‘Of course,’ he smiled, his bemused tone suggesting he wasn’t so unreasonable as to expect it for this year, three months from now. But even next year was tight . . . It spoke to his naivety about this industry, that he thought it was perfectly reasonable to get their next project fully researched, filmed and edited in eleven months. Pipe Dreams had taken two and a half years of solid planning and work.

Her long blonde hair fell forward like a gold satin sheet as she tipped her head towards him. The winner was announced, and everyone began clapping again. So much clapping at these events. ‘Liam, that’s just not realistic.’

‘It’s gonna have to be,’ he shrugged, clapping along, his eyes on the next winner as she walked up to the stage. ‘The other investors want a green light on this. There’s a time for cooling your heels – and this isn’t it.’

‘But—’

He turned to her with a sharklike smile. ‘I know you can do it, Clover. Just don’t over-think it. Go with your gut. You’ll get the right story in time.’

The car pulled away from the kerb, the paparazzi flashlights blinding even through the tinted windows. Luckily, they weren’t trained on her but on the beautiful actress in the gold dress, who was now leaving with Timothée Chalamet.

Clover let her head tip back on the headrest and closed her eyes. She felt drained. An after-party spent schmoozing with the stars, while great for her profile – consolidate! – had left her exhausted. Liam had ‘gone on’ with some producers from Helen Mirren’s table, trying to get her to string along too, but she wanted her bed and nothing but her bed. They had been on this awards circuit for months now and when they weren’t dressing up and clapping by night, they were meeting with distributors by day. Thanks to their efforts – and their first really big win at the Golden Globes – they had sold to over thirty-five territories already, and there were precious few corners of the world still unaware of the Cory Allbright story.

Cory . . . She still hadn’t had a chance to call him and share the good news.

What time was it? She calculated quickly. One thirty in the morning here meant . . . five thirty in the afternoon there. She found his number and pressed dial. She rolled her head to the side and, with her phone to her ear, stared out the window. They were coming down Queen’s Gate, the museums and embassies dramatically spotlit, a couple late-night exercising their dog before bed.

‘Hey!’ Even in that one word, rush and busyness were conveyed.

‘Mia? It’s Clo.’