Mick enters the private lounge in a festive mood of joy and affection. But not Brenda. She is serious and reserved.

“Brenda, what a wonderful, beautiful surprise!”

“Hi, Mick.”

They kiss each other on the cheeks.

“Brenda, you look incredible. The very picture of radiance.”

“You’re mistaking me for last century’s vintage, Mick.”

He laughs exaggeratedly. “So, what’s this? You couldn’t wait any longer? We’ve only just finished the latest draft. We were struggling over the last scene and then just yesterday – boom! – we nailed it. Now that you’re here in person, we can give it to you straightaway. But didn’t you say you were staying in L.A.? How come you’re here in Europe?”

Brenda looks him seriously in the eye. “How many years have we known each other, Mick?”

“Jesus, that puts me on the spot! Let me count . . .”

“We’ve known each other for fifty-three years. And how many movies have we made together?”

“Nine, ten . . .”

“Eleven. And do you think that after fifty-three years of friendship and eleven movies I would dish out a bunch of crap to you?”

Mick looks lost. “Well, no, I don’t think so . . . I don’t think I’d deserve that.”

“In fact, you don’t deserve it. But what you do deserve is me calling a spade a spade. That’s why I’ve hauled my keyster all the way over here from L.A. to speak with you in person.”

Brenda’s severe manner gives Mick pause for thought. “O.K. Look, Brenda, if it’s about Scene 21 where you’re described as ‘ugly, falling apart, a shadow of your former beautiful self’, you have to realise that it’s artistic licence, but naturally on the set we’ll proceed in a different manner. I want you to be extraordinary. You still retain that mystery, that fascination that makes you an eternal star.”

“Stop kissing my ass, Mick, because you’re pissing me off even more, given what I’ve come here to tell you.”

“Why? What have you come here to tell me?”

“I’m pulling out of the film, Mick.”

“What?”

“I’ve been offered a T.V. series in New Mexico. A three-year contract. An alcoholic granny recovering from a bad stroke. A character that pushes her shit to the limit. But I can pay for Jack’s rehab, my granddaughter Angelina’s film school, the debts of my idiot husband, and I’ll even have enough money left over for that villa in Miami that I’ve been wanting for the last fourteen years. So that’s what I’ve come to tell you.”

Mick starts to protest and raises his voice. “But this is cinema, Brenda. The other’s just television! And you know television’s shit.”

“It’s the future, Mick. Or rather, to tell you the truth, it’s already the present. And let’s be clear, because in this freaking world nobody ever speaks clearly. You’re in your eighties and, like so many of your colleagues, you get worse the older you get. The last three films you made, Mick, are nothing but crap. But, I’ll say this, as do many others: they’re not the usual crap!”