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“Thanks. I really appreciate that.” Patrick took another swig. “Though, there is something I want to ask. Please tell me if it’s too personal.”

Oh God, Sandra’s gonna kill me if I let this cat out of the bag , I thought.

“How come you’ve never been all that successful?

” Patrick asked, then seemed to cringe back into himself.

“No, that came out wrong. I mean…how come you’ve never been the leading man?

Or been in a big hit TV show or film franchise?

I’ve followed your career since I was a kid.

I love your stuff and I’ve always idolised you.

Just…you never seemed to break through like you could have. ”

I hesitated before I answered. “I guess I just always did what I wanted, no matter what my agent thought. You seem to have a good one though, so keep hold of her.”

Patrick nodded thoughtfully. I was a jobbing actor, and always had been.

Could I really turn down this financial opportunity just to spend another couple of nights at home?

If I worked a series, maybe 2 if it got renewed, I would be in a much better position to be picky, to choose my own destiny and the jobs I wanted to do.

I could find somewhere to stay longer term. Have a home.

“Why do you ask, anyway?” I said. “Surely you’ve got them lining up with big offers at the moment. You’re a hot commodity.”

“Well, yes. I’ve just been asked to go for a guest spot in a big new fantasy TV series filming in Wales.

Thrones of Blood, I think it’s called?” Patrick looked thoughtful for a second.

“I think I will go for it. Can’t hurt to get a bit of weird thrown in to my career.

” He held up the empty bottle of beer and put it down on the counter.

“Thanks for the advice man, I really appreciate it.” He opened the door and stepped out into the rain.

I sat alone for a second. Outside, the wind howled and the rain continued to hammer on the roof almost deafeningly. The whole trailer seemed to sway with each gust.

I picked up the phone and scrolled to Sandra’s name. “I’ll do it,” I said as soon as she picked up. I thought I heard her make an excited little squeal. “On one condition, though,” I said. “I have to have a hotel. I’m not doing any more fucking trailers.”

“Already arranged,” she replied. “You can get the ferry over next week.”

◆◆◆

The ferry had been awful, with the famous Irish Sea not letting its own reputation for stormy weather go unmatched. The sea was choppy and I was glad to get back onto land until I saw Sandra waiting at the pier for me, next to the flashy Mercedes that (in part) my money had paid for.

“There’s my favourite man,” she said with a predatory smile. “All ready for tomorrow’s first day on set?”

“Sure thing, Sandra.” My legs wobbled a little as I walked toward her and the car. Sea legs had never been my specialty.

“So the production has booked you and the crew in at this swanky hotel right in the heart of the village - you’re going to love it, it’s to die for .

And I’ve put in your ledger that you need a gym installed to keep your fitness up so that should be pre-installed there too by tomorrow at the latest. I don’t know why, but this production seems really keen on you so I’ve been able to bend them whatever way I want.

Tomorrow you’ll be introduced to the director and makeup will want you in for continuity shots, I’ve sent your measurements to costume but they’ll want to do some final fittings… ”

We got into the car and I drowned out the sound of Sandra’s voice, resting my head against the window as she drove off, out of the little port town the ferry had docked in and along the coastal cliffs.

The scenery was probably nice, but felt like it was being strangled by the oppressive grey clouds above.

After spending 3 weeks in Ireland, the last thing I wanted was another 3 months of cloud and rain.

The length of the shoot meant we’d be here all the way through from May to July and though that would take us through to the summer months, Wales had a reputation for storms. I had worked for 2 weeks on a medical drama in Cardiff when the heavens opened on what had otherwise been a sunny summer day.

“It doesn’t rain in Wales,” one of the usual actors had said, “it pours.”

And sure enough, as Sandra continued to drive and talk specks of rain started to dot the windows of the car.

She took a few twists and turns down a country lane that seemed to be at the edge of a cliff and I had to hold my stomach to stop myself from feeling sick.

The clouds had descended so that it was impossible to see over the edge but Sandra seemed to have little to fear as she yanked the wheel through each turn in quick succession.

Soon, the road bottomed out and we drove over a little bridge over a river, past a high street that, though it had a couple of shops boarded up seemed like it was busy with local people, and up another hill - this one mercifully straight, but so steep that even in her Mercedes Sandra had to change down gear a couple of times as it slipped on the wet tarmac.

When the hill levelled out the hotel came into sight and I wanted to put my head in my hands.

The hotel sat on the very edge of the cliffs, looking like it was at risk of falling over the edge at any time.

It was old fashioned and timber framed, but looked like it was sagging under years of neglect and age.

It was painted white, but some of the chips were flaking and crumbling off of it.

An old porch seemed to be struggling under the weight of the rain.

Above the porch, in faded lettering, was written Gwesty Maes Gwyn.

“What’s that mean?” I asked, pointing at it.

“Dunno. Welsh, probably.” Sandra reached over and grabbed my leg with a familiarity she and I did not possess, squeezing it in a way she probably thought was meant to be reassuring. I shifted it away from her grip, steeled myself and opened the door.

We ran through the rain and under the waterfall that was running over the porch. I wrenched one of the tall wooden doors open and ran in, not caring if it swung back and hit Sandra behind me.

“Well, fuck,” said Sandra, coming to stand next to me. “Swanky it is not.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. The hotel was as old fashioned on the inside as it was on the outside.

It was dark, walls made of deep mahogany lit by struggling fluorescent bulbs in a chandelier that had seen better days.

It was pretty cold, not the respite from the storm I had expected.

Behind reception ran a single staircase, and there was a door either side of us leading deeper into the hotel. I couldn’t see an elevator anywhere.

I couldn’t see any people either. It was as dead as a cemetery, and I could hear nothing but the howling wind and creaking timbers.

I stepped toward the reception desk — it had been polished to a sparkle at least — and pressed the bell.

It chimed throughout the foyer, but no one came. I pressed it again.

“Coming!” shouted a voice from one of the hallways.

It was deep and echoed through the foyer before its owner stepped through the doors.

He was a taller man than I with dark blonde hair, bright blue eyes and stubble on his cheeks and chin.

His hair looked like he had been raking his fingers through it and messed it up, and he was wearing a dark red shirt with black trousers.

He had a purposeful stride and his arms and shoulders filled his shirtsleeves very nicely.

“So sorry if you’re looking for a room,” he said.

I couldn’t stop staring at his face so barely noticed when Sandra once again stepped up to stand alongside me.

“But we’re fully booked from Monday onwards so you’d only be able to stay the weekend.

Got some big film stars staying here and you know what they’re like, divas, the lot of them.

You should see some of the demands…” he chuckled. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

It was that moment that Sandra chose to explode.