The young woman stood on the brow of the hill and viewed the scene set out before her. It was as if one of her dreams had come to life before her eyes; or she had managed to find that elusive time space continuum so favoured by the writers of science fiction and had actually managed to step back in time. Below her in the valley was ranged an entire Roman legion on the brink of committing to battle; a martial vision made flesh and blood.

Rank upon rank of legionary soldier banging on their shields to fire up courage, making a din that could shake the hillsides. Line upon line of Haemian archers, measuring their distance and discussing their trajectory; ballistae and onagers hauled into position and bolts and fiery missiles set in place; cavalry horses nervously pawing the ground in restless anticipation further back in the cover of the trees.

Across the valley milled the barbarian horde, howling and screeching their guttural war cry, a great amorphous mass ten times the size of the orderly Roman forces. From out of the mob came a horse and rider thundering towards the Roman lines. Its rider was headless. The message was clear: no surrender. All that the moment lacked was the command of the general to commit to battle- and it came:  ACTION!

Dr. Aisling Connor couldn't help but gasp as the first fire arrows were launched and the spectacle began. She might have been involved in this project for six months already, the veteran of countless planning meetings and technical discussions but nothing had quite prepared her for this.

When it had first been mooted that she should be seconded to the technical unit of a film crew for a year, she had been insulted. Her book "Ultimate Fighting Machine: The Roman legion." had been based on her PHD thesis and was a serious, well-received opus. It had secured her current position and a burgeoning reputation as an up and coming Classicist. It had been particularly difficult for her to break into the traditional male preserve of military history and she had been on a high to finally be part of the academic world that she craved. But universities have to make money for themselves these days and the lure of the enormous fee the film studios were prepared to pay to release her for a year had made it impossible for her to argue with the Prof. She was an expert in the field; the newest member of staff; young and would probably' fit in better with those types' as the old goat had said. Fit in? With brainless Hollywood actors pretending to be tough guys? Ash would love to see them going a few rounds with a real legionary. They wouldn't last five seconds.

So far her experiences had been far better than she had expected. She had worked largely with technical people- other historians, military personnel, craftsmen, artists, writers and the dozens of background technicians who make up the real talent on a film set. Any fool could put on the dress and say the few lines required in this sort of epic- and steal the show, no doubt. Ash had met the director, Mr. Scott, and had taken to him straight away- a quietly spoken, wryly intelligent man with vision- a real auteur- but unassuming and rooted to the ground. She didn't imagine that he would 'fit in' too well with Hollywood types, either, this Geordie lad made good.

Today was her first day on set. From now on she was there merely to aid the continuity team and look for any gaping howlers among the extras or jump on any anachronistic behaviour or responses that might not have been apparent in the storyboards or scripts. Not that there was much script in this section of the film- grunt and groan was the most taxing of lines. Wandering down the slope, she settled in by the main film unit and watched, catching the action on the close circuit monitors but preferring the overall majesty of the scene.

After an hour or so, the filming was interrupted for some adjustments and re-shoots of angles. This was merely a destruction day; the burning of the forest, courtesy of The National Trust. The thousands of extras, largely students, most from her own Uni (attendance at lectures would be rather thin on the ground this week, she reckoned) fell out and settled down to drink the cups of coffee and tea that were being passed around by the catering facility. It occurred to Ash that the logistics of a film set were probably pretty damn close to that of a real army on the move.

Nearby was a group of men not in costume but clearly involved in some way. There was an older white-haired man who looked vaguely familiar, a tall dark haired, brown eyed guy with a noticeable scar above his lip, a rangy thin-faced blond man with blue eyes and a stockier bloke with a beard. Mr. Scott was talking to them and pointing out various key elements. She wondered who they were.

Mike, an assistant on the technical team came over and gave her a cup of coffee.

"The big guns have arrived," he said, indicating the group of men.

"What do you mean?"

"The stars!" he emoted with a fake American accent.

"One of those is going to play Maximus?" Ash asked, the surprise in her voice evident. "Jesus- all this work and they can't even find anyone who looks like a hero? What happened to Mel Gibson?"

"Who do you reckon it is?"

"Out of that lot? The only one who looks like he could command respect is the old geezer but he's a bit passed wrestling with tigers, isn't he? The dark guy's pretty good looking but he looks a bit precious for a gladiator and the thin faced bloke- could he hold a film on his own? None of them really."

"What about the other guy? The one who's making them all laugh about something? Sounds like a filthy joke from here."

"Is he an actor? I thought he was the muscle- you know, don't they all have to have body guards so they don't get jostled by real people?"

"Oh, he's an actor alright. That's the star, love. Muscle - gladiator- get it?"

Ash stared at the man. He was wearing jeans and a baggy grey wool jumper; she noticed that the rib was fraying at the back and there was a hole in the elbow. He had a black woollen hat pulled down on his short hair. Honestly, he was the kind of bloke you'd pass on the street or might call out to do your plumbing. Where had they got him from?

As if Mr. Scott had heard her thinking, he turned and called over to her "Ash. Come here. Meet some of the cast. They have a lot of questions for you!"

Ash stood up and brushed the mud from her bottom. She had quite given up on trying to look presentable in this sea of mud. She was wearing dark green combat pants, a pair of oversized wellies, an enormous fur trimmed parka and a woolly hat with a scarf wrapped several times around her neck - but she was determined to keep warm and not catch pneumonia.  Strolling over, she joined the group.

"This is the real brains behind this sequence, guys. Dr. Aisling Connor. She knows more about the Roman army than General Maximus himself!" Mr. Scott introduced her with a flourish. "Richard Harris- needs no introduction from me, I'm sure. Tomas Arana, Joaquin Phoenix and..."

"Crowe, Russell Crowe- pleased to meet you, love." The unlikeliest actor in the world shook her hand and flashed her a smile. Suddenly Ash got it. You had to see him in action to realise. This guy had something about him- charisma? Cheek? But Ash felt an immediate reaction that she could not understand as he pumped her cold hand in his large warm one. "Fucking brass monkeys, out here. Freeze your tits off, love. Get some gloves!" He laughed at the touch of her icy fingers.

Ash blushed a little as if had read her thoughts. "Just call me Ash -pleased to meet you. Anything you want to know- just ask! That's what I'm here for."

"What's your phone number?" replied this Crowe fellow, an Aussie by the sound of it, not American, quick as a flash.

"Pardon?" Ash retorted.''

"Well, you said ask anything..." he added with a feigned innocence.

"I meant about the Romans," she added, a little tersely. Did he really think she was going to fall for that 'I'm a big star so do you want to fuck me' routine? Turning to the others she made a show of shaking hands and chatting politely, pointedly ignoring the Aussie who was watching her with a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips. It made her feel a little uncomfortable.

Well, that was how she met him. Talking to friends at the pub that night, she described the encounter. "What did you say his name was?"  Molly said.

"Crowe. Russell, I think. Seemed to think he was really funny. God, I hate some of those Aussie blokes- they think they've cornered the market in repartee. Worse than Scousers," she complained.

"Isn't he the bloke in LA Confidential? You know the tough LAPD cop with a heart. He's not an Aussie."

"Never seen it."

"You know, Kim Basinger was in it! She got an Oscar. I'm sure that's his name." Let's check Blockbusters and see if they've got a copy."

They drank up and made their way to the video store. Sure enough, the film was there and down in third or fourth billing was the name- Russell Crowe. On a whim Ash rented it. Two and a half hours later, she realised that this man was an actor; one of the best she'd ever seen. Wow. Bud White. What a creation. Is there a woman in the world who could have resisted him crying on the doorstep in the rain? But he didn't seem remotely like the man she had met this morning. 'That's acting, I suppose!' she thought to herself.

Several days later, she was on the set and overseeing one of the few dialogue scenes in the battle sequence. There seemed to be a little bit of tension between the director and Mr. Crowe, now rather resplendent in full battle dress and suitable caked in mud like the rest of them. Everyone was standing about, getting cold as time ticked by, and what had started out as a conversation seemed to be degenerating into a slanging match. Suddenly voices were raised "No fucking way, mate. He'd never come out with shite like that. What do you think this is? Lord's fucking cricket ground?"

Crowe stormed off a distance and thumped his hand against a tree. Wow- real tantrum, this one! Other cast members lowered their eyes and looked embarrassed; the main script writer raised his hands and seemed furious. Mr. Scott called Ash over.

"Got a problem. Russell feels that the script is a little flowery, shall we say? Can you give us a perspective? How they might have put it in Latin at this point in the proceedings?"

Ash read over the section of script and thought. She knew it well enough by now but she thought Crowe had a point. It had even occurred to her before that conversation would have been at a minimum on the verge of launching an assault - that was what their rigorous drill and training was for- they didn't discuss tactics during the battle. "OK. I'll give you my opinion but he's got to come back and listen and stop acting like a big baby. I'm not prepared to get into trading insults with him."

Ridley went over and had a word; Crowe had been leaning back on the tree surveying their discussion, a pensive look on his face. He listened and then nodded, walking over to join them.

"I'm the expert- OK?" She looked at Crowe and he shrugged. "The way I read it is this. A Roman legion worked at battle 365 days a year- maybe only actually fighting on half a dozen occasions. Everything they would do was worked out before- they were not in the business of spontaneous response or thinking on their feet. Most of their battles were fought out of text books- the barbarians fortunately couldn't read. Of course, you get a general occasionally with exceptional flair but he is still working within a set form and he wouldn't be thinking it out on the battlefield."  Crowe was listening quietly, an intense concentration evident. It wasn't what she had expected, imagining that he would be petulant at her intervention. Encouraged, Ash went on.

"Latin is a very concise language- a military language in its origin; that's why we use it on mottoes. A word or two can say a lot- and that's the way they liked it. It was the complete opposite of verbose Greek- although most people don't realise that and think they are essentially the same. So - I'm with Mr. Crowe on this one. He wouldn't be discussing what he was going to do with Quintus at this juncture; he would simply give a terse command and they would know what he meant.  BUT- and this is an important but... The Romans were surprisingly sentimental and superstitious. He would most definitely come out with  a phrase like"Strength and Honour". Maximus wouldn't regard that as 'shite' - I think that was how you put it?"

The group surrounding them waited for a reaction from Crowe but got none. He merely said "OK, cut the strategy bit and I'll give them Strength and Honour. Actually that was the bit I added..." He smiled smugly. "Let's see how that plays. Thanks for the advice, Doctor Connor."  A slight bow, with an edge of mockery, and he returned to the scene. It worked perfectly and as they wrapped, he caught her eye and grinned, holding his thumb and forefinger in a circle to show he thought it had worked well. The grin was dynamite but Ash gave herself one of those 'light the touch paper and retire' kind of warnings that you get on fireworks. Don't get too near that grin or he might just start working his curious charm on you. Now that would be the mistake of all time.

A few days later Aisling was in the Portacabin that served as her office, reading through some enquiries made by the script department and jotting some notes down. There was a knock on the door. She glanced up and almost dropped the cup of coffee she was drinking to see Maximus himself standing on the step.

"Can I come in or do you want to talk in the fucking rain?" It was pouring - shooting had had to stop until it eased off a little bit.

"You better come here before you rust up. Surely you don't wear that armour all day?"

"I've just come off. On my way to the tent to strip off- thought you might make me a cuppa."

"Only got coffee- but it's hot and wet."

Crowe waggled his eyebrows suggestively; "That's how I like it, love - hot and wet."

Ash fixed him with a stare. "Grow up. Do you want a cup?" He nodded. She poured one out. "Milk and sugar?"

"Please, love."  She handed him the cup.

"How's it going?" Ash asked.

"Hard labour. I haven't got a muscle that isn't aching. For once, I'm glad it's fucking raining."

"Can you complete a sentence without swearing?"

"No fucking way, mate!" he replied with a grin. "Actually I didn't just come in here for coffee or to swear at you. There are a couple of questions I'd like to discuss with you. I've been reading this book..."

Ash pretended surprise. "You've read a book? Amazing! Was it the Ladybird Book of the Roman Army?"

Russell gave her a cheesy grin. "Bit of a comedian, are we, love? No, it's called The Ultimate Fighting Machine or some such crap. Thought it was about Mike Tyson."

"My book? You are reading my book? Why?"

He gave her a serious stare and she could see he was not so happy about her ramming home that she thought him an intellectual lightweight. "Seemed the obvious place to start, since you are the fucking expert, lady.  A couple of things didn't make much sense."

"Must be my poor grasp of English, Mr. Crowe," Ash bit back and wondered why she was being so unnecessarily hostile. It was, after all, part of her function here to answer the actors' queries.

"I didn't mean that. I meant I needed more background because I'm a pig-ignorant Aussie bastard trying to get to grips with this Roman era."

This time he dared her to throw an insult back. She thought better of it, somehow recognising that he was gearing up here for a major character assassination if she didn't simply do her job.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to be so flippant. You just make me feel you're about to take me for a ride. Ask away, Mr Crowe."

He rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his beard. "I haven't got time now. I want to get out of this wet stuff and have a long soak and then a kip. How about something to eat later? Pick you up at eight?"

"Are you asking me out?" Ash gasped.

Crowe gave her a supercilious look. "No. I'm asking you to eat with me while we discuss the film. I thought you were one of the advisors?"

Ash felt about six inches tall. "Oh, um, right. If you like, I suppose I could meet you somewhere..."

"...I'll pick you up," he broke in impatiently.

"You don't know where I live."

"Then tell me." He answered tartly.

"I'll meet you at the restaurant. Where do you have in mind?"

That was that. She found herself at six-thirty in her bedroom with every item of clothing she possessed on the bed and her flatmate Molly emptying her own wardrobe too. Ash just couldn't decide what to wear: suit- too formal; dress- too sexy; jeans- too casual; trousers- too drab; skirt and blouse? OK- skirt and blouse. Shoes? Those were too high- couldn't wear 'fuck me' shoes tonight; the black ones were too flat- made her look like a teacher (which she was, of course).Finally she was ready and she surveyed herself in the mirror.

Crisp mauve shirt with a few buttons undone- but not too many; black knee length pencil skirt and a pair of reasonable heels with pointed toes which said 'stylish but not easy'. Ash had decided to put her hair up; it looked more professional and she made up lightly but without too much obvious paint. Minimal jewellery. Nails French polished. The overall impression was business and not pleasure. Good.

Shrugging on a suede knee-length coat, she drove to the restaurant in her little KA. It had stopped raining at last but the roads were wet and she took her time, preferring to be late rather than early. Somehow she didn't want to appear too eager to be entertained by the star himself. Reaching the rather exclusive bistro by the river, she parked and made her way in. Mr. Crowe was already at the bar, chatting up a young blonde who appeared to be eating out of his hand. He was drinking from a bottle of beer and smoking. Ash noticed that he looked much younger than he did in costume- how did he do that? Same hair and unkempt beard, dressed casually in black jeans, suede boots, white shirt and a leather jacket- but something about his face seemed more relaxed and less intense than on the set.

Ash walked up and announced herself. "Good evening Mr. Crowe. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

He spun round and whistled. "Who are you? Not the little Prof surely? Didn't realise there was a woman in those wellies! By the way- can you drop the Mr? Name's Russell or Russ or Rusty or fucking Knobhead if you prefer - but not Mr. OK?"

"Crowe. That'll do me." He laughed.

"Should I call you Doc? Connor? Aisling. What kind of fucking name is that anyway?"

"A proper one- whereas Russell is a surname. My name is Gaelic- and you spell it A-I-S-L-I-N-G."

"Mental. Sounds like someone with a lisp saying Ice Rink."

"Friends call me Ash."

"That counts me out then, hey?" She finally smiled at that. "Drink?"

"Mineral water. I'm driving." He pulled a face. "What's wrong?"

"Don't trust someone who doesn't drink."

"I didn't say I didn't drink. I said that I was driving. I'm of Irish descent. I could have you under the table if I so wished," she responded with a toss of her head.

Russell was onto that straight away. "Don't say that kind of thing, love. You know I've got a dirty mind." It was impossible not to find him funny eventually. He was so relentlessly crude that it wore you down. Somehow Ash began to realise that he was only joking and not coming on- it was simply his overwhelming physical presence that was confusing the issue. 'This man isn't even remotely interested in me. If he leaves with anyone tonight it will be the barmaid,' she thought to herself.

Seated at a table ordering their food, she asked him outright what he would like to know about her book. Crowe replied with a rather perceptive question that surprised her. He had read the book- right through by the sound of it- and wanted to know what evidence there was for one of her statements that the Roman command, despite its relentless discipline and authority, had great respect for the opinions of the common soldier and that a general had to win a type of popularity contest to gain the trust of his men; there were many example of generals being replaced when the men lost confidence in them. He found that an unusual aspect, almost a democratic process in play, and he wasn't sure it was particularly beneficial to a military machine.

"Not quite democracy but it shows the importance of the concept of citizenship and being free men who gave their services willingly to the state as did the general himself..." Ash unconsciously launched into a lecture on the theme. After a while she noticed that Crowe, whose attention had been closely fixed on her words until then, suddenly dropped his eyes and appeared to be looking at her breasts. In her enthusiasm, Ash had bent forward, leaning her hands on the table and another button of her blouse had popped open; she was revealing more of her cleavage than she had intended.

"Are you listening? Perhaps I do tend to go on a bit," Ash blushed.  He caught her expression and quickly looked back at her face.

"No, I was listening. Really- I'm interested. It's important I get into his head."

Ash laughed breezily. "You're only making an action film. As long as Maximus looks like a hero and breaks a few heads, none of the great unwashed who go and watch the film will give a damn about what the Romans really thought," she added cynically.

This time his answer was fired back with a passion and articulate power that surprised her. "That's a load of crap- and an insult to my profession. Would you like me to belittle what you do as if it had no real purpose? I wouldn't do that. I respect a person's chosen path. Maximus will not be some Roman Rocky. He is a finer creation than that- or he will be when I've finished with him. He is a man of honour and integrity; that must shine out of every scene, even when he is killing like a wild animal. And he is a gentle soul at heart, easily wounded. Only then will the story make sense. People will see the difference!"

Ash was stunned by his eloquent outburst. There was obsession, fire and emotion in it and all without a single profanity. Ash realised that she had just seen through the mask; the real Russell Crowe was someone quite different from the cocky public face.

"I'm sorry. I was trivialising it. You are right to defend your work and I'm impressed at your dedication. But the story as it stands is... frankly, I don't think a Roman would have got it. All this freaking out over his lost family then he jumps into the sack with the princess and goes on some crusade to save Rome from a tyrant- seems like there are several different scripts at war with each other."

"My point exactly. That's why I will fight tooth and nail to get it my way. In the end they will see I am right. I always am," he stated bluntly.

Ash raised her eyebrows at that. "Don't you think some people might say you are a tad arrogant to think you know better than the writer, director etc..."

Crowe shrugged as if unconcerned. "When I'm right, I'm right. This film is about understanding the emotional heart of a man. Most people don't bother to look."

"Most men don't have an emotional heart," Ash replied caustically.

"Maximus does."  His answer was enunciated softly as if he had a real admiration for this character he was playing.

It made Ash think. "You seem to specialise in tough guys who bleed. I watched LA Confidential the other night."

He laughed. "Yeah, that's me. Mr. Misunderstood. Who broke your heart, love?" His question was like a rapier thrust and shifted the emphasis from himself to her in an instant.

"Me...? What's my heart got to do with this?" Ash stuttered out wondering quite how she had found herself the subject being interviewed.

"You said most men don't have an emotional heart. That means you've met some bastards," he responded, looking at her through narrowed eyes but his concentration as intense as ever.

"Are there any other kind?" Ash cut back defensively.

"I'd like to think there were," he answered quietly.

The food arrived and gave them a welcome break; the conversation was veering into uncharted territory that was making Ash feel very uncomfortable. After a while, Russell asked her another historical question and she happily picked up the change of subject, aware again that although he was listening to her, his eyes seemed to be regarding her rather than her words. Ash did not like his scrutiny. She felt he could see right through her into what she was thinking; it was an odd sensation.

Suddenly he put down his fork and covered her hand with his.

"What are you doing?" Ash pulled her hand away. He appeared embarrassed as if he had done it without thinking, idly without realising- but Ash wasn't buying that. Nothing that this man did was without calculation. "Are you sure that you asked me here tonight to find out more about the Roman army? Or have you something else in mind?" she snapped.

Russell sat back and laughed at her outburst. "I didn't come here to hit on you if that's what you think. But- yeah, I did want to ask you out for dinner. I also wanted to ask those questions. Straight up. Fair dinkum." He held up his hands I surrender, the mocking smile still playing on his lips.

"Don't try and play the jolly Aussie with me. I'm not one of your camp followers," she retorted, still stinging from the feeling that she had just made a complete fool of herself.

He flinched. "What's that supposed to mean?"

It was Ash's turn to laugh. "You're the talk of the ladies' loos, Mr. Crowe. It appears you've been through the make-up girls, the wardrobe department, almost every female on the set below the age of forty and it seems now you are even making a play for me. Pity it's an almost exclusively male cast so far, isn't it? I'm sure you're fed up with slumming it with the likes of us. After all, you're used to goddesses like Kim Basinger and Sharon Stone, so I've heard. It's no wonder you're aching all over. It's a wonder you can walk straight at all...."

Crowe lit up a cigarette aggressively and rubbed his hand through his hair, chewing on his lip. "The usual shit. It's mostly crap. I'm working hard. Occasionally I play hard. But mostly I'm tucked up in bed by 10 with a cup of tea and a book- on my own. How the fuck do you think I work at this relentless place if I'm shagging someone senseless every night?" She had hit a nerve and he was angry now.

"Well, there are a lot of girls telling a different story than that," Ash insisted, refusing to back down to his fit of pique. He wasn't the only one who could be blunt.

"And, of course, you'll believe them. Ash, I'm a flirt. And I'll admit I get my fair share of sex. But I never take advantage of anyone. Cards on the table with me. If I wanted a fuck, you'd know about that already, lady."

"Then what else does making a pass at me say?"

He snorted. "Pass? I touched your hand, love. Hardly merits pressing charges for sexual harassment. Sure you aren't confusing your wet dreams with mine?" His retort was snapped at her, a sneer on his face.

Ash blew. She sprang to her feet and shouted at him, "You arrogant shit! What makes you think every woman wants to get in your pants? You are the most despicable, foulmouthed, ignorant bastard I've ever met!" And she ran out, hoping he hadn't heard the catch in her voice as she had spoken. Fumbling with her car keys, she started the engine and screeched out of the car park but she needn't have bothered. He wasn't following her.

Inside the restaurant, diners stared at him in amazement. He leant one elbow on the table and ran his hand down his face. Throwing some money on the table, he lurched out of his seat. At least no one here had a clue who he was. He could imagine how the press in Sydney would have jumped on that one. However, he did have an audience. Typically he responded, playing to the gallery; calling to mind a line from the film that he had been reading earlier.

" Are you not entertained?" he shouted with a sarcastic flourish and turned towards the exit, raising the middle finger of his right hand as he pushed open the door with his left and hit the cold air. 'Well, the line worked, even if nothing else fucking well did,' he thought as he slumped into the driving seat of his car. In temper, he thumped the steering wheel "FUCK!" he shouted in the soundproofed leather interior. "Why can't I just make a connection with a decent woman? What makes them think I only want to fuck them?"

Ash did not sleep well. Lying awake, she thought about the evening and realised that she wildly overreacted. He must have been offended by her. Russell Crowe had been genuinely interested in her book; he had proved to be a good conversationalist; funny and intense at times but intelligent and intuitive. She had simply baited him all through the evening. So he had touched her hand - so what? Most guys in a pub would do worse just standing at a bar and rubbing up against her. No wonder he had hit back at her presumption.

Something else was bothering Ash, too. She had experienced that feeling all through the dinner that he had been reading what she was really saying behind her words. And he had been uncannily accurate. All the evening his physicality had been unnerving her although, to be fair, he had behaved like a gentleman. It was her problem not his. To be truthful, part of her had wanted to rip his clothes off and fuck him where he was sitting but she had been struggling to push the erotic images away all evening. Why did he make her feel like that? He had checked out her tits- well, he was a guy- of course he would! Her eyes had also wandered to the bulge in his jeans when he had been perched on a high stool at the bar. It had been difficult not to notice really. It was an impressive package. Ash knew that he was right. The problem was hers not his; she had wanted him to make a pass and had felt partly rejected and partly disgusted with herself for her own lust.

About three o' clock in the morning, Ash made up her mind. Tomorrow she would apologise and then she would ignore him unless it was about work. She would call up Geoffrey and see if they could get away for the weekend and lose herself in him for a while. The sex would be good; Ash knew who she would really be in bed with in her mind.

It was afternoon the next day before an opportunity presented itself. The last few days had been relentless battle scenes and she had really needed to do little other than grab an occasional extra wearing a watch- or in one case a pair of jeans under his uniform - and Crowe was in the thick of it, literally. She watched him at work; the guy was really fighting. It wasn't the sort of playacting that she had imagined with noises added in after for effect. Russell Crowe was hacking and slashing in a frenzy of physical energy which must have been an exhausting drain on him, especially with the constant stopping and starting. Yet he seemed to immediately crank himself up at will to the level of intensity.

At one point there was a stop to attend to a cut on his nose and they all decided to break for a cuppa. Ash decided to take the opportunity to slip up at that moment and see if she could have a private word with him.

As she approached, Russell glanced up and his face set in a suspicious grimace. Turning to an actor standing next to him as a nurse applied some ointment to his face, he said in a stage whisper: "Jesus- what's the fucking history dyke want now?"

Ash had steeled herself to make this apology and his cruel comment turned her embarrassment to anger. "WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?" she bellowed.

He turned back and feigned surprise. "Wasn't talking to you. Just about you." 

Ash bridled at his dismissive cruelty. "Look, I've had enough of you. And so have a lot of other people. I'm just doing my job like you are. Except you are overpaid and I am underpaid. Why do you get off on humiliating people? Either speak to me in a civil tongue or don't speak to me at all. And I'm not a dyke, if it's any of your business. I just don't fancy ignorant steroid-laden fuck wits, like you.  Find that hard to fathom?"

He grinned but it wasn't one of his charming ones. This time his eyes stayed cold and his chin jutted forward.

"Calm down, love. That time of the month or not getting enough?"

Ash responded instinctively; later she was sure that her brain had played no part in her action. Never in her life had she ever been inclined to violence and so her next move surprised her almost as much as it did him. She punched him full on the jaw so fast that the shock knocked him back a step. Behind him was a canvas chair and he tripped over it, falling down. A roar of laughter sounded from all the witnesses who saw it. General Maximus floored by a killer blow from the slender historical advisor.

Of course, Ash missed all that. She had turned on her heel and run as soon as her fist had made contact, absolutely mortified by what she had done. She presumed the roar of laughter was directed at her. Had she hung about she would have seen Crowe sitting in the mud, helpless with laughter, rubbing his jaw, which was already bruising. Someone pulled him to his feet and he stood, hands on hip, watching her cross the set. "What a woman!" he said to the assembled crowd and made a rather suggestive gesture with his hips. But that wasn't what he was thinking. His eyes were showing quite a different emotion and his mind was saying, 'Why won't give me a chance?'

After an interview with the technical director who was understanding (he said he could name a number of people who had been fighting the urge to blob Crowe one) but he warned her that Russell could insist she be removed from the set permanently and there was always the chance the press might pick up the story. Ash was told to go home and cool down. It was Friday and she would not be required again until Monday, so that would give them some breathing space.

Geoffrey was not available- his wife had a dinner party that night. His answer angered her. Perhaps he could slip round tomorrow afternoon for a quick one? Ash invented a lunch appointment to hide her annoyance with him- what did he think she was, a hooker who didn't charge? Molly was out with her boyfriend too just when she needed some company. Her friend was almost permanently at the house the couple had bought which needed major renovation. So alone on a Friday night, Ash took a long bath and curled up with a book and a warm drink.

About eight thirty, the doorbell rang. Ash went to answer it, presuming it was one of her friends popping over for a chat. To her shock Russell Crowe was standing outside the door, with his back to her as she opened it, looking up and down the street of terraced houses. He spun round and she noticed the bunch of roses in his hand. He proffered them to her.

"Peace?" he questioned, sheepishly. He was standing on the step but she was higher up than he was and found herself looking down at him, noticing how long his eyelashes were for a man. Then she took a glance at her clothes- a pair of old pyjama bottoms and a worn singlet. The cold night air was also working on her nipples.

"Can I come in or are your hard little titties going to tantalise me all night?" he said as she glanced down at herself. Why did he always manage to say the very thing that was on her mind? Ash stood back in confusion and let him enter, showing him into the lounge and then excusing herself to throw a large jumper over her skimpy clothes. When she returned, she found him standing in the middle of the room, looking at her wall of photographs.

"Cute kid," he indicated one of her from school when she had been on the netball team.

"Jail bait. I was fourteen, you pervert." He smiled.

"Seriously, Ash. I came to apologise. I was a fucking knob today. In fact you were easy on me. My balls are softer than my jaw. My advice is knee me in the groin next time, it will hurt you less and me more!" He handed her the flowers and she took them from him.

"God, you can really push my buttons, Crowe. I've never hit anyone in my life before. How do you do that?"

He assumed a cocky expression and grinned. "Just one of my many talents, love. I did it on purpose to wind you up. I wanted you to react because... it doesn't matter. Just call me a crazy bastard with a peculiar sense of humour. But I am sorry I said that in public."

"You mean in future you will only call me a dyke in private?" Ash grinned. "When I came over I was on my way to apologise to you. Last night I was seriously out of line and you didn't deserve what I implied. You had given me no reason to accuse you of hitting on me. So we're even. Let's call a truce, shall we?"

Russell scoffed. "Even? I haven't fucking slugged you, mate."

"No, but my knuckles are bruised. Your jaw made of concrete or something?" Ash extended her knuckles so that he could see the red marks.

"OK. I won't slap you this time. Put those flowers in water- they cost a fucking bomb- and then get changed.  It's Friday night. Let's go and get pissed."

Ash went into the kitchen and attended to the flowers. It gave her some thinking time. She decided to say no, thank you, but no. Returning to the lounge, Crowe was sitting on her sofa, and leafing through a magazine. His face was relaxed and he was reading something. Ash noticed those eyelashes again and his lips, pursed slightly in concentration. Then she saw his large hands holding the glossy mag and a sudden thrill at his size and strength shot through her. At that moment he looked up and fixed those greenish eyes on her, a spark making them dance. "Come on, love, hurry up, I'm as dry as my granny's cunt."

"That is disgusting!" she laughed.

He giggled. "Not true anyway. She's a right goer- runs in the family. Are you going out with me tonight or not?"

"Give me a minute to make myself decent. If you need lubricating there's something in the fridge..."As soon as she said it she knew it was a mistake.

"Now who's being disgusting? I prefer my lubrication hot anyway. And take your time, love. You'll never manage it in a minute- not the state you're in."

Ash threw a cushion at him. "Well, at least I can do something about it. Whereas you were just born to be ugly, weren't you?" He winked at her answer as if to say he knew she didn't mean it. She didn't. He suddenly appeared to her as the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on.

As she dressed to go out and applied some makeup she remembered that she was supposed to be refusing his invitation. Exactly when had she changed her mind