She would have dressed accordingly, if anyone had bothered to warn her. Anton had barely told her more than the name of the place they were going when he called last night to formally offer her the role and invite her. ‘Aldermere House, home of Lettice Davenport herself! Nothing to stress about, it’s a bit of a photo op for the fans, really,’ he’d told her.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said again now, still smiling in spite of the scowl she knew had settled onto her face. ‘I did bring a few things along for you, in case you wanted to join in the spirit of things a little more.’

‘That would be … good,’ she said, watching doubtfully as he jumped up and headed for the luggage rack. Why had he assumed she wouldn’t want to join in?

Okay, she could probably guess why. Even if she hoped that she – and the world – had moved past all that when she left LA, Posy knew it wasn’t really the case. When people looked at her, they didn’t see a twenty-nine-year-old actress who was serious about her career. Some of them saw the know-nothing child star, or the awkward young teen who couldn’t quite grow into her looks.

But that was if she was lucky. Most of the time, if you said the name Posy Starling, people only got one mental image – and it wasn’t from any of her films.

When they thought of Posy Starling, people instantly saw that intrusive, hideous photo of her unconscious on the sidewalk outside the Magpie Club in LA, waiting for the ambulance and the paramedics that would save her life. They saw her vomit-slicked hair and grey skin, the tiny snakeskin dress pushed too far up her thighs. Her bare shoulders, caught mid-shudder as the drugs wreaked havoc in her body.

It didn’t matter that it was over five years ago now. That she’d been through rehab and come out the other side. That she’d changed continents, changed her life, changed everything.

She couldn’t change how the world saw her.

Until now. This film was her chance to show everyone another side to her. The grown-up, professional side.

She wished she’d had more time to prepare.

Posy watched Anton bob and weave with the movement of the train as he rifled through the contents of his suitcase. He emerged holding a floral tea dress, not unlike Libby’s in style, but with pastel, watercolour flowers where Libby’s were crisp-edged browns and reds.

‘What do you think?’ He gave the dress a little shake, so she could fully appreciate its awfulness. Beside her, Kit raised his eyebrows, then turned to look out of the window.

‘It’s not very … me, is it?’ That was about as much diplomacy as Posy could manage at this time in the morning.