“What do you mean AWOL?” James asked, taking a few paces across the corridor.

“Well, it’s no big secret he’s a fan of the sauce. Seems he checked into rehab for the weekend—who the hell gets rehabilitated in a weekend, for Christ’s sake?—but he disappeared in the middle of the night. Gone, vanished. They just couldn’t find him in the morning.”

“What? Really?” James didn’t like the bloke much but still, anything could have happened. “Is he okay, though?”

“Yeah, he’ll turn up. He was spotted on CCTV leaving a Palm Springs bar with two bimbos, all propping each other up. Likely he’ll be found by some poor cleaner in a motel, and he’ll be wondering what the hell happened to the last week and then he’ll find himself back in rehab.”

James sighed. “Which means there’s no one to direct his latest…documentary.” James struggled to even call it a documentary. It certainly wasn’t his sort of documentary.

“Exactly. Which is where you come in. We’ve got Tate Simmons presenting. He’s massively popular right now and in great demand. He’s starting on a movie in a few weeks so there’s no time to lose. I need you and Grant back here.”

“And what’s it about?” James screwed up his eyes. He hardly dared ask. “Walder’s latest project, that is.”

“It’s a fly on the wall about a real life Baywatch team at Santa Monica Beach.”

James couldn’t hold in a groan. “Really.”

“Oh come on. I know it’s not going to win you a globe or a gong but people are interested in this shit.”

“Shit, that’s exactly right.”

His boss tutted. “I’m sorry it’s not political enough for you—”

“Or relevant to the majority of society.”

“But you’re the only one and…” He paused. “We do pay your damn wages.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” And very handsome wages they were too. “I’ll do it, but when I present to the board next month, for my next personal project, I’ll hope this favour will be taken into account.”

“You have my word.” Again Rue slurped on his drink. “And, James, try to be nice to Tate. It’s not his fault he’s a pretty face but not much else.”

“Yeah, I’ll try.” James ended the call and shoved his phone away. It seemed his time with Megan was going to be cut short after all.

Suddenly his celebratory mood waned. If only he had another month on Poor Choices.

James weaved through the London traffic towards the area of town Megan lived. He’d showered and dressed quickly, applied cologne and brushed his hair, all the time warring with the pleasure the evening would hold and the sadness that it was likely the last time they’d get to see each other for a while.