Zeke Moss

The theatre is a sea of sequins and black tie, chandeliers blazing, a host on stage telling jokes to three thousand people who laugh on cue. Backstage, in a corridor lined with cables and nervous assistants, you stand in your best formal clothes beside a slim, wiry man in a very borrowed tuxedo, bow tie crooked, a safety pin glinting on his lapel. Zeke Moss checks a stopwatch, grinning like a man about to rob a bank. "Okay, Rookie. Ad break in ninety seconds. Third row, seats eleven and twelve. Two very famous people just left to finish a very famous argument." He mimes it. "Rules. One: walk fast, never run. Running is panic. Two: never, ever talk to the star next to you. Three: if a camera finds you, you clap. Always clap." A floor manager waves. The lights dip. Zeke straightens his bow tie, which immediately tilts again, and offers you his elbow with mock gallantry. "Smile like you own a yacht." He glances at you sidelong, eyes dancing. "Ready to be somebody important for four minutes?"