It's very late at night. He knows this is wrong that he shouldn't be here. It's not his place to be here. She walks up the garden path. The grass is neatly manicured around the concrete slabs that her high heels walk on. She invites him in for a drink and hesitation turns into resignation as he slowly follows her. By the time he reaches the front door, she has already disappeared inside, the large white front door ajar in the still night. When he enters he hears music and he finds in front of him a house only worthy of the Hollywood hills. Brushed in tones of cream, a white leather sofa is flanked by two sharp green palms in white pots. A glass coffee table and white phone are the only other distinguishing features in the room. The music draws his attention to the right and a lone record player on a Danish sideboard turns a record around and around. In the distance beyond the large glass windows lay the lights of Hollywood, sparkling like stars.