The journalist grins. ‘Good luck with it. See you at the Oscars!’

Matthew waggles his phone. ‘Just going to confirm our breakfast with Sam. Back in a jot.’ He turns away to make his call and Becky is flooded with discomfort at this reminder of how uncertain their meeting, her only meeting in Cannes, truly is. Not even Matthew can command it take place. Even he might have to flatter and persuade.

A thick and awkward pause lies between her and Alex, now that she is unwatched and they have sole charge of the conversation. All her life any lapse in conversation or round-edged awkwardness has been her doing, she is sure of it. Does she give off something? Some signal she can’t herself see or read that tells others that, for all her apparent efforts, she would prefer to be many miles away, probably alone. She must have something more to say to this man. Some clever thing. Some pithy thing to let him say, in a year’s time, when Medea’s trailer launches, that he knows the producer and she’s smart. Going places. Now that he has met her, he can be asked for his opinion of her. What will he say? What can she offer him?

‘So you’re an art lover?’ he says.

‘Oh no, not especially.’ She squirms, afraid of being caught out, asked about artists and paintings she knows nothing about. Again her thoughts return to Scott’s Instagram feed. ‘A friend recommended the Bonnard Museum here. Once. A long time ago. I know nothing really.’

He smiles. Amused by something in her. ‘Has Matthew shown you the store cupboard yet?’

It is Alex’s casual tone that makes Becky unsure about whether she has heard correctly. Is this an industry term she hasn’t come across yet? But there is an edge to it. A hint of acid, a subtle probing.

‘Our office is tiny. Everything’s on shelves.’ Lightly evasive, without confessing her confusion.

‘Has he shown you the top shelf then?’

‘I know the market’s bad, but we’re not making that kind of movie. Not yet.’

It is like she is swimming ahead of something and calling it a game but fearing that if it catches her, the teeth will prove real. He laughs, like he knows that she knows, but is only in the mood to play, and only for so long.

‘What’s your film going to be about then?’

‘It’s a new take on Medea, the Greek play?’ She hates that she made this a question.

‘The one about the woman who kills her kids?’

‘Spoiler alert,’ she says wryly.

‘Get Richard Curtis to take a pass.’

‘The feel-good, lighter side of infanticide. Honey, I’ve Killed the Kids.’

‘Quite. Yeah, but seriously, that sounds fucking dark.’

‘It is.’

‘Woman commits murder,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Get it right and it’s Oscar-bait though, isn’t it?’