‘I dunno but he’s having a bad day about something. Maybe one of Matthew’s little lies about shooting schedules caught up with him. So anyway, listen to this. I emailed a new idea to Matthew over the weekend.’

Something feels off. It’s a small office and they are all aware of which calls need avoiding, delaying or returning within the hour. Aware of any conflict over contracts, pressure on production, egos, fallings-out, ground to be made up … And DB and Matthew have never had a falling-out before. At least not as long as she has worked there.

‘So it’s kind of Beaches but funnier, but really more like The Hangover only sadder, with really upbeat yet emotional music, actually probably more like if Watership Down was actually happy?’

‘Sounds good.’ Becky is biting her fingernails, one so much it stings.

‘Two female leads so, you know, on trend, pretty topical. I’m thinking Aniston. Go big, or go home. And then I’m thinking Emilia Cosvelinos. More classical, but she is bankable now with the Scorsese film coming out and I think she’ll add real weight to the crying scenes. What do you think?’

‘Sounds great.’

Becky has barely been listening, but Siobhan’s face fills with sunshine and she claps her hands together. ‘Exactly!’

At that moment, Matthew opens the door to his office and waves them in. ‘Let’s get started.’ The volume of his voice makes Becky jump and her heart shudders with the thought that this is it, the end.

The two of them take their places on the olive velvet sofa opposite Matthew’s desk, so low that he appears to be on a raised stage looking down at them. His office smells so faintly of whisky that it might not be whisky at all. And coffee, drying in the heat, at the bottom of the cup. The smell of the place, the way it looks, it could be a normal morning at the office, the stage set for the start of business: windows closed, blinds pulled down over the glass walls in preparation for a private meeting, books straightened and arranged in the cases so they descend in shapes like flights of steps. Apart from his computer, he keeps an entirely clean desk: blade, fineliner pens in one drawer, pending contracts in another. Scripts piled into a cupboard, titles inked onto their spines. Everything must have its place: stacked, stored, tidied and hidden away.

‘Travel arrangements for Cannes,’ he says.

Is this how he’s going to do it? Work through the list towards her? Siobhan rattles off flight names and departure times.

‘Calls,’ he says.

‘DB called again,’ says Siobhan. ‘He sounds fucked-off.’

‘Thank you. Noted.’ The subject is closed.

‘He’s called five times,’ says Siobhan.

‘And he can call again, if he likes. I’ll speak to him when I get round to it.’