‘You European kids,’ said Belinda, slightly wistfully. ‘So much culture at your fingertips. Anyway, Cannes is the cynical premise behind this venture. The producers think that a movie based on its doorstep might get those uptight bastards to sit up and take some notice of something produced by a MAJOR studio, for once, instead of one of those fall-asleep-in-your-popcorn subtitled crapolas where everybody, like, dies.’ She made a gesture that combined an extravagant yawn with slitting her throat.

Ben laughed easily. He was amazed by his own patience.

‘And? Do they want to see me, or what?’

‘Oh, honey, of course they want to see you. I wouldn’t be telling you all this now would I, if they didn’t? What kind of a woman do you think I am?’

She pouted and Ben refrained from telling her.

‘It’s a period romcom, along the lines of To Catch A Thief.’

Ben wasn’t sure how Hitchcock would have reacted to one of his classics being referred to as a period romcom, but he let it pass.

‘So you mean, I’m up for the Cary Grant character?’ It was difficult to keep the excitement out of his voice.

‘Get real, handsome. They’ll only go with a proper, American star for the good guy.’ Wasn’t Belinda aware that Cary Grant was originally from Bristol? ‘No, you’re the bastard Brit who messes with our heroine’s heart.’

‘Silly me.’ Ben laughed again. ‘We Englishmen are always the villains. But, bloody hell, Belinda, that is amazing! When do they want me to read for it? And who are they thinking of for the lead roles?’

‘They haven’t decided yet for the lead, but maybe Scarlett Johansson or Amanda Seyfried for the girl. Somebody suggested Gwynnie, but she’s way too old of course.’

As Gwyneth Paltrow was about the same age as him, Ben nodded solemnly.

‘And they want to see you in two days’ time, so brush up on your French.’

‘Mate, that’s amazing news,’ said Tom, one of Ben’s new ex-pat buddies, a trust-fund twat who had moved to LA to write a screenplay, thinking that anyone could do it. As he could neither spell nor string two sentences together, Ben thought it unlikely Tom’s masterpiece would ever see the light of day. But he did mean well.

They were at Soho House LA, with all the other Brits who liked to stick together.

‘But promise us you won’t turn native!’ bellowed Julia, an actress who’d been very successful in London three years ago but had yet to hit the big time Stateside. Possibly on account of a weak chin and a slightly-too-large nose that she’d refused to get fixed, vainly (and stupidly) thinking her work as a ‘serious actress’ rendered such measures unnecessary. ‘We don’t want you to start saying “Lie-sesster Square”!’

Everyone cracked up, and Ben pretended to too, but inside he was thinking, If you don’t like it here, then why don’t you fuck off back to London? He was growing a little tired of his fellow ex-pats, with their twee insistence on tea parties, and Sunday roasts, when it was far too hot to eat anything other than the innovatively healthy (and surprisingly delicious) fresh produce on offer locally. These people would have been the first to sneer at Brits in Benidorm demanding the full English breakfast, so why the fuck did they think it was OK in LA?