‘I’m not. This was . . .’

What was it? How was she supposed to describe what had happened to her? It wasn’t rape exactly. Whilst she hadn’t gone into the hotel room expecting what she got, she hadn’t run away, either. She was no ingenue. She knew these things happened to actresses all the time. She had just never imagined it would happen to her. It wasn’t right, what Rory MacMillan had done, but it was the way things were, and if having sex with him was what it took to secure the job in his show, then it appeared that was a price she’d been prepared to pay. That she’d got pregnant was just damned bad luck.

But something stopped her from telling all this to Julian. She had thought that maybe it was to protect her own reputation, or perhaps even MacMillan’s, but now she realised that her silence was tinged with something she hadn’t noticed before – shame.

‘This was . . .’ she continued. ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter what it was. The fact is I am pregnant and I want to keep the baby, so I can’t take the part. I’m sorry, but there you have it. My hands are tied.’

Julian sighed deeply. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure your mind is made up then I’ll make the calls.’

‘Thank you, Julian,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I’m sorry.’

She held out her hand, but Julian had already turned away and so she left him to his phone calls.

As she left the agency and headed out to the street, Evelyn knew it would be the last time she ever went there. Julian would take her off his books as she wasn’t available for work, and when she came back it was unlikely he would see her. She would need to find herself new representation. But for now, that wasn’t important. Now she had to pack up her stuff and get herself back to Southwold, back to Joan and the life she had fought so hard to escape.

21

Evelyn took a long, lingering look around her little room before she left it for the last time. The flat had never been much to write home about. It was cramped, cold in the winter and stifling in the summer, with shabby fixtures and fittings and a creeping damp issue, but it had been her world for the last five years and she had loved it. For all its failings, which were many and varied, it was what it represented that was important. The flat spoke of independence, a determination to succeed; dreams, if not quite fulfilled, then at least works in progress. Evelyn had left the safety of a world she knew behind and had pushed out on her own to make her fortune in a city where the pavements sparkled in the spotlights. She hadn’t exactly made a fortune, but she had managed to support herself without ever once asking for help, and that had made her proud.