The script was flawless. It was a script that director TG had been waiting for. A magical blend of humor, tragedy and love, and the dialogue literally sang on the page. Three romances, during a summer in Italy. It was a big picture with even bigger expectations from the studio and the public.

      The Italian Dream was the film the studio needed to take in huge box office earnings and they had put everything into ensuring its success. This started with hiring the best director for the job. They needed a passionate, workaholic who understood women.

      ‘TG’, as everyone in the industry called him, was Tim Galvin. The hottest, young gun director in Hollywood. An NYC film graduate, he made his mark directing videos for some of the LA garage band scene. He liked to shoot quickly, he liked quick edits and he loved to have fun on set. He could be crass and immature, but he did this to stay in with his crew who he needed to be on his side. They trusted him and respected him. When decisions needed to be made, he made them and his affable demeanor complemented his exceptional work ethic and relentless pursuit of getting the right shot.

      When the studio presented the script to TG’s agent, he baulked at it. TG did action – not drama and romance. He was known for his movies having loud soundtracks, sexy actors and huge budget-breaking action scenes. The agent thought TG would pass. Surprisingly, TG was ready for a change. He was sick of car chases and martial arts and he was tired of LA, where his latest starlet girlfriend had dumped him for her new leading man.

      Eight weeks in Italy will do it, he thought. Then he would disappear for a while, sailing the Sardinian coast till he had to start post-production.

      The script was truly lovely. In fact, the cynic in TG was almost quashed, till he remembered his ex-girlfriend telling him she loved him but she had to move up in her relationships to move ahead in her career.

      TG had imagined her in the role when he had first read the script, she would have been perfect. He had offered it to her on one of their last nights together, she had seemed non-committal about it. Three days later when he found the letter taped to the Michelin Tyre mirror in the lounge he understood it was not just the role she wasn’t committed to.

      Casting the film was never going to be easy. Once the high-powered agents and stars of Hollywood found out there were three plum roles for women in a film about love, shot in Italy, the hype was insane. Stars started to lobby themselves when their agent had no luck. The studio brought in their own ideas and their own level of pressure but TG was adamant. If they wanted him, then he got to cast it.

      He couldn’t even go out to eat in LA as so many stars and wannabes threw themselves at him. TG had been offered more sex in the last few weeks than Hugh Hefner, and several times it took all his effort to turn down a few of the more fascinating and beautiful women.

      TG wanted actors for this one, real actors, who brought with them their own individual fan base. He needed a young woman who was appealing and had not yet had her face on the front of the National Enquirer with a police board of numbers underneath and a stoned expression. A thirty-something who could hold her own against a big star. And finally, he needed an actress who could play forty for real. Not an easy feat in Hollywood. The women were tending to become ageless, in an odd and creepy way. The more chemicals that they stuck into themselves, the more they lost their features and the wisdom etched on their faces.

      He was reading the script at his small bungalow on the studio lot. Surrounded by toys and film posters, some his own productions and other movie classics, his office space looked like a teenager’s room.

      Pinball machines, basketball hoops, foosball tables and plastic collectable toys covered the shelves. TG’s MTV Movie awards and Golden Globes sat on the top shelf, gathering dust.

      Sitting in his Eames chair TG chewed on his pen. He was surrounded by headshots and tapes of actresses with unsolicited auditions. Casting was so important. The women in this film had to hold their own story lines as well as interact, portraying genuine female friendship.

      “TG, you have final auditions in fifteen minutes,” his assistant called from the other room.

      “Fuck,” said TG and he grabbed his phone and then sped off in his silver 1954 Porsche 356 Speedster. With the stereo blasting out Frank Sinatra’s Live at the Sands, TG was oblivious to the stares that were directed at him. With his blond curls glinting in the sun and his Persols sitting on his tanned face, he was often mistaken as an actor.

      The car skidded into the parking lot of the unassuming office block and TG sauntered into the office and greeted the casting assistant waiting for him.

      “How we going?” he asked as he walked into the large room, set with a video camera and a few chairs decorating the sparse room.

      “Good, we are down to the final three for each role, I sent the tapes over on Tuesday,” said the assistant leafing through her notes. “Diana is on the phone, she’ll be with us in a moment.”

      Diana, the casting director walked into