Rhian Teague asked it at seventeen minutes to eight on a sofa the colour of a plaster, and I’d counted the cameras before she did: four on the floor, and a fifth on a rail above us that moved when nobody was looking.
The car had come to the hotel at twenty to six. Fitz had counted us into it, two and a manager, because Fitz counts anyone she’s responsible for onto anything with wheels, and Hal had sat in the front with his coat on and said nothing for the length of the drive except, at a red light on the Embankment, “Don’t touch the fruit. It’s a prop.”
The green room was on the fourth floor of a building made of glass, and it had the fruit, and a monitor showing the programme going out, and a runner with a headset who called us both “guys” and Hal…
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