On the drive to her meeting with Steve Boyd later that week, Grace tried to put her concerns about Lawrence aside, and instead played over in her head the pitch she planned to use to persuade Steve to direct and film her Kamasan launch.

The looming issue of the job in Bali both excited and worried her. If she couldn’t stay there for the job’s duration, would it be feasible to commute up there every few weeks? At the moment she was going on her gut instinct to just plough on, hoping the logistics could be worked out later. From what Andy had said, she seemed to have made a good impression on the management team with her initial ideas and discussions during the few days she’d spent in Bali, and that was the main thing.

Steve Boyd’s office turned out to be in a rambling old home in Lavender Bay, overlooking the harbour in the shadow of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. A young man opened the door, introduced himself as Henry and ushered her inside.

Loud music, probably a soundtrack, was coming from the front room, which Grace noticed had been turned into an edit suite. Two people were hunched over their computers.

‘The front part is the working area; the back of the house is more sociable,’ Henry explained as they walked down the long hallway. They passed rooms that were being used as an office, a small studio and maybe a recording studio, Grace thought. Then Henry opened a door to a large sitting room off a kitchen.

Covering one wall and spilling along shelves and in a glass showcase in an alcove was a display that stopped Grace in her tracks – the awards Steve had won.

‘Wow, this is amazing!’

Gold, silver and bronze statuettes and a few plaques adorned the shelves, awards from film and advertising festivals and competitions all over the world. Proof that this guy was at the top of his game, Grace thought.

The young gun escorting her smiled. ‘Yup. The wanker’s wall. I’m allowed to say that. It is pretty serious though, isn’t it? Steve’s work is genuinely amazing.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Grace said with a smile. ‘What do you do?’ she added.

‘I’m the resident barista.’ Henry laughed. ‘Actually, I’m also the nerd data wrangler and drone operator. I’ve run sound a few times when we haven’t got an audio operator – we don’t use them as much these days, what with the technology.’

‘Of course, I see. Good for you.’

Outside the kitchen was a covered patio where a few people were seated around a large table, deep in conversation. One of them rose to greet her, and she recognised Steve Boyd from the picture she’d seen when she’d researched him online.

‘Hi, you must be Grace. Sorry about the noise back there,’ he said, nodding towards the hallway. ‘We’re just trying to finish up a sound job. I’m Steve.’ He shook her hand warmly.

He had a direct gaze and radiated enthusiasm. He wore jeans and a pale blue linen shirt, loosely unbuttoned over a T-shirt with a logo she didn’t recognise. He was one of those people who appeared comfortable in his own skin, Grace thought, and she envied him that. A calm person, she decided, and gave him a mental tick. This was a useful trait for the director, who was captain of the ship on a set, juggling diplomacy with the sometimes warring factions, temperamental egos, and logistical hiccups, all in an environment where time was money.