‘Evelyn Mountcastle,’ she said clearly, and handed over her portfolio.

The receptionist took it from her and put it on a pile with the others without even glancing at it.

‘Take a seat,’ she said.

Evelyn chose a chair nearest the door, rearranged her skirt and then, when she was sure she was sitting in the most flattering position, lifted her chin to take a look at her rivals. She immediately wished she hadn’t. There were five other women sitting there. All of them were older than her and at least two were, if not quite household names, then certainly someone who would turn heads in a restaurant – ‘Isn’t that . . . ? You know. The one from . . . ?’

Evelyn refused to be intimidated. She had just as much right as they to be there and just as much chance of being spot on for the role. Plus, she had inside information. Mr MacMillan wanted her. How many of these others could say that? As she thought all this through, a door opened, and the first name was called. Evelyn crossed her fingers and prepared to wait.

The hands on the wall clock made their steady way around the hour as Evelyn waited. Eventually it became apparent that she would be last to go in. The others had all emerged looking calm and collected, although one had been in the audition room for less than two minutes, which couldn’t bode well for her but was a positive thing for Evelyn.

‘Evelyn Mountcastle,’ the receptionist called finally, and even though she had been waiting for this moment, Evelyn still started at the sound.

‘Yes,’ she said, and stood up so quickly that her head felt momentarily woozy. She made her way to the door through which the others had disappeared, her hands clammy and her stomach full of butterflies, but ready to show them everything she had.

The corridor was dark, but there was a door open at the far end and she made her way towards it. It took her into a studio, one wall mirrored and with a grand piano in the far corner. Three men sat behind a table positioned in front of the mirror, so that as she approached she could see her own reflection. She tried not to be distracted by it.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said confidently to the man sitting in the middle of the panel who she deduced to be the more senior and consequently more important, although really, she had no idea.

‘Hello, Evelyn. Very nice to meet you.’ He was incredibly quietly spoken, and Evelyn strained to hear him. He handed her a script. ‘Page sixteen, please. Can you read Detective Constable Walker?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How would you like me to play her?’

The man on the left answered her. ‘She’s a bit rough,’ he said. ‘Keen as mustard but without any nuance about her. Calls a spade a spade, if you know what I mean.’