She fell into bed, was asleep almost at once. But when the alarm went off the next morning, she realised she had been dreaming about a wonderful, kind, rich, mature, good-looking, generous, unmarried, understanding foreigner. Except that in her dream he lived in Bosnia.

A taxi came again at 6 am; this time the film unit had special permission to be parked in an alley used for loading near Threadneedle Street: wardrobe and make-up cramped together in one small caravan next to the lighting lorry; the camera car and the props wagon and a huge building truck were jammed in a corner. Frances marvelled again at how many other people were required to make any piece of film, apart from the actors in it.

‘Miss Kitson and Miss Fook as soon as you are both ready please.’ The assistant director began his litany of cajoling and persuading although everyone including him knew perfectly well that there’d be hours and hours spent waiting before all the fragments of this particular complicated shoot were in place.

It was complicated because the camera had to work on a special platform which had been erected over the past two days halfway up the big Wise building; for one shot it would be shooting downwards at Frances and Davinia who would be looking upwards in awe at Wise Insurance. It turned out that the director was afraid of heights which afforded Frances a great deal of pleasure: she asked deliberately obtuse questions, while he was up on the scaffolding, about what was required of the actresses. These questions had to be relayed by the assistant director on his walkie-talkie to the director on his, as he stood swaying in his purple shirt halfway up the building on the platform discussing shots with the lighting cameraman.

‘How close should our faces be together as we look up?’ Frances asked the assistant director, and then:

‘How long would you like us to look up for?’

‘Should I be on left or right of frame?’

‘Is there a special point of the building we should be focusing on?’

‘Should I look up proudly, or just neutrally?’

‘The sun’s shining right in our eyes, what shall we do?’

One by one these questions were repeated by the assistant director on the walkie-talkie, considered by the swaying director. Answers were sent back by walkietalkie which finally crackled and cut out.

‘Oh dear,’ called the assistant director finally, ‘he’s just been sick, sorry.’

Frances grinned upwards. ‘Shame,’ she said.

The angle of the sun caused enormous problems: no one had thought of it. At lunchtime Milton Werner again appeared beside Frances.

‘As we’re breaking for an hour,’ he said ‘let me take you at least briefly for a decent lunch.’ The assistant director and Davinia Fook stood aside respectfully.

In an expensive looking city restaurant full of men in suits he took her jacket.