‘Doook! Doooook!’ chant the throngs of German women, mildly mispronouncing his stage name. They’re older than you might imagine, but Duke knows from the research commissioned by his management that, whilst it’s Gen Z who put on his stuff to begin with, it’s parents the world over who keep it on and then replay it again. Hence, the focus on the mums. Wide smile, tousled wavy brown hair, blue eyes described with a folklore-like mysticism last heard geared towards Sinatra – Duke Carlisle is an international movie star who could be your son’s very charming university friend home for the holidays with kind words and a secret cheeky wink. Hence being cast in On the Romantic Road, an adaptation of Evie Bird’s German-set and internationally bestselling romance novel. There are a lot of fisherman’s jumpers involved in the role. A lot of bashful looks and stammered sentences and good manners. He’s perfect for it.

‘Hello, hi, thanks for the warm welcome,’ Duke says, lifting a hand and craning his neck so that the women can get their selfie. ‘You certainly know how to make a chap feel special.’

His Etonian-esque vowels are exactly as his voice coach trained him, all artificial plums and fake silver spoon. Duke was born and raised in Sunderland, but American audiences don’t know what to do with northern accents, his agent said, taking a further five per cent from his first paycheque to finance its flattening. Now he talks like Hugh Grant, which is no small mistake; now that Hugh has five kids and is in his sixties, someone needs to fill his British rom-com shoes. Nice bloke, though, Duke thinks. Hugh has always been very generous with his time towards him.

A pap Duke recognises from his Hampstead house in north London gets close enough to block off his path.

‘Careful there, Clive.’ Duke smiles, looking over the top of his sunglasses to check the man is okay. He hates the press this afternoon, when he’s embarrassed and ego-bruised, but he needs them, too, at the end of the day. That’s what Carter always says. And to be fair, Clive is normally one of the better ones. He gets his shot and then buggers off, which is more than can be said of some of the others – they’ve mounted cars, rifled through his bins, even wire-tapped his phone.

‘Sorry to ask you mate, but Daphne? What’s the crack?’ asks Clive, his camera up to his face, the viewfinder fixed on Duke’s reaction. Duke can tell he’s stopped taking stills and has switched to video, exactly like Carter said he would. It’s almost as if she has briefed the press, organised this whole thing.

‘No comment,’ says Duke, as per the film publicist’s instruction.