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make my first impression on Lutherwith dirty hair and wearinga crumpled, day-old ensemble. Why, why did I have to check in my bag? Well, it can’t be helped. I’m never going to resemble, even vaguely, the women that he sees in LA. He’ll probably have seen Bridget Jones: everyone knows English girls are scruffy and badly dressed. I’ll just have to rely on personality.
    I emerge from my room. The place is much bigger than it lookedfrom outside; everywhere there are high ceilings with oak beams, and tiled floors, and a feeling of calm, in contrast to the butterflies in my stomach. I head towards the back of the house, where I can hear voices. I step outside, and what I see takes my breath away.
    The terrace overlooks a little bay with steep, forested sides that slope down to a huge blue sea, which meets a huge blue sky.At the far left end of the terrace is a pool, with nothing behind it but green hillside – I can make out pine trees and here and there a palm tree – and the sea. To my right is the long table I saw last night, now completely tidy and half shaded by a vast canvas canopy. Sam is sitting there in the sun. He’s working through some papers and tapping on his BlackBerry, while drinking espresso and eatingbread rolls with butter. I imagine he misses his protein shake or wheatgrass or whatever he normally has in LA.
    ‘Um – good morning,’ I say.
    ‘Hi,’ he says briefly, barely glancing up. I sit down, wondering where Luther is.
    Hearing a noise in the pool, I turn around and realise that there is someone in it, at the far end – I can just see his head and shoulders above the water. There’s a splash,and he disappears underwater, emerging at the end closer to us a few moments later. He hoists himself out. It’s definitely him. There’s that tattoo on his arm. And there’s that bare, brown chest and those broad shoulders – defined butnot overdeveloped, tanned and glistening wet. Oh, my God. This is like some sort of fantasy being enacted before my very eyes. With unhurried movements, he wrapsa white towel around his waist, tucking it in around his gorgeous washboard stomach. Now he’s walking over, dripping wet, with his easy, athletic stride. He holds out a hand – which is completely wet – and I shake it. I’m touching his hand!
    ‘You must be Alice,’ he says. ‘I’m Luther.’
    He knows I know that, and I know he knows I know: it just adds to the surreality of it all. It’s hard to describethe experience of meeting someone very famous. It doesn’t feel as if they’ve entered your world; it feels more like you’ve entered theirs. I feel as though I’m in a film: one of Luther’s films.
    ‘Hello,’ I say, spellbound.
    He’s not as tall as I expected – in fact, he’s only slightly taller than me. But he is every bit as good-looking – in fact, more so. I’ve never seen such a handsome face inreal life: long, lightly stubbled jaw, high cheekbones, a beautiful mouth; light brown eyes, squinting in the bright sun. It’s not just his looks, though; it’s a magnetism that he has. I can almost feel myself inhaling it. Standing there, with the burning blue sky behind him, he looks like something out of an ad or a film – which, of course, he is. I’m not even conscious of my wrinkled clothes ormy three-day-old hair; I’m just drinking him in.
    He throws himself into a chair opposite me, still dripping.
    ‘So, Alice, how are you?’ His accent is broader than I’d expected – more New York-sounding. My brain starts reciting bits from his Wikipedia entry: Michael Luther Carson, born in Camden, New Jersey . . . later moved to Queens . . .
    ‘I – great!’ is all I can muster. My hand is still wet,andI’m not sure what to do with it. Do I wipe it? And if so, where?
    ‘I’m excited you’re here,’ he says. ‘I never had an editor before. Lots of directors, but no editors. How’s that going to be?’
    I smile at him, I hope reassuringly. ‘I’m here to