So why was she crying?

Why indeed.

Evelyn dropped the diary on the bed and pulled the covers up under her chin. She would continue writing later, when she had got her emotions under better check. It was all too raw right now, the shock of the day before juxtaposed with the elation of the news just received. Evelyn didn’t quite know what to do with it all.

At this precise moment she felt stupid. Stupid and naive. She had been so ill prepared, when looking back, it was entirely obvious what MacMillan had had in mind. A hotel room on her own on a Sunday – how did she expect that was going to pan out? But when Evelyn examined her conscience, she could honestly say the thought that he might want more from her than mere conversation hadn’t occurred to her until it was too late.

When he had patted the sofa next to him, she had resisted. She had heard of this kind of thing; of course she had. The casting couch and all that. Everyone knew someone with a story. But this wasn’t that kind of scenario, she thought to herself as she steadfastly refused to move closer to him, and she definitely wasn’t one of those actresses. She would get the part on her own merits or she didn’t want it.

He had been fine with her resistance, had smiled at her as if he didn’t mind what she did one way or the other, and she had felt pleased with herself. She had shown him that she was serious about her career and had no intentions of sleeping her way to the top, and he had understood that and respected her for it.

After that, he had taken the lead in the conversation, talking about his job, the famous people he knew, the contacts he had in Hollywood who he could put her in touch with. Evelyn’s head had spun with it all – although that might have been the whisky. After the third time he’d topped up her glass, she had stopped counting. She was only taking sips, but it was impossible to keep a tally when he kept spoiling her gauge.

And then, when it was quite dark outside, he had stood up and flicked off the overhead lights.

‘No need for those,’ he said. ‘It’s much more relaxing with just the side lights, don’t you think?’

He had come to her sofa then and settled himself down beside her. She had wanted to move away but she didn’t want to appear rude, so instead she crossed her legs and tried to make herself as small and neat as she could. He had laid his big, manicured hand on her leg, stroking her thigh through the fabric of her skirt with his thumb. The skirt rode up a little and she had tried to shuffle it back down. She was no prude, but this really wasn’t what she wanted. She had hoped he would get the signals she was sending him, but apparently they weren’t fit for purpose because he missed them entirely.