I felt strangely content as I sat with these strangers, more content than I’d felt for a while. I watched the flicker of the flames in the fireplace and the logs crackling, some turning black and withering. Dylan was in charge of throwing new logs on and when he did, I watched as he stretched out his long body to get them from a large wicker basket on the side.

I was attracted to him, there was no denying it. There were times when men came along – other cameramen, producers, tour guides in the different countries we visited. I’d feel attraction flit its wings inside me and sometimes it would lead to something. Usually a few stolen hours of sex. It suited me. I wasn’t ready for a relationship; I had never really had one, and my job made it extra difficult as I was away several months of the year.

As I watched Dylan sprawled out on the rug, his dark eyes on the fire, I imagined joining him, sliding my hands under his thick jumper, feeling the curve of his muscles, the bristly hair I knew would be on his chest. I saw the way he looked at me sometimes too, eyes glancing over me. If we were on a shoot, I think we’d have disappeared by now and wrapped ourselves up in each other.

But this was different: we were here with his family. And anyway, maybe I’d got it all wrong. I was starting to feel drunk, after all. The alcohol was probably making me read the signs all wrong. He might have a girlfriend turning up later.

‘What do you do when you’re not filming, Gwyneth?’ Cole asked me.

I shrugged. ‘Read. Watch documentaries. Catch up with the odd friend or two. I’m away quite a lot though, months on end. It’s very rare I’ll be home, maybe just a couple of months at a time.’

‘I couldn’t bear that,’ Rhonda said. ‘I like my creature comforts too much.’

‘I like it,’ I said, looking into my glass of wine, seeing my eyes blinking back at me. ‘I like not being tied down.’

‘Where is home for you, when you do manage to get back?’ Mairi asked, her eyes drilling into mine. I got the impression I was being interrogated when she asked me questions.

‘I’ve got a flat in West London. It was Reg’s, he passed it down to me in his will.’

‘The documentary-maker?’ Glenn asked.

I nod, my hand straying to the leather notepad he’d given me, which I kept in my back pocket.

‘Sounds like he was a bit of a father figure to you,’ Mairi said. She leant forward, eyes still deep in mine. ‘Where are your parents?’

‘Dead,’ I lied. It was easier that way.

The atmosphere in the room shifted.