He’s in trainers and joggers and watches the cobblestones underfoot as he puts one foot in front of the other. He doesn’t know where he’s going. It’s a common misconception that filming all over the world means that he’s visited all over the world. He hasn’t. He’s seen the same trailers and craft services and hotel rooms the world over, but doesn’t often get time to truly explore a place. By the time he’s done on set, he often just wants to head to London or LA to have food he knows, beds he chose, and catch up with the few friends he has.

He ignores the shout of his name the first time it happens. It’s a woman’s voice, and he worries he’s been spotted, will have to make polite talk and take a photo. He’s trying to get just five bloody minutes to himself. Just five minutes! That’s all he wants! But when the voice comes again he recognises it.

‘Evie,’ he says, confronted by her open, pretty face.

‘Hey,’ she says, not-quite-smiling. ‘Looks like we’ve had the same idea.’ She gestures to the empty streets.

‘A midnight walk to mull over the complexities of being human?’ he offers, and she laughs. He gets a feeling again, a feeling of pride at the accomplishment. He wasn’t even trying to make her laugh that time, like he has done before. And yet.

‘Something like that,’ she replies, eyeballing him. It looks like she’s been crying, now he can see her properly. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her cheeks are blotchy.

‘My mom,’ she says, gesturing to her face, when she clearly realises he’s noticed. ‘I hate being away from her. I’ve been having a moment, as my best friend Magda would say.’

Duke aches with envy. What must it be like to miss your family so much it makes you cry? To have a best friend, even? He feels a pang of guilt that she’s away from everyone she loves. It’s his doing, after all.

‘She’s lucky she’s got a daughter who cares so much,’ he offers. ‘That’s lovely. It will be nice to get back in time for Christmas, I bet.’

She changes the subject, and Duke assumes somehow it’s for his benefit. She pulls a small silver flask from her coat pocket and takes a swig instead of speaking, coughing when she’s done.

‘It’s good stuff!’ she hoots, holding out the flask for Duke. ‘Comes recommended,’ she adds. He reconsiders his earlier assessment. Maybe the eyes were from crying but the blotchy cheeks were from booze. No judgement.

He takes it, drinks, and she tells him the view is great from up the hill she’s just come from.