Evie sighed. ‘Okay, so what about finally falling in love with the “man of my dreams”?’

Maximilian paused, gazing behind her, then said, ‘The next time you experience intense, unadulterated pleasure—’

‘You mean—?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’

Evie nodded, blushing despite herself.

‘You need to shout out the chorus of “Somebody to Love”.’

‘By Queen?’ asked Evie, frowning.

‘Who else?’ he replied with utter seriousness.

‘But—’

‘Look I’ve recommended this technique to all my clients seeking a serious relationship.’

‘Okay,’ Evie said slowly, wondering how she could possibly have believed in this nonsense.

‘You’ll see.’ Maximilian stepped closer and stared deep into Evie’s eyes.

‘Ah, thank you …’ Evie replied, thoroughly unsettled and regretting her decision to stay behind. She made her way to the door, repeating her thanks to Maximilian for the interview.

Back on the landing, feeling bereft and stupid, Evie was surprised when Maximilian reached out and took her by the hand.

‘Remember,’ he said gently. ‘“Somebody to Love”.’

TWO

Two

Evie wriggled back so she was sitting up against her bedhead, carefully balancing her laptop on her curled-up knees. She had applied one of those face masks that made you resemble a serial killer, and her head was tilted at an awkward angle to stop it sliding down her face and onto her oversized wearable blanket.

Sipping her glass of wine, Evie drummed her fingers lightly over the keypads, staring at the blinking cursor that cupped the last word on the page. When she’d first deferred uni to devote more time to her screenplay, she‘d been filled with bold dreams and big ideas. Just like Evie, the main character in her screenplay was completely over the dating scene. Her love of books gave her the idea to plant her favourite novels on trains with her contact details on the title page in a bid to meet the well-read man of her dreams. Initially Evie had set the film in Melbourne, still pining for Australia and determined to one day move back there. But she’d long since adapted it to London, thinking it would be easier to sell. Not that she had anything near worth pitching at the moment. All these years later, she was still less than halfway through the first draft, its mediocre incompleteness taunting her. And the more time she spent away from university, the more impossible it felt to return.

Which is why she’d been so inspired by Hugo Hearst’s story. As a young actor with only intermittent work, he’d decided to have a go at writing a novel and set himself a three-year deadline. He’d worked on it solidly for two years and soundly beat his target with a manuscript called Henrietta’s Gift, which had been at the centre of an intense bidding war in the UK and US, with foreign rights selling to publishers all over the world.