What is once intended as a respite from the demands of tour announces itself as a descent into chaos the moment Andy walks into the suite to find her things scattered along the bed and floor. A pair of shoes here, a discarded dress there, earrings here, spanx to the left, lipstick on a bit of tissue balled up and not quite tossed into the bin — collectively they tell a story of a rush to decide what to spend the ride to the airport in, the glamour the day called for or the comfort she ultimately chose.

He thinks, maybe, this is indicative of an invitation she had not anticipated being accepted, something people just say because it's the kind thing to do, and he hesitates, wheeling his luggage that much closer to the door. Regretting things is his bread and butter. An inability to overcome the pull of nostalgia? The thing that keeps the lights on. He makes mistakes with boldness, yet his shoulders slump in the presence of this disappointment.

"Just bung it there," she points towards the sofa. "I'm sure you'll find somewhere better to sleep later anyway." She smiles at him, but her voice is high and thin, her lips stretched too taut. Two years separate them from their relationship, but the reminder of betrayal burns fresh, twisting the matching smile he displayed into a wince. Today she's the d-list girlfriend (side piece) of a b-list actor, possessing what little prestige that entails, but it's an upgrade from him, he thinks: famous in their British bubble, significant as the son and brother of someone bigger than him, someone who cheats.

In spite of them both, and the creeping desire to flee, Andy laughs and gives the suitcase a little shove further into the room. He's underdressed compared to anyone else in attendance, but he can at least grant his hostess the courtesy of looking like he belongs. "It's a film festival. Does anyone sleep at night?"