Evie gets up, butt-naked, and he watches her go to the mini bar and pull out bottles of water, a can of Coke, and some crisps from the gift basket the producers have left for him. She’s got pendulous breasts that swing hypnotically, and a round tummy with small hips and a generous bum. Duke has been with people from within the industry for almost as long as he’s been in it. He doesn’t mean it horribly, only as a statement of fact, but hers is the first ‘normal’ body he’s seen in a long time. She has stubble under her arms and hair on her toes and her skin is smooth but imperfect. He can’t say it out loud – he never, ever would – but he likes it. He likes that she’s not plucked and preened and tanned and smoothed and whatever the heck else Hollywood does to women – people! – to make them more desirable to audiences.

And he’s complicit, obviously, with his two nose jobs and veneers and injectables. He’s been asked before, in interviews, about unrealistic body standards, and he’s given vanilla ‘nothing’ answers about having access to the best chefs and trainers in the world, but that’s only a part of the story. Being with her makes him feel like he doesn’t want to lie anymore. He’s been co-director for two days and already his head is swimming with ideas about what happens next, where he can go from here. What if he sets up that production company with Daphne or starts directing more, or even leaves Hollywood altogether? Maybe he could write – maybe he could write with Evie. Something about real people and how they live.

‘Here,’ Evie says, handing him the water. He takes it with one hand and then stretches out the other to her left nipple, running a finger over it.

‘I think you might be the most gorgeous human being I’ve ever cried to after sex,’ he says, when she cocks an eyebrow.

‘Is that so?’ she whispers, and instead of climbing in beside him she clambers on top, straddling him so that he can issue a kiss to the chest he’s just been admiring.

‘This is like a form of worship,’ he says, running his tongue down from her neck.

‘It’s not bad, being worshipped by you, like this,’ she says, and he pulls back on her hair like he did outside, in the cold, nibbling at her neck and then holding her head so her gaze is steady with his, staring at her.

‘I’m serious,’ he whispers. ‘I feel like myself with you.’

She smiles, and he can’t read it.

‘Have you ever thought about writing a screenplay?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nuh-uh. Why?’

‘No reason,’ he tells her, kissing the exposed skin. She wriggles in pleasure, and he holds his grip even firmer. ‘Do you like that?’