a little bit better.” As she learns to wield the power of her new last name, she even engages in what I’d call rural drag, dressing in dowdy knits and country clothes. In fact, Yasmin’s trajectory can be best summed up by two costumes: last season, as she hid from the paparazzi hiding outside her home, we saw her dressed as Princess Diana — a de-throned royal who was also hounded by the press. And this time? She’s Marie Antoinette. Go figure.