A Night In With Audrey Hepburn. Lucy Holliday

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      Which is nuts, because it’s not like I’ve never smoked. I used to. Admittedly only when I was drunk, and not since I was about nineteen, when I went on a trip to Paris with Olly and smoked so many overpowering French cigarettes that it put me off for life.

      But is this sort of hair-splitting worth missing out on another few minutes in Dillon’s company, when he’s never likely to exchange another word with me again?

      ‘What I mean to say is that I try not to smoke.’

      ‘Oh, well, if you’ve given up, then all credit to you—’

      ‘No, no, I haven’t given up! I’ve failed completely at it! Love smoking. Love it to death. Literally to death, probably, the amount I smoke!’

      ‘Then be my guest.’ He hands me the cigarette he’s holding, takes another for himself and then reaches into his back pocket again for a lighter.

      ‘So you’re one of the extras, right?’ he asks, flicking the lighter on and holding it out towards me.

      ‘Mnnh-hnngh.’ This is because I’ve got the cigarette in my mouth. ‘I’ve sort of been promoted, though,’ I add, once the end is lit. ‘I mean, I’ve got my first line to speak today. It’s not exactly a proper part, and obviously I get to wear the ugliest costume on set, but …’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen worse.’ He takes an expert puff on his own cigarette, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction from me (which is courteous of him, seeing as I’m technically smoking too; I just haven’t risked actually inhaling yet in case I cough and sputter, unattractively, all over him). ‘I’ve an ex or two that looked a bit like that,’ – he nods at the alien head I’m clutching in my hand – ‘without their slap on.’

      This is unlikely. But I appreciate his generosity.

      ‘Anyway, if you’re one of the extras, you probably know a thing or two about the way things work around here.’

      ‘Work?’

      ‘Yeah, every show I’ve ever worked on, the extras are always the ones who know how it all works. Who’s the biggest diva. Who’s got the biggest coke problem. Who’s getting it on in the props storeroom. I mean, there’s always somebody getting it on in the props storeroom, isn’t there?’

      Given that I’m about to furnish my entire flat from the props storeroom, I can only hope that he’s joking about this.

      ‘So?’ he asks. ‘Dish the dirt! Tell me who to avoid, who to cultivate, who I’m going to get a stonking great crush on …’

      ‘Don’t you have a girlfriend?’ I suddenly blurt.

      No, I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, either.

      His black eyes narrow. ‘That’s a very personal question.’

      ‘Sorry, I only asked because … well, I read things in Grazia, obviously … not that I read a lot of celebrity gossip! Only when I’m in the waiting room at the dentist, or something. Hardly ever.’

      ‘You hardly ever go to the dentist?’

      ‘No! I mean, yes! I go loads!’ I say, continuing my apparent quest to make him think I have poor dental management and stinky cheese-breath. ‘Well, not loads … a normal amount, I’d say … Actually, it’s my sister Cass who reads all the gossip magazines—’

      ‘Then tell the silly cow not to believe everything she reads in them.’

      ‘Hey!’ I don’t care how gorgeous he is, standing here with his bare chest, and chivalrously blowing smoke away from me. ‘That’s my sister you’re talking about.’

      ‘Sorry.’ He looks, and sounds, instantly contrite. But then he is an actor, I suppose. Still, he repeats it. ‘Sorry. That was unforgivably rude of me.’

      ‘It was, a bit.’

      ‘It’s just that the girlfriend thing … it’s private, you know?’

      ‘Yes. Of course. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

      ‘Ah, you’re all right … Sorry, I’ve just realized I don’t know your name.’

      ‘Libby. Libby Lomax.’

      ‘Well, you’re all right, Libby, Libby Lomax. I’ll forgive you for calling me an arsehole. And for lying to me about being a smoker.’

      Damn it; I’ve let the bloody thing practically burn itself out in my hand.

      ‘I am a smoker! I just forgot I had one,’ I say, popping the cigarette back into my mouth and hoping I can look one-tenth as sexy as him when I take a drag on it …

      ‘Dillon!’

      Shit. It’s Vanessa, coming out of Wardrobe and walking towards us.

      If she catches me smoking a cigarette, I’ll be off this location shoot in even less time than it would take Dillon to talk Cass into bed with him.

      Instinctively, I do the first thing that springs to mind, which is to pull on the head I’ve got squashed under my arm.

      It’s a nanosecond later that I realize I still have the cigarette between my lips.

      But it’s OK! It’s OK, because all I have to do is walk past Vanessa and go, as fast as I can, round the other side of the catering bus, where I can pull my head off and take the cigarette out.

      Or at least, I could, if she weren’t blocking my way with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.

      ‘Libby,’ she hisses, none too quietly, ‘what the fuck are you bothering Dillon for?’

      ‘She wasn’t bothering me, Vanessa, don’t stress about it.’ Dillon taps me on the shoulder from behind, and when I wheel round unsteadily he’s holding out one of my latex gloves. ‘You dropped this.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I mumble, snatching the glove and making to turn away again. But he stops me.

      ‘You’re smoking,’ he says.

      Traitor! He’s sold me out, and right in front of Vanessa, too.

      ‘I mean, you’re really smoking, Libby.’

      He’s staring into my eyes, through the pin-holes in my Warty Alien head, with such intensity that I can’t help but think … Is he saying he fancies me? I mean, nobody’s ever called me ‘smoking’ before, and certainly not someone as smoking-hot himself as Dillon is, but I suppose weirder things have happened—

      ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Vanessa ruins the moment by screaming, at Obergruppenführer volume, from behind me. ‘Her fucking head’s on fire!’

      At the very same time as she screams this, I inhale an extremely unpleasant smell that can only be burning latex.

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