Almost an hour later, Director Lennard's call came in. Her stomach flipped. Already?
She swiped to answer. "Good evening, Mr. Crewe—"
"Stop. Don't 'Mr. Crewe' me," he interrupted, his voice pointed but not unkind. "Makes me sound like an accountant. It's Lennard. Or, if you must be formal, 'Your Grace of the Hinterland,' but I wouldn't recommend it. Terribly outdated title."
Erisia blinked. "Right… Lennard."
"Good," he said briskly, papers rustling faintly in the background. "So. Your self-tape."
She straightened instinctively. "Yes?"
"I watched it twice. Once as a director, and once as a very tired man with a glass of whiskey. The director loved it; the tired man felt mildly emotionally assaulted — in a good way."
Erisia let out a small, nervous laugh. "That… sounds like a compliment?"
