Matthew is leaning forward over the starched tablecloth and Emilia is leaning backward slightly, tilting her head, either laughing or making space; it’s hard to tell from across the room. Becky watches them for a second. It looks like an old dance: alpha man stretching out his arms to command space and pretty girl, like silk, supine, promising she’ll be hard to catch. Have they done this before? Have they been lovers once already? She imagines them on Matthew’s kitchen floor together, locked into each other, but dismisses it quickly as an unhelpful thought.

Then she finds herself idly wondering whether Matthew has ever thought of her in that way before; as someone attractive or alluring or beguiling enough to want to sleep with. She knows that she can look pretty enough, sometimes, with the right make-up and clothes in the right light. It’s not as if she finds him physically attractive, she’s never wanted to sleep with him as such, and yet she still finds herself feeling a little disappointed when she reminds herself that Matthew is a man surrounded by exceptional beauty and talent and charisma and that she has none of those things in any great measure. She finds herself wanting, simply, to have the choice about whether she is thought of in that way, or not.

When Becky joins them, there is a heavy pause, almost indiscernible, as if she might have interrupted something. But then Sam, Emilia’s agent, also arrives and suddenly everyone is on their feet kissing and bear-hugging and trading congratulations on the reception of her new film.

They take their seats and order coffee. Becky sits opposite Emilia. She is smaller than Becky had imagined, even though she is used to actors being bird-like or doll-like in the flesh. She feels taller than ever, tempted to slouch, to throw away her height like it’s unwanted. Her gaze toggles between the actress’s bare, milk-white arms and the oversized, widely spaced eyes that take up so much of her face. She is beautiful. And she is dressed down, wearing a black tank top with her punky hair tied up in a loose and messy knot darting out at all angles – pale pink, yellow blonde, platinum – like a tasteful firework. Elegant without trying. Where did she learn how to do that? And she is already bored, her eyes flat, arms resting across her waist. With Matthew alone she looked alive. Now this is work. Becky feels like she has gate-crashed. But perhaps it’s only in her head.