Ahead of her, Anton opened the battered leather satchel that was slung over his shoulder and flicked through the contents to retrieve his mobile phone. Posy watched him idly, the thick stack of paper filling the bag catching her attention. Could that be the new script?

She looked away as Anton’s head jerked up and the flap of the satchel fell closed. Wouldn’t be good to be caught spying on the boss. Posy shoved her old duffle bag on the rack beside Anton’s case.

‘So, is everybody ready for our weekend of murder and mayhem?’ Anton rubbed his hands together, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, as he took his seat beside Libby. The elderly couple in the seats across the aisle shot them a concerned look. Obviously they hadn’t watched Kit in the Sunday-night period drama he was starring in currently. Or maybe they didn’t recognise him in street clothes. Out of costume, actors always looked different. Since moving to London, Posy could count on her fingers the number of times she’d been recognised.

Maybe that was a sign of how long it had been since she’d had a role that mattered.

But actually, now Kit had taken off his jacket – even in August, London was cold in the early morning – Posy could see he’d dressed up for the occasion. Brown cords, braces and a shirt, unlike the ratty jeans and tee he’d worn when she’d auditioned opposite him.

‘Born ready,’ he said, shooting Anton a grin. ‘Can’t beat a bit of mayhem on a bank holiday, can you?’

Posy took the seat beside him. ‘Depends on the kind of mayhem, I guess.’

‘Spoilsport,’ Kit teased, tilting his head closer to hers, and Posy couldn’t help but smile. ‘How about you, Libby?’

‘You know me, Kit. I’m all about the murder, not the mayhem.’ Libby’s voice was as dry as the straw hat she held in her lap.

‘That’s true.’ Kit leant across the gap between the seats, his arms resting on his knees. ‘And does that mean you’ve finished writing all our murder and mayhem for us? Only it’s getting kinda close to our shooting dates and all …’

Anton reached out to cuff Kit’s shoulder with the novel in his hand – not a Lettice Davenport, Posy noticed. ‘Have faith, man! Don’t you know, this woman here has saved more movie scripts than you’ve had overpriced pints in London pubs.’

‘Yeah, she’s a script doctor extraordinaire, I know.’ Kit gave Libby an apologetic smile. ‘It’s just … you know. There’s still a lot of talk about …’

‘The curse.’ Anton groaned, and tipped his head back against the headrest with a despairing eye roll. ‘Kit, how many projects have we worked on together?’

‘Three.’

‘And how many of them have people said were cursed?’