Bruce wished they hadn’t put him in a room with a TV. He could switch it off, of course, but somehow he didn’t.

The news story arrived once more at the limousine jam. Slowly the stars and big shots got out of their enormous cars. Bruce had watched the same footage so often that he knew the order by heart. There they were again. The long, slow stream of tuxedos, polished chins, magnificent bosoms and ridiculous gowns. Absurd gowns. Ludicrous gowns. Every one of those women was like a drowning swimmer desperate to attract attention. I’m over here! Look at me!

There was the purple one now, slashed up to the armpits. Such thighs! Hollywood thighs. And nipples. Nipples like thimbles. ‘She’s just iced those in the car,’ Bruce had thought approvingly at the time. He always appreciated professionalism, an actress’s dedication to her craft.

Now it was the turn of Bruce himself; he always came after the purple one with the thighs and nipples. The cameras of the waiting paparazzi began to flash before his car had even stopped. He was the star of the show, the hot tip for ‘Best Director’ and ‘Best Picture’. What a night! What a moment! The star of the show.

Now it was the morning after and he was still the star, though of a rather different show. Whoever said all publicity was good publicity was an idiot.

The old Bruce stepped out of his limo and on to the red carpet, just as he had done twenty times already on every channel that morning. Turn, smile and wave. Check the bowtie. Tug at the earlobe. Nervous, humble body language. Tiny little moves that screamed, ‘Love me, you bastards! Look! Look! This is my night. I am the greatest director in the world, and yet I have the grace to pretend I’m just an ordinary guy.’ Bruce knew every ingratiating little twitch by heart. How they cheered. How they loved him.