‘Not overalls’, I said.

‘Soft drink, I believe. Come on.’ She led me through the maze of equipment and props, and we wound up with a photographer named Sam, his assistant and a few cases of soft drink. Sam was a Levantine; squat and heavy with a floral shirt unbuttoned to show his virile chest and stomach. All of it. His offsider was an anorexic blonde who whisked Selina away and took me out of camera range. I asked for a sample and got a bottle of Diet-Slim cola which tasted like rusty water with saccharine added. Selina came out wearing a super-formal dress, and proceeded to drape herself around some Swedish furniture while sipping tall glasses of the beverage. I got bored with this and wandered off in search of a phone. I found one behind a jungly set which was being sprayed with insect repellent by Livingstone and Stanley. I dialled the number of the terrace house in Glebe where Cyn and I practise wedded bliss. She answered in a tone that told she was keeping her head of steam up.

‘It looks as if I’ll be home tonight.’

‘You’d better be. We really need to talk, Cliff. Where are you? In some pub at the Cross, I suppose? Pissing on?’

I was still holding the Diet-Slim; I looked across to a set that featured a silver-grey rolls Royce-a woman sitting in a fur coat was getting out of it and smiling up at a guy in a dinner suit.

‘Yeah, something like that’, I said.

‘I’ll see you tonight.’ She hung up and I skirted the jungle, a schoolroom and a torture chamber back to where Sam had Selina reading while sipping: the book was The ABC of Love.

Sam clicked away and the blonde moved lights and Selina smiled and smiled until I wondered at her patience. The money would have to be good. Eventually they called it a day and, after kisses all round, Selina climbed back into her jumpsuit and we were on our way.