Even in a packed restaurant swarming with celebrities Cameron turned heads. There was something about her combative unsmiling beauty, her refusal to look to left or right, that made even the vainest diners put on their spectacles to have a second glance.

Immediately they’d ordered, Ronnie went off table-hopping. ‘Nice guy,’ said Tony, fishing.

‘Very social register,’ said Cameron dismissively. ‘Watch him work the room, he makes everyone feel they’ve had a meaningful intimate conversation in ten seconds flat.’

‘Seems a bit flustered about the blood-letting at NBS.’

Cameron took a slug of Dom Perignon. ‘He needs a big success. Both the series he set up last year have bombed.’

‘Given him an ulcer too.’

Cameron looked at Tony speculatively.

‘I guess you’ve never had an ulcer, Lord Ant.’

‘No,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘I give them to other people. How do the NBS sackings affect you?’

Cameron shrugged. ‘I don’t mind the sackings or the rows, but now the money men have moved in, I figure I’ll have less freedom to make the programmes I want.’

‘How d’you get into television?’

‘My mother walked out on my father at the height of the feminist revolution, came to New York hell-bent on growth. The only thing that grew was her overdraft. She was too proud to ask for money from my father, so I went to Barnard on a scholarship, and got a reporting job in the Vac to make ends meet. After graduation, I joined the New York Times, then moved to the NBS newsroom. Last year I switched over to documentaries, as a writer/producer. At the moment I’m directing drama.’

‘Your mother must be proud of you.’