Storytelling is in her blood, but over her dead body will she work in the movies.

She doesn’t talk about her father, or her history. Nobody knows she is Donald Gilbert’s daughter and she’d like to keep it that way. She writes books with her mother’s maiden name, instead – far, far away from All That – and it’s a quiet life that she’s more than happy with.

It’s unfortunate, then, that she’s contractually obliged to fly out to Duke Carlisle’s set if she wants to cash the adaptation cheque that she so desperately needs. Unless you’re Dan Brown writing The Da Vinci Code, book-writing seldom makes you rich, and although money can’t make you happy it sure as hell can cover the next ten years of your mother’s care home – so what choice does Evie have now it’s been offered? Even if the caveat is watching it all get done?

A movie set sounds like a dream come true for most people. But for Evie? Urgh. It’s a nightmare.

And she’s going anyway.

‘Nobody has a face like that and a functioning personality,’ Evie declares, stood at the mirror in a flesh-coloured bra that’s too small and faded high-rise jeans. She has a wardrobe full of stuff and yet lives in a four-year-old pair of Levi’s, so well-worn they hold the shape of her even when they’re on the hanger. ‘And Duke Carlisle?’ she continues, noticing a bit of kale in between her two front teeth, left over from lunch. She grimaces at the mirror and tries to rub it out with her finger. ‘That’s the lamest stage name ever. He sounds like a failed army general with a cocktail named after him.’

Magda, her best friend, shakes her head playfully, which is fair enough. Evie has essentially been performing the same bitter monologue since the summer, when she found out she was being summoned to set to help with ‘extra backstage content’. She locates her toothbrush in the bathroom adjoining the bedroom they’re packing in, finally getting half a salad out of her teeth. Great. Lunch had been, what, four hours ago? And nobody told her she looked like the Cookie Monster meets Austin Powers, via Whole Foods.

‘I’ll bet he’s a total jerk,’ Evie concludes, grabbing a grey roll-neck and holding it up to her body, considering it absent-mindedly, then switching to the ribbed cream one off the bed. Maybe she’ll pack both, she thinks, get some wear out of them. She bought them on sale six weeks ago, but they’ve still got their price tags on. She might even pack some trousers that aren’t her jeans. When was the last time she put them in the laundry, even?