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Hornblower Productions is small. Unassuming. Tucked away in the suburbs. A flat, two-story brick building with a bunch of different production offices all lined up in a row.
We're not in tinseltown anymore. More like tinfoil town, Bentleys replaced by second-hand Beamers in the car park out front. I press the buzzer and wait. No one answers the voice box, but the door buzzes back at me and clicks open. I push on through and find an entrance hall with a bank of beaten-up metal mailboxes. There's an arrow on the wall pointing up a staircase to Hornblower. The dark-red paint on the stairs is chipped and the black bannister wobbles when I use it for leverage. I stride up the stairs and find myself in a reception area with a smoky-pink carpet. There's a small desk without a receptionist.
