Julian looked up from the diner’s very short, single-sided menu. ‘What?’

‘He just seems so . . . I don’t know, so . . . it’s like this journal was written yesterday.’

‘Because it’s not all “yea” and “forsooth” and “verily”?’

Rose nodded. ‘I suppose so, yeah.’

‘Diaries and journals are informal. They’re usually the most intimate of historical records. No one writes a diary thinking it’s going to be read by anyone else, let alone some historian from the future. It’s personal, and a much closer and more reliable record of a person’s life than any census or public document.

‘When I was a researcher for the BBC - Christ - ten years ago now,’ Julian continued, looking down the menu once more, ‘I went through loads of unearthed correspondence from Roman soldiers, dug out along Hadrian’s wall - amazing stuff that could’ve been written by squaddies serving in Iraq; lads asking their mums for extra pairs of underwear, for soap. The language that normal people use and the things that fill their everyday lives, what concerns them . . . none of that ever really changes. I love that about history.’

The waitress came over with her pad flipped open and ready to go. ‘What’ll you have?’

Julian puffed and bit on his lip for a moment before looking up at her with a hopeful smile. ‘I don’t suppose you got anything along the lines of a lasagne or a—’

She sighed. ‘Just what’s on the menu, sir.’

He nodded, suitably chastened. ‘Oh. Then, um . . . a Ranch Burger, please.’

Rose waited until she’d finished scribbling. ‘And I suppose I better have the caesar salad,’ she said.

‘Another drink with yer meals?’

Julian looked at Rose. ‘Another couple of beers?’

‘Why not? The last lot went down easily.’

Rose watched her go before looking back at her laptop, perched on the small table between them in their cosy corner booth. ‘We’ve got all the pages digitised now?’

Julian nodded. ‘I flicked through and scanned them last night. The Lambert journal is now tucked safely away, sealed, dry and covered. Grace would approve, I’m sure. And very soon it’ll make a nice exhibit for some local museum.’

‘That’s a relief. Knowing how clumsy you can be, Jules, I had visions of you spilling coffee all over it, or something.’

Julian grinned. ‘The ole girl would skin me alive.’

Rose nodded. ‘She would that.’

Julian looked around the bar, empty except for a couple of young men shooting pool on the far side, away from the booths. A TV behind the counter was on FOX News. They were covering the Reagan Presidential Library debate; six candidate hopefuls for the Republicans were slugging it out between them.

‘I think he sounds really sweet.’

‘Who?’

‘This bloke, Benjamin Lambert.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re falling for a dead guy?’

She smiled. ‘He comes across as tender, sensitive. I like that.’

Rose had come across very few men in her life thus far that she could genuinely describe as tender and sensitive. None that had seen past her falsely confident cheeriness, and sensed the insecurity inside. Not even Julian, who seemed to know her so well; not even he sensed she felt like an ugly duckling amongst the glamorous production assistants and floor managers and other media muppets that swanned around their world.

Rose knew Julian thought highly of her. Respected her talent, trusted her judgement. In fact she was certain most of the male professionals she interacted with on a regular basis were quietly impressed with her techie talk and media savviness, but beyond that saw nothing more than a plain-Jane struggling to stay in a size twelve.

‘I’m no glamorous Paris Hilton,’ she’d moaned once.

‘Sod that. You’re the most talented filmmaker I’ve ever worked with,’ Julian had replied sincerely.

Just what an ugly duckling needs to hear.

The waitress returned with their food and drinks, deftly dealing them out with a cheerless smile. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ she said in a flat tone, and was gone.

Rose speared a leaf of lettuce with her fork whilst looking at Julian’s plate. ‘God, I wish I could eat that sort of crap and stay whippet-thin like you.’

‘I’ve got a fast metabolism - nervous energy. Actually, I thought hitting my late thirties would slow me down a bit,’ he said and then swigged a mouthful of beer.

‘God. What were you like at my age?’

‘Twenty-five? Much the same, I suppose. Nature’s been kind so far. You wait till I hit my mid-forties, then I’ll age ten or fifteen years overnight.’ He picked up his Ranch Burger, which dripped melted cheese and bacon fat.

She shook her head and smiled wearily. ‘I guess I’ll stick to eating rabbit food, drinking decaf and drooling over my George Clooney screensaver.’ The only intimacy she shared these days was with things that came with an AC adaptor. Filming, editing, mixing. Filming, editing, mixing. And once in a blue moon she got lucky with a bloke wearing beer goggles. It always seemed to be a sound, lighting or camera guy, charmed more by her ability to talk kit than anything else.

They ate in silence for a while, both hungry after the afternoon’s hike out of the woods to the park’s camp site. Julian worked through his burger with his eyes on the TV over the bar, absent-mindedly regarding the suited, carefully groomed candidates slinging uninspired soundbites at each other.

‘So okay then, Rosie,’ said Julian, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘Down to business. We need to plan out what we’re going to do.’

‘You’re the boss,’ she said dryly.

He put down his burger, wiped his hands and frowned - deep in thought for a moment. ‘I think we could make something more out of this, much better than the usual docu-channel fodder. I think we could make a feature-length documentary, and we could try for something that’s good enough for a theatrical release. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t, frankly. What do you think?’

Her eyes widened as she chugged a mouthful of beer from her bottle.

‘There’s beautiful scenery up here,’ he continued. ‘It’s made for a larger screen. Those woods and peaks, swirling morning mist . . . the right background score?’

‘God, yes,’ she replied, grinning.

‘Something you and I could be proud of,’ he said, picking up his bottle and clinking it on hers. He finished it and wiped the suds from his lips. ‘Nice drop of lager, that.’

‘Jules, love. They call it beer here.’

He waved his hand. ‘Beer, shmeer. You want another?’

‘Go on then.’

He caught the waitress’s eye and ordered two more.

‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I need to head back to the UK. This was meant to be a quickie project, cheap and cheerful. Now it’s something altogether different, we’ll need a bigger budget and some investment partners. I want to pitch it to some more substantial players, not just the BBC.’

‘Oh, God. This could really make us!’

Julian felt a little light-headed. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline rush or the Budweiser.

‘What about me?’ asked Rose. ‘I need to get back to our studio to put everything we’ve got together.’

He looked at her. Her cheeks were pink with excitement.

‘Maybe you should stay here, Rose. I’ll be home for no more than a week, I guess, and then be right back to help. I just think someone needs to stick around and keep an eye on our turf, if you know what I mean.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’

‘What’s the broadband like at our motel? You tried it?’

‘I think it’s pretty good. Both our rooms have got a connection. ’

The waitress brought the beers over. ‘Get you guys anything else?’

Julian checked his watch. It was late and he knew he needed to be up early to make his way to Reno-Tahoe International airport to catch a flight to Denver and back to Heathrow. Once they had a few interested partners and some budget money to play around with, then he and Rose could celebrate properly.

‘Just the bill, please,’ he replied.

When the waitress had gone he turned back to Rose. ‘Whilst I’m in London, could you knock up a short, tasty showreel and send it over?’

‘Sure,’ she said, pushing her fringe back out of her face, ‘no problem.’

She realised he was looking at her for longer than was comfortable for either of them. Rose looked away awkwardly and started peeling the label off her beer bottle. Julian chugged another mouthful.

‘Reno’s about two or three hours’ drive. I’ll take our hire car there, if you can get another one arranged locally.’

She nodded as she finished the last of her beer, a careless trickle running down her chin as she set the bottle down on the table.

Julian leaned forward and wiped it away with his thumb. ‘Lush.’

Rose felt it. She wondered if Julian had.

A little frisson. A momentary fizz of excitement.

He looked awkward, slightly embarrassed and withdrew his hand.

‘We need to go to my room and check the bandwidth.’

Rose felt her cheeks colour. I can’t believe I just said that.

‘Sorry?’

‘Of the broadband connection?’ she quickly added.

The waitress came with the bill. He settled it and left a tip.

‘Maybe we should test it,’ said Rose quietly. ‘Before you go and it’s too late to know if it’s good enough to upload a showreel. ’

Julian smiled hesitantly and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He sensed something in the invitation, something that stepped outside of their tight professional partnership. They were both high on the excitement of the story, and several beers each was helping to leverage the mood . . . but he knew where this had the potential to go and that in the morning they’d both regret it.

‘Errr . . . I . . .’ he stammered.

Rose quickly looked down at her bottle and carried on peeling the label.

‘Or maybe not,’ she replied uncomfortably.

‘Maybe it’s just fine. Yeah, I’m sure it probably—’

‘Yeah, sure . . . it uhh . . . maybe . . . we should check it in the morning.’

‘Sure.’

They both smiled and fidgeted for a moment, before reaching for their coats.