He laughs and applauds sarcastically.

A shy scriptwriter, sitting near Mick, comments on the row in a low voice: “Exactly!”

“Inspiration? Didn’t they tell you at film school that inspiration doesn’t exist? It’s a myth. There’s no such thing as inspiration, only the fermentation of ideas.”

“Exactly!” the shy scriptwriter confirms.

“Oh, but inspiration does exist, it does,” the girl insists. “But as you haven’t an ounce of talent you can’t recognise it.”

“Exactly!” the shy scriptwriter adds again.

Mick notices his neighbour’s shifting allegiances and turns on him sharply: “What the hell? Are you just agreeing with everyone?”

“Of course! I’m insecure and fearful. My parents never encouraged me. My brother’s favourite sport was using me as a punchbag. My sister called me ‘Loser’. I’ve never had a girlfriend and I have a huge hang-up about my sexual identity.”

This has Mick laughing.

“Stop it! You’ll never get me to feel any sympathy.”

“I have an aunt who had polio.”

Mick laughs again.

“I won’t allow you to say I don’t have any talent any more, you idiot!” the first scriptwriter replies, brimming with anger.

“Isn’t it time you got on with your fermentation then, you talentless parasite?”

“That’s enough! I’m shocked at you,” Mick says, interrupting them. “We have to come up with an ending and you’re wasting time by talking about the wider scene.”

Fred offers a suggestion: “But they’re right. Individual scenes all hang on the wider one.”

Only now do they notice him.

“Ah, it’s you, Fred. Listen, I need to be here for another couple of hours, then I have to talk to the doctor. I’ll catch up with you after that, O.K.?”

“Alright.”

Gloomily, a little disappointed that no-one has responded to his remark, Fred leaves the room while Mick spurs on his scriptwriters.

“Well, what about it? We need an idea for the ending.”

One of the boys, who so far has made no contribution, butts in. He has a long beard and messy hair, the very image of the cultivated and ironic intellectual. As if coming out of a vision, he says dreamily: “As he’s about to die, the man whispers feebly to his wife: ‘Don’t cry, my dear. You know I’ve always found women who cry shallow and repellent.’”

The two who were arguing look at each other and burst out laughing.

The shy and insecure scriptwriter reflects a moment and pronounces with some assurance, “Great idea!”

Mick shoots him a look of disgust, then comments: “No, that’s a crap idea. Anything else?”

11

The hotel guests are in a torpid state, as if under anaesthetic. Addled by the silence, they observe a swarm of wealthy Russians dropping themselves slowly onto the sunbeds first thing in the morning and then the stillness of an attractive African-American family floating in the swimming pool.

In one corner, in the shade of a canopy, you can enjoy a massage in the open air. Two young adolescents are hanging around there, overcome by a flood of hormones, stealing sidelong glances at a beautiful woman having a massage.