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be simply fascinated, no matter what they say. You understand?’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Featherstone,’ I answered obediently.
    She put her hand on my back and smiled mechanically. ‘And remember, what are you called?’
    ‘Eve Noel.’
    ‘That’s it. Good girl. Your name’s Noel now. Don’t forget.’
    Her thumb dug into my shoulder blade. I could feel the side of her ring pushing into my flesh and involuntarily I stepped away, then smiled politely, looking around the room.
    It was a beautiful old mansion house in Beverly Hills; at least it looked old, though they told me afterwards it had only been finished last year. At the grand piano a vaguely familiar man sat playing ‘All the Things You Are’ and my skin prickled with pleasure: I loved that song. I had danced to it only two weeks ago, on our clapped-out gramophone in Hampstead. Already it seemed like a lifetime ago.
    Mr Featherstone was at the bar, shaking hands, clapping shoulders. When he saw his wife, he nodded mechanically, excused himself and came over.
    ‘Hey,’ he said, nodding at his wife, ignoring me. ‘OK.’ He turned to the three men standing in a knot beside us, and grasped the hand of the first one.
    ‘Hey, fellas, I want you to meet someone. This is Eve Noel. She just arrived from London, England. She’s our new star.’ His arm was around my waist, his fingers pressed tightly against the black velvet. I wanted to shrink away.
    Each man balanced his cigarette in the cut-crystal ashtray, then turned to shake my hand. I had no idea who they were. The third, younger, man narrowed his eyes, and turned away towards the piano player to ask him something. The first man smiled, kindly I thought. ‘When did you get here, Eve?’
    ‘Two weeks ago,’ I said.
    ‘Where are you staying?’ He smoothed his thinning hair across his shiny pate, an automatic gesture.
    ‘She’s at the Beverly Hills Hotel at the moment, and Rita is chaperoning her where necessary,’ Mr Featherstone said before I could speak. He cleared his throat importantly. ‘Eve is our Helen of Troy, we’re announcing it next week.’
    ‘Good for you,’ said the second man. ‘Louis, you dark horse. You swore you’d got Taylor.’
    ‘We went a different way. We needed someone … fresh, you know. Elizabeth’s a liability.’ His hand tightened on my waist and he smiled.
    ‘That’s great, that’s great,’ said the first man. ‘So – you got what you wanted from RKO, Louis? I heard they wouldn’t give you the budget.’
    He and the second man smirked at each other. ‘Oh,’ said Mr Featherstone. He flashed them a quick, automatic smile. ‘Hey, we all make mistakes, don’t we.’ His voice faltered. ‘But they’re coming around. We’ll start principal photography in a couple of weeks – we don’t need the money right now. It’s only that – well, fellas, this thing is going to be huge, and I’d like a little extra, you know? I’ve been thinking, a big studio might like to share some costs. I assure you, they’d get more than their share back. MGM and David O. Selznick, ring any bells?’ He winked at the first man, as though trying to make him complicit in something. ‘But let’s not talk business in front of Miss Noel.’
    ‘Of course,’ said the second man. He was short and greying where the first man was short and fat with black hair; they looked similar, and it occurred to me suddenly they must be brothers. ‘How do you find LA, Miss Noel?’
    ‘Oh,’ I said. I moved away from Mr Featherstone’s hand. ‘I think it’s wonderful.’
    ‘Wonderful, eh?’
    ‘Oh, yes, wonderful.’ I could hear myself: I sounded dull and stupid.
    He laughed. ‘How so?’
    ‘Oh, the …’ I couldn’t think of how to explain it. ‘The sunshine and the palm trees, and the people are so friendly. And there’s as much butter as you like in the mornings.’
    He and his companions laughed; so did Mr and Mrs Featherstone, a second or two later.
    ‘I’m from London,’ I