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of everyone he knew – not having to do anything
     but swan about and look the part – but the truth was he was in a gilded cage.
    His life was entirely at the mercy of Delilah’s schedule. His house was over-run by a film crew six months of the year. He
     couldn’t sit and read the paper in his own kitchen half the time. He was wheeled out to any number of award ceremonies, premieres
     and after-parties – and all he really had to think about was what to wear. It was hardly stretching.
    So
Something for the Weekend
was a proposition he had to take very seriously. He didn’t want to melt into middle-age a nonentity. He wanted something
     for himself, something he could be proud of and that stretched him. His renaissance was long overdue.
    The part had to be right, of course. In his time, he had played bad boys, scoundrels, lovable rogues, smooth-talkers. There
     had even been talk of him becoming the next James Bond. He’d had the looks. He’d perfected the art of the ruthless stare.
     He’d had the animal magnetism. The killer body – fit, lean, not too obviously worked out but panther-like.There was no doubt it would have taken him onto a whole new level, but he’d blown it.
    Did he regret the error of his ways? Would he have swapped those wild years of excess for the chance to be 007? He didn’t
     think so. Raf didn’t believe in regret. The party years had made him what he was today, and even if he wasn’t totally enamoured
     of who that was, here in front of him was a chance to change, to be who he wanted to be once again.
    Half an hour later, his coffee untouched, he picked up his mobile, scrolling through till he found the right number.
    ‘Dickie? It’s Raf. You’re totally wrong about this script. It’s not fantastic.’
    There was a disappointed silence at the end of the phone. Raf grinned.
    ‘It’s totally fucking out of this world.’

Four
    P olly Fry’s legs were pumping furiously. Her heart felt as if it was going to burst out of her not insubstantial chest, but
     she had to keep going. This was going to be the regime that worked, she knew it. She’d snipped up her bus pass so she wouldn’t
     be tempted to hop on. She’d bought a huge cagoule so the weather could never provide an excuse.
    Surely cycling three miles to work and back every day would have an effect? It was bloody torture, so there ought to be some
     payback. She was halfway across Richmond Bridge now – nearly there, though she still had that ghastly hill to navigate. She
     knew she would probably have to get off and walk, but that was still exercise, wasn’t it? And she would arrive at work red-faced
     and panting, but no one would mind. It had been Delilah’s idea, after all. It was Delilah who’d ordered the bike for her birthday,
     after she’d found Polly sobbing in the cloakroom two weeks ago.
    She’d polished off the rest of the cranberry and coconut cookies after the afternoon’s shoot – even though they had been under
     the bright lights all day. She hadn’t been able to resist. She’d been good all day – porridge for breakfast and a salad pitta
     bread for lunch. But the cookies had smelled so delicious. And once she’d had a bite of one – sugary, buttery, slightly salty,
     soft but crumbly – that was it. The whole lot had to go.
    Why hadn’t she been able to stop at one? Or even two? Like a normal person? She had to trough the whole lot, until she felt
     sick. And she couldn’t even be sick. She didn’t have the nerveto stick her fingers down her throat and chuck it all up. She wasn’t bulimic; she was just a pig. She ate like a pig and looked
     like a pig.
    Working with beautiful people didn’t help. Delilah wasn’t thin, she was curvaceous, but it was all in proportion, the classic
     hourglass figure. And the girls were all perfect – not an ounce of fat on one of them. If Polly wanted a reminder of her gluttony,
     she only had to compare herself to one of the Raffertys.
    She’d worked