He had cast her because she had seemed to offer something intangible; intangible: eluding the grasp. But of course he had hoped that this unknown quality would be realised, perceived, found. But it seemed that it didn’t exist. Had he only imagined it?

Bud Martin stirred angrily in the dark of the viewing theatre. He had a particular aversion to being made a fool of; he had fought bitterly with the studio heads, who had wanted an American actress, to get Juliet Lyall.

His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. He could fire her. Or he could take one more chance to find out more about her. His fingers drummed and drummed as he sat there alone in the darkness.

*

He telephoned a man he knew in London. The man rang him back within twenty-four hours.

Bud Martin rearranged the shooting schedule so that Juliet Lyall wasn’t called upon to do anything for some days.

Then several nights later, after nine hours filming, he went unannounced to her hotel suite.

She was sitting huddled on her bed surrounded by copies of English newspapers, watching CNN news; she looked up, bewildered, to see him brought not only into her suite but into the bedroom by the manager with only so much as a knock on the door. When the manager had gone – bowing slightly, for the film company paid him so much money that he would unlock doors any time they wanted – Bud Martin switched off the news and walked towards the bed. He stood some way away from her, frowned at the newspapers everywhere. Stared at her.

‘What are you looking for?’ Indicated the newspapers. ‘What is it doll, what’s happened?’

It wasn’t the absurd use of the word doll to a woman of fifty-six that made her drop her eyes from his; something else.

‘I’m – just reading news from home,’ she said.

He got up, opened the bar, took out a bottle of whisky which was almost half empty. He knew the bar was replenished every morning.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s whisky you like is it?’ he said, and filled two glasses. He had a particular American drawl that almost always sounded slightly amused.

‘Do you always walk uninvited around actresses’ hotel rooms in quite this manner?’ she asked coldly. ‘I believe my door was locked.’

As he handed one of the glasses of whisky to her he pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and said, without any further preamble, ‘Are you going to tell me why your performance is shit, why you can’t give me what I’m looking for? You’re an experienced actress, you must know it isn’t working.’

Her eyes flickered, she tried to get up off the bed but he leant over and pushed her, but very gently, back.

‘Or am I going to have to find out my own way?’

Juliet remained silent.