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chauffeuring required. Accommodation and uniform provided.’
    Uniform? thought Amy, imagining some strapping hunk in a peaked cap and white gloves opening the door of her vintage Rolls-Royce.
    ‘Mary Poppins required for children five and seven,’ read another. ‘Foreign languages and equestrian skills preferred!’
    It was another world. Where were these extensive properties that required experienced groundsmen? Who could seriously require a gamekeeper or a valet in the twenty-first century? It was as if Downton Abbey had been a documentary not a drama – it was fascinating to imagine what stories lay behind each of these quirky adverts. And more than that: Amy found herself fantasising about actually applying for some of these positions. How hard could it be? ‘Driver wanted for South of France second home’ – she had a clean licence and she could certainly do with some sun. Or what about being a ‘governess to twin girls’? The advert actually stated that qualifications were negotiable. Perhaps they’d be impressed by Amy’s background in the arts – didn’t all little girls want to be ballet dancers? She smiled to herself – maybe not. Besides which, she almost had a job to go to. If Eduardo Drummond called her back, of course. She was about to fold the magazine when one ad caught her eye, or rather two words: New York. Amy looked closer. The advert was small, listed under the Situations Wanted header: ‘Mature lady seeks polite companion for Manhattan adventure. Must be available for travel 23–27 December. Flights and New York accommodation included.’
    She paused for a moment and then reread it. Must be available for travel 23–27 December. Flights and New York accommodation included . Underneath the advertisement was an email address. She picked up her phone, logged into her mail and without hesitating another moment drafted her reply.

She had been in the shower when her phone had rung, so the message had been delivered by voicemail. Amy pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body and listened to it again, hoping she hadn’t heard it right the first time.
    ‘Darling. It’s Driscilla here. I’m afraid it’s a no from Eduardo about Tango Nights . They loved your audition, but they saw a lot of great girls, and between you and me, perhaps your toe still represents something of a problem . . .’
    Amy snapped the phone shut, not wanting to hear her agent’s voice any longer. A no! She couldn’t believe it. It had been a great audition. She had danced her ass off, got on with the director; even Driscilla had said that it was in the bag, and she was an agent from the tough love school of showbiz, where nothing was a done deal until the ink was dry on the contract.
    Amy sank to the sofa bed and took a sip of the glass of water that Annie had left on the table the night before. She needed it, she thought, gulping down the cool liquid and wishing she had some Nurofen to go with it. She had no idea how much she had drunk last night. There had been at least five glasses of champagne at the Tower of London dinner, and then Annie’s cocktail . . . Her eyes darted to the curvaceous glass containing a green neon straw and the residue of the daiquiri – all stale and curdled, which was precisely the effect the Ukrainian brandy seemed to be having on the contents of her stomach. Urgh, she thought, feeling suddenly quite nauseous, not helped by her flashback of the night before. The artichoke, the toxic comments and sideways glances from Vivienne Lyons, and Daniel’s effective dumping. She had geared herself up for a proposal and instead had got propositioned by her boyfriend’s dad. As she had lain awake in bed the previous night, mulling everything over, the only thing that had kept her going was the hope that she would get the Tango Nights job, and now that was a busted flush.
    Annie bustled into the living room and kissed the top of her head.
    ‘How are you this morning? Sleep