He picked up his empty tumbler and Evelyn deduced that he was offering alcohol and not tea, even though it was only four thirty in the afternoon. That was fine. She was open-minded about these things. She wasn’t sure what to ask for, though. She had never been in a hotel as smart as this one before. Would he have to ring room service if she asked for something that wasn’t in the mini bar? She didn’t want to do anything that might be irritating. She could ask for champagne, but she hadn’t got the part yet and didn’t want to jump the gun.

‘I’ll have one of those,’ she heard herself say, even though she had only ever had whisky at her Uncle Roger’s funeral and hadn’t liked it that much.

MacMillan smiled. ‘A girl after my own heart,’ he said as he made his way to the drinks tray. ‘Ice and soda?’

Evelyn knew enough about whisky to know that Scots like him didn’t drink it with ice, and she didn’t dare try it neat. ‘Just soda, please,’ she said. ‘Plenty of soda.’

He prepared the drinks, giving himself a far bigger measure than he poured for her. That was a relief, at least. She could just sip it politely and leave what she didn’t want. After all, it wasn’t as if he was paying for it himself. This would all be on expenses. Again, a little shiver of excitement went through her. This could be her soon. Drinks on expenses, meals out, the high life. All she had to do was not blow it.

He sat back down and then leaned back in his sofa, spreading his legs expansively across the space.

‘Mike tells me you did a great audition and he wants to give you the job,’ he said.

Evelyn could feel a blush flood her cheeks, which irritated her. She was a grown woman, not a wet-behind-the-ears girl.

‘Thanks,’ she said simply.

‘So now you just have to impress me,’ he continued. ‘But don’t look so worried, Evelyn. I’m sure you’ll be preaching to the converted.’

‘What would you like me to do?’ she asked. She wasn’t sure what he was expecting of her. Did he want her to run through the lines again? She could have a go, but without the script it would be tricky to make it sound convincing.

‘Tell me something about yourself,’ he said. ‘Just who is the real Evelyn Mountcastle?’

This was worse than trying to remember the script. What did he want to hear?

‘Well . . .’ she began cautiously.

‘I mean, what makes you tick, Evie?’ he continued, using the name usually reserved for those who knew her well. ‘What drives you forward? What keeps you awake at night?’

The thought of not being able to pay my rent, she thought, but she couldn’t say that. She was driven by a desire for fame, but she couldn’t say that either; it would make her look shallow when she wanted to seem intriguing and interesting. Maybe she should just make something up, but then again, it was the real her that he wanted to know about and there was nothing wrong with a bit of ambition.