Tony, who was opening a bottle of Dom Perignon, ignored the jibe, and asked Cameron where she came from.

‘Cincinnati.’

‘City of the seven hills,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘But you must have bought those legs in New York.’

Cameron didn’t smile.

‘You don’t look like a Lord, more like a Mafia hood. What do I call you: Your Grace, Sir, my Lord, Baron, Lord Ant?’

‘You can call me Tony.’ He handed her a glass.

Cameron picked up the presentation booklet of ‘Four Men went to Mow’. Kicking off her flat black shoes, she curled up, looking very tiny on the huge pockmarked red leather sofa.

‘What’s this shit?’

‘Cameron!’ remonstrated Ronnie.

‘Corinium’s latest thirteen-parter,’ explained Tony. ‘We aim to start shooting in October.’

‘If you get American finance,’ said Cameron, sharply.

Tony nodded. ‘We’ll put it out early in the evening; should appeal to kids and adults.’

‘Dumb title. What the shit does it mean?’

‘It’s the line of an English song,’ said Tony evenly.

‘Thought it was a series about back yards.’

‘It’s about four agricultural students living in a house.’

‘I can read, thank you,’ snapped Cameron, running her eyes down the page. ‘And someone finds someone in bed with someone in the first episode. Jesus, and you’re expecting this shit to go out as wholesome family entertainment in Middle America, where we haven’t seen a nipple on the network for years.’

‘Don’t listen to Cameron,’ said Ronnie. ‘She needs a muzzle in the office to stop her savaging her colleagues.’

‘Shut up and let me read it.’

Ronnie then proceeded to update Tony on the recent changes at NBS. ‘They axed twenty people last week, good people who’ve been there fifteen years. The new business guys are running the place like a supermarket.’