Evie checks the suitcase still has room for the last bits and bobs that will have to go in in the morning – toiletry bag, chargers, incidentals – by testing it closes. It does, but only just.

‘We got side-tracked,’ Magda reminds Evie, circling back around to the original point. ‘Your plan for survival is …?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Evie nods. ‘Well, basically, I’m on deadline for next year’s Christmas book – if I come back here with less than a hundred thousand words to my name you’ll have to lock me in the basement and only let me out for pee breaks and thirty minutes of fresh air – so I figure I’ll do whatever they need me to do on set and then peace out of there. As far as my agent can tell they just want me for extra content? For social media or bonus material or whatever? Maybe they’re making a behind-the-scenes doc for YouTube. I don’t know … if I think about it too much, I go crazy trying to understand why it’s an actual contractual obligation instead of an offer I could’ve turned down.’ Evie pauses, here, closing her eyes and taking a theatrical deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she continues: ‘So, once I’ve done whatever bull they need me to do, I’ll just write. At the end of the day, it’s a big fat cheque and a weight off of my mind in terms of Mom’s care, and as long as I get my word count, I suppose I’ll survive …’

‘The Romantic Road does have all those Christmas markets and magical castles and ice skating …’ Magda points out, referencing the area of Germany they’re filming in. ‘If you’re writing next year’s Christmas book surely you can hunt all that stuff out to get into the spirit for what you’re working on now?’

‘Exactly,’ agrees Evie. ‘And I’m not too proud to admit that it’s time to write from somewhere other than the local coffee shop. Freddie’s has a soya latte that’s hard to beat, but I’m sure there’s some quaint Bavarian café that will suit me just fine.’

‘So you’re going to do the bare minimum for the movie, because movie sets suck and so does everyone working on them …’

Evie throws her friend an appreciative nose-crinkle then. Thank the Lord she gets it, where thousands wouldn’t: this isn’t exciting for Evie. It’s an inconvenience.

‘And meanwhile, you’re going to write your last forty thousand words, drink hot chocolate and eat little German pastries, and call me daily to fill me in on it all, reminding me that the last week of the semester is always the hardest.’

‘You got it! And …’ Evie adds. ‘Above all else …’

‘Yes?’