“What do you think of this clip?” Grant asked, pointing at the screen. It was a woman holding a child. They were stood outside a boarded-up shop and shivering as snow fluttered down on them.

“Play it,” James instructed.

Grant did as James had asked. The twenty second shot ran. The woman was talking about cold and hunger. She wore a tatty coat with a frayed collar, a faded headscarf and her cheeks were weather-beaten and red. The child was wrapped in a blanket, presumably because he didn’t own a coat, and his eyes held no sparkle, no depth, none of the joy of youth.

“It’s powerful,” James said, nodding slowly and frowning. “What’s the ratio?”

“We have about ten per cent testimonials.”

“I think it should stay then, don’t you?”

“Yep, I agree.” Grant clicked over it, moving it into a ‘keep’ folder. “At forty-five minutes?”

“Yes, that should do, we can always move it around later.” James turned back to his screen. Directing the revealing programme about poverty in inner cities had been harrowing. He hadn’t realized there were people living in a country with a welfare system who were so poor they had to choose between heat and food in the winter.

He hoped his documentary, Poor Choices, would highlight the issues and encourage the government, charities and the population at large not to turn a blind eye. Not just in the UK, but worldwide. James was passionate about the power of the screen, and using it to do good had become the main focus of his working life.

He set to task on some images for the opening sequence. As he did, his mind went back to Megan again. She was the opposite of the woman with the frayed coat he’d just seen talking. Everything about Megan was polished and perfect. From her soft, flowing hair, to her pretty eyes and fluttery lashes and her bright red, pouty lips that were made for kissing. Her clothes were of the finest material—his palm had slid over her little silky top as he’d enjoyed the feel of her small, fragile body beneath. He’d been able to feel the outline of her bra, satiny and soft, and, if he had to hazard a guess, not at all padded—Megan’s petite hourglass shape was all-natural.

Hourglass. Mmm, he would have liked to get a bit more up close and personal with that figure. Maybe she’d be at Frank’s Bar again tonight? Perhaps she’d stop in for another glass of wine and to listen to the pianist after she’d spent a long day at her office?

He should go too. It wouldn’t exactly be out of his way, or unusual, or as if he were hoping desperately to see her. He stopped at Frank’s several nights a week anyway, as it was en route from the studio to his rented apartment.