Molly flopped down in the bed, Malcolm Evans came and sat on the side of it, continued where he’d left off with his story of making a film in Russia. The camera crew conferred, someone called out gate’s clear, the camera was moved outside for the next shot, Malcolm Evans got on to the bit about the mafia organising the catering and getting food on the black market. Molly listened, nodded, tried not to yawn. It was 11.45 at night and she was exhausted; night filming always seemed to take forever, this was the fourth night in a row. The assistant director came over to the bed.

‘Malcolm you’re cleared for tonight luvvie thank you, Molly they’d like you to stand by in case they get to your shot in the dark you know, the one where you watch the ambulance disappear.’

Molly sighed heavily.

‘OK,’ she said, and a dresser who had been hovering slipped a dressing gown round her before she got up from the bed.

She dressed, muttering to herself I’m mutton dressed up as lamb, in the cherry red jacket and the short skirt; the dresser did up the gold belt, gave her the gold chunky earrings and bracelet and necklace. Then Molly returned, yawning, to the make-up caravan where they re-did her hair and her make-up. They were on location at a pretty little country hotel outside Henley-on-Thames: the tragedy of the warring brothers and the stabbed bride, who were all now residents of Knightsbridge and having a pretty country wedding, was taking place at night rather than in the afternoon so that eerie, scary night shots and shadows could give the film more atmosphere. As if atmosphere will help this pile of shit, Molly had said darkly as she left Banjo in bed at midday when the car came to Clapham to pick her up and he had answered sleepily, smile and think of the money and she had kissed his tousled hair. His saxophone lay in the corner of the bedroom, underneath his jersey and his T-shirt and his jeans.

*

The assistant director finally came to Molly’s caravan about one in the morning.

‘Sorry love, we’re not going to get that shot in, we have to wrap before one-thirty tonight or the crew are on double overtime, your car will be in the hotel courtyard when you’re ready, but Waylon would like to see you in his caravan for a quick word when you’ve changed.’

Molly wearily took off again her cherry red jacket and her short skirt and her chunky jewellery, her dresser hung everything in the wardrobe caravan. Molly declined the make-up girl’s offer to clean her face.

‘I’ll do it at home thanks,’ said Molly, ‘I’m buggered.’