Suite 507 was at the end of a long corridor and Evelyn knocked lightly on the door.

‘Come in,’ someone said. It sounded like the Glaswegian lilt of Rory MacMillan, but she couldn’t be sure. She opened the door.

A short corridor opened out into a sitting room. It had windows to two sides and views out over Hyde Park, although dusk was falling outside and she couldn’t see far. Lights twinkled on the inky horizon.

Rory MacMillan was sitting on a sofa, dressed casually in slacks and an open-necked shirt, the telephone receiver wedged under his chin. He was twisting the cord round and round his fingers in a continuous movement as if it were an executive toy. He looked up as she came in and nodded at the sofa opposite him. Evelyn couldn’t make much sense of the conversation, which was mainly yeses and nos, peppered with the occasional uh-huh.

Whilst she waited, she looked about for signs of the others, but there was nothing to suggest that anyone else had been there. One whisky tumbler sat on the glass coffee table beside one plate, dirty with the remains of a club sandwich. Maybe the others would be coming soon, she thought, or maybe it was just going to be her. Evelyn considered how she felt about this for a moment. Did the prospect of a one-to-one meeting make her any more nervous? No. She was fine with it. Hadn’t they spent almost half an hour chatting on New Year’s Eve? And to have the ear of someone as senior as MacMillan wasn’t something that usually happened to a relative unknown like her. She would be able to get a real insight into what he was hoping for the series as a whole. Julian would be delighted when she told him. She could almost hear her agent in her ear, urging her onwards. ‘Find out what’s next, darling. Make sure there’s a part for you in that one, too.’

Evelyn started to relax. This was the lifestyle she was going to have to get used to once she’d got the job and made a name for herself. And a British television drama was just the start. Who knew what doors it might open? She allowed the idea of Hollywood to cross her mind, if only for a moment.

But she had to stay focused. She hadn’t actually got this in the bag yet. She mustn’t go running before she could walk.

MacMillan was winding his conversation up. ‘Yeah, fine. I’ll ring Dougie next week, make sure he’s lined up. Yeah. That’s all fixed. It is. Trust me. Right, speak next week. Ciao.’

He replaced the phone in its cradle and turned to face her. He was a big man, bigger than she had remembered, his chest broad and his limbs strong and athletic. She could see the fabric of his slacks straining over his muscular thighs.

‘Evelyn!’ he said. ‘So great to see you again. Sorry about that. No rest for the wicked, eh?’ He winked at her. He was quite attractive, she thought, in an ‘older man slightly rough around the edges’ kind of way. ‘Would you join me for a drink?’