She had met the programme’s producer, Rory MacMillan, at a rather tawdry New Year’s Eve party a few weeks before. He had cornered her and talked at length about his various projects, his head close enough to hers that she could smell the whisky on his breath, his hand planted firmly in the small of her back.

‘I have this one project in the pipeline,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘It’s very new. A TV cop drama, but the thing about it is, get this, the lead role is a woman.’

He emphasised the last word, his eyes open wide at the shock of it all. Evelyn had mirrored his expression to encourage him to keep talking, but all she could think was, ‘I could do that.’

‘Think emotion and brains rather than car chases and beating up suspects,’ he continued. ‘It’s a very modern concept.’

Evelyn’s heart started to beat faster. She could see herself in the role already. Move over John Thaw and Dennis Waterman. It was her turn. This was the cusp of the 1980s, after all; change was blowing in the air.

‘Although you might be a little too young,’ Rory MacMillan continued. ‘I don’t know how long it takes to climb the ranks in the police.’

Considerably longer for a woman than a man, Evelyn thought, but as pointing that out wouldn’t help she didn’t say it out loud.

‘I can play older,’ she said helpfully, and gave him her most winning smile.

‘Actually, there’s a junior sidekick too,’ MacMillan added thoughtfully. ‘Feisty, smart, attractive . . .’ His hand slipped from the small of her back to her bottom and he gave it a little squeeze. ‘You’d be perfect,’ he concluded. ‘Get your agent to ring my secretary after the holidays and we’ll fix something up.’

Evelyn reached the offices of Coleman, Travis & Scott, Theatrical Agents (Julian was the Travis, having inherited his part of the business from his uncle) just before two o’ clock and made her way up the stairs. The reception desk was manned by a succession of bright-eyed young actresses who had come to London to seek their fortune on the stage but had been forced to take an office job to tide them over. Evelyn always wondered at their choice. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to work in a place that employed actors when one couldn’t get employment oneself.

The receptionist this time looked even younger than usual. She was putting letters in envelopes, but things seemed to have become muddled and Evelyn, having watched for a moment or two, wasn’t convinced that the right people would be receiving the right missives with their morning paper.

‘Evelyn Mountcastle for Mr Travis,’ she announced in a clear, confident tone. Evelyn lived in hope of one day turning up and being recognised without having to give her name, but that had yet to happen. It wasn’t as if she was a total unknown. She had had bit parts in Upstairs Downstairs and three episodes of a drama set in World War I, but she was hardly a household name. That was her ambition, though. She knew that fame could be a double-edged sword, but she was perfectly prepared to take that risk.