Meagan looked at Simi, fuming. Most actors would bite her arm off at the elbow for this.

‘I can’t, Meagan. I’m sorry. What if I have to do a scene about a break-up? Or a scene with a character called Oscar? Or worse, play a character who’s won an Oscar? Who’d pick up the pieces of me then?’

Meagan listened to Simi’s bizarre logic and gradually softened. Dealing with hardened comedians all day, she had forgotten that actors were a different breed – their vulnerability, much closer to the surface.

‘You’re right, Sim. I’m sorry.’

‘Thanks, Meag. I really appreciate it,’ said Simi, dropping her wet towel onto the sofa.

At the sight of this, Jemima let out an unintentional squeak, her eyes locked on the soggy towel. ‘Maybe you should… consider it.’

Meagan looked over at Jemima, then back to Simi and the towel slowly depositing a damp stain on the sofa.

‘I mean it’s not every day you audition for BAFTA-winning producers,’ Jemima added.

Meagan smiled innocently. ‘I’ll ping you the details and you can decide in the morning.’

Chapter 9

Jemima

Jemima sat up in bed sipping her coffee while Simi sang to herself in the living room. Last night after Meagan had shared details of Simi’s big audition and, as always, ladled on her unsolicited acting advice, Simi had definitely brightened. She’d dispensed with the power ballads and this morning had graduated to revenge songs.

As Jemima pondered a leisurely stroll to Nostromo to shake off the jet lag, her phone grrrr grrrred insistently, jolting her from her ruminations. Shit. It was Eve. She’d been expecting her call but not for at least a fortnight. Just before leaving LA, Jemima had sent Eve an inflammatory new draft she’d been working on throughout her trip. If all went to plan, it would end the ‘romance’ conversation once and for all. Instead of resisting Eve’s ‘suggesteroos’ as she had done for so long, Jemima’s new tactic had been to lean into them – hard, giving Eve everything she wanted. In fact, she had given Eve so much of it, Jemima hoped she would decide she didn’t want it after all. But how had she read it so quickly? Jemima had only sent it ten days ago. Perhaps, she speculated, Eve had got just a few pages in before realising the error of her ways. She could be calling to apologise for ever mooting concerns about the amorous content of Jemima’s books.

‘Soooooo sorry, Jeeeeeeeehm!’ she’d probably mewl with her elongated, downward inflection that sounded like she was offering condolences. Jemima grinned, took a deep breath and answered the phone.

‘Jemima. It’s Eve.’

Jemima sat up, Eve’s clipped tone surprising her.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

‘I just finished the draft you wrote in LA. Is that what you were doing with your time?’ Eve said spitting out the words like an unexpected pubic hair from a night she’d rather forget.

‘Look, I know you’re cross…’ Jemima began.

‘Cross? Cross?’ Eve spluttered, ‘The draft you sent before was bad enough, like a nun’s bloody diary, but this one – it’s basically Debbie Does Dallas the novel!’