As she walked up the steps to the director’s caravan she saw the sound recordist standing together with his assistant nearby in the darkness. She didn’t like this man, the way he slipped portable microphones down inside her dress, not waiting for her dresser as he should have; Molly was not in the least prudish, just objected to the way he pushed inside her clothes. When the young actress playing the bride had asked her nervously if it was usual to have male sound recordists putting things inside your bra, Molly had complained to the first assistant. She knew she had made an enemy of the sound recordist.

‘Goodnight,’ she called politely to the two men, and they waved as she entered the caravan.

Waylon Jones was smoking a cigar, drinking whisky; the smoke from the cigar filled the room.

‘Like one?’ he asked, indicating the whisky bottle.

‘No thanks,’ said Molly, hating the smell of the cigar.

‘Sorry we had to keep you, I thought we might have got that scene in tonight, sit down for a minute will ya.’

Molly felt a slight twinge of alarm. She thought the scene in the bed had gone as well as a-pile-of-shit scenes could go. Was he unhappy with her work?

She sat across the table from him.

‘Sure you won’t have a whisky?’ He waved the bottle at her.

Molly took the other glass on the table, poured herself a very small drink.

‘Now listen,’ said the director. For a moment he just sat back puffing very slowly on his cigar, surveying her.

She drank the neat spirits, felt it on her throat, smiled politely although she was almost dropping with exhaustion, she wouldn’t get home till 3 am, could he fire her now if he was unhappy with her performance?

‘They’ve called you a car of course,’ said Waylon Jones. ‘But I tell you what. Why don’t you come back in my car to my hotel and we could have –’ he paused, took a drink, looked at her speculatively, and Molly was not to know he was thinking of a day on The Little Love Boat in the sunshine ‘– a little – tired – fun. You older women, you want it more, don’t you?’

Molly’s face didn’t change for a moment. She didn’t move or speak for several seconds. On the whole the rule of thumb was: one did not insult a director (even if he insulted you) when one was in the middle of filming. She knew too many stories of parts cut, close-ups gone. This was her first job for five months. So she sat there for several seconds, quite motionless, looking at the director. Then she smiled at him, put the glass to her lips, drained the whisky and stood up.