Shadow Play
Sally Wentworth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘BUT that isn’t fair!’ Nell protested. ‘After all, it was my idea to adapt the book.’

‘And it was a good idea which deserves to succeed,’ the producer said smoothly. ‘You do want it to succeed, don’t you?’

‘Meaning?’ Nell’s face hardened even as she asked the question because she already knew his answer.

‘Meaning that it will have a much better chance with someone who’s experienced in writing for television to adapt it.’

‘I’ve adapted several books for radio,’ she pointed out.

‘But television is an entirely different medium.’

‘I know I can do it,’ she said doggedly, trying to keep the anger out of her voice, knowing it was useless, that he’d already made up his mind.

Max Elliott shook his head. ‘Sorry, Nell, I can’t afford to take the chance. But what I will do is to have you collaborate on the adaptation; that way you’ll get some good experience so that maybe next time you’ll be able to do the job yourself. How does that sound?’ He grinned at her, expecting her to be grateful.

Stifling her disappointment with great difficulty, knowing that she had to keep him sweet, Nell managed a small smile and said tightly, ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

Max laughed, pleased that he’d managed things so diplomatically. Reaching across the desk, he patted her hand. ‘Don’t look so unhappy; your name will be on the credits and everyone will know it was your idea.’

Nell dropped her pen on the floor and took her hand from under his to pick it up. It looked perfectly natural but wasn’t. Afterwards she folded her hands in her lap, out of his reach. ‘Who were you thinking of to do the adaptation, then?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure yet. I have to find out who’s available. But I do have someone in mind, and if we can get him...’ He made an expansive gesture, but then tapped his finger against the side of his rather long nose. ‘But I mustn’t speculate. I have to make sure first.’

‘It’s got to be someone good,’ Nell insisted.

‘Don’t worry, it will be. I want this project to be a success for all our sakes,’ Max assured her.

She leaned towards him, her chin thrust forward determinedly. ‘And there’s something else I want made clear.’

‘And what’s that?’ he asked indulgently, willing to accede a point now that he hadn’t been forced to fight and come the heavy to make her accept someone else to do the job. She’d taken defeat gracefully enough, and for that he was grateful.

‘I want whoever does it to be quite sure that this is a collaboration, an equal collaboration,’ she stressed. ‘I’m not going to be there as some glorified secretary, at some man’s beck and call. The person you’re going to get may have the technical know-how for television, but I know how I want the book to be adapted. You know that from the comprehensive synopsis I gave you.’

‘And it was the synopsis that sold the idea to me, and that’s the way I want it to be adapted, too. So you’ve got no worries on that score.’

‘But I might have on the other,’ she guessed shrewdly.

Max shrugged. ‘It’s up to you to work out a working relationship with the adaptor. It wouldn’t be professional of me to tell him how to behave towards you.’

He’d said ‘him’ again, Nell noticed, and was sure now that the person he had in mind was definitely a man. It was bound to be, she supposed wryly. ‘But you will make it clear to him that this is to be an equal collaboration?’ she repeated.

Max looked at her, wondering how a girl who had such striking looks could also be so intelligent. For a moment he was tempted to tell her to sort it out herself, but the book would make great television and he wanted her to come to him if she had any more bright ideas, so he said, ‘It will be written into the contract.’

She nodded, satisfied, and got down to practicalities. ‘How soon do you think we would be able to start?’

‘All depends if I can get the person I want.’

‘Haven’t you asked him yet?’

‘I’ve put out feelers to his agent,’ he admitted cautiously. ‘I gather there are one or two problems, but I should know definitely within a couple of weeks. I expect there’s some work he’s got to finish or something,’ he guessed.

‘Where will we work?’

‘How about your place?’

Nell shook her head decisively. ‘Too small and too noisy.’

‘Well, if the writer doesn’t have an office you can always use a spare one in this building. That OK?’

‘Fine.’ Her brown eyes filled with eagerness. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

Max smiled, but said rather drily, ‘Well, don’t make a start by yourself; don’t forget this is supposed to be an equal collaboration, and equal works both ways.’

She gave a genuine smile of appreciation at that, warming and lighting a face that, although attractive, could be withdrawn in repose. ‘I won’t.’ She stood up. ‘You’ll let me know as soon as you know who the writer will be for sure?’

‘Of course.’

Nell left then, and took the Tube to Broadcasting House where a children’s serial she had adapted was due for rehearsal. There were a couple of hours to kill first, so she walked up the stairs to the first floor and took the lift up to the canteen on the eighth. Here she bought a coffee and sandwich, and took a seat at a table against the window where she had a fantastic view across the roofs of London, a view that never ceased to fascinate her, especially when the sun was shining brightly as it was today. But not all her attention was given to the view; she’d taken a seat facing the entrance so that she could see everyone queuing up for their food, and could wave to anyone she knew. When you were starting out on a rather precarious writing career, it was a good idea to see and be seen, to make and keep as many contacts as possible.

There was a book in her briefcase and she would rather have taken it out to read, to have sat with her back to the room and ignored everyone in it, but it was necessary to be friendly and outgoing. The canteen—it was now more grandly called a restaurant but the old name seemed to stick—wasn’t very busy at first, but after half an hour a young actress who was in the serial came in with a friend. Nell waved to her, the girls came over and soon they were joined by two other actresses they knew. That was good; you learned things, not only about the serial she’d written from the cast’s point of view, but about other productions the actors were in, and projects they’d heard rumours about where there might possibly be an opening.

Nell enjoyed chatting with the girls, especially when they talked shop, but got bored when they started talking boyfriends and pulling men to pieces.

‘How about you, Nell?’ one of the girls asked her. ‘Who’s your latest?’

‘Oh, I don’t have even an earliest, let alone a latest,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m far too busy working on my career and trying to earn a living.’

‘And me,’ said another girl feelingly. ‘This is the first part I’ve had in three months.’

So they were safely back discussing show business again.

When it was time to go to the rehearsal studio, Nell followed them out. Anyone watching them might well have taken it that they were all actresses; Nell, at twenty-five, was older than the other girls, and although she was quite short she had a good, slim figure, and a bell of thick dark hair that curled gently at the neck. But it was her face that caught and held the attention; her eyes, large and long-lashed, were set wide beneath level brows and a high forehead, and she had high cheekbones that thinned her face and gave it elegance. They also, though, helped to add to the look of cool withdrawal that came naturally to her and which she often had to fight against. But here she was aided by her mouth, which had a full, soft underlip that gave an impression of unawakened sexuality and was an attraction in itself.

Sometimes, such as when she was trying to persuade someone to give her an interview, her looks were an advantage, at others, as today when she’d been trying to make Max believe that she could do the job alone, they’d been a disadvantage. Nell was sure that her looks were one of the reasons why he hadn’t taken her seriously, and also that if she’d been a man he would have at least let her try to do the adaptation alone. Women might be gaining great grounds careerwise, but they still had to fight men’s basic instinct that a woman, especially a good-looking one, wasn’t to be accepted on equal terms.

The rehearsal went well; she only had to make one or two minor changes, and the parts had been well cast, the voices sounding right for the roles. Afterwards, she stopped to chat with everyone for a while, but then took the Tube back to her flat. She had lied about the flat to Max Elliott. It wasn’t that small, and not at all noisy, but there was no way she was going to throw it open to be used as an office by some man she was against having to collaborate with in the first place. No, a neutral office in the television company’s headquarters would be much better.

Taking a bottle of white wine from the fridge, Nell kicked off her shoes and sat down on the settee to drink a glass. Although disappointed that she hadn’t been allowed to adapt the book by herself, it was still great that her idea had been accepted at all. It meant a couple of months of creative work, money coming in to pay the rent, and another credit to add to the growing list of programmes with which she’d been associated. All of which were on the plus side. And maybe Max was right after all, she thought generously. Maybe she would be able to learn a lot about the technical side of television from the man he chose. If she was lucky. If he allowed her to learn from him and didn’t zealously guard his own expertise and experience. Which wouldn’t be surprising; to teach her would be to create his own rival.

For a few minutes pessimism took over, but then Nell took another drink and determined to look on the bright side; today had been a relatively good one, tomorrow could look after itself.

It was over a week later before Max phoned. ‘I’ve got the man I wanted,’ he told her excitedly.

‘Who is it?’

‘Ben Rigby. Have you heard of him?’

‘Ben Rigby?’ For a moment she frowned in concentration, then her brow cleared. ‘You don’t mean Benet Rigby—the man who adapted the Eastern Trilogy?’ she said on a surprised note.

‘That’s the one. And we were darn lucky to get him; his agent said he wasn’t available at first. Then he changed his mind for some reason.’

‘What did he say about me collaborating with him?’ Nell asked anxiously.

‘No problem. I sent him your synopsis and he’s happy to go along with the adaptation along those lines.’

‘Great! When do we start work?’ Nell asked excitedly.

‘He’ll be free from next Monday. I’ve suggested he come along here at nine-thirty and we’ll sort out an office and everything. Suit you?’

‘Fine.’

‘OK. Oh, and he wants a copy of the book so that he can read it through first.’

‘I only have the one; it’s out of print.’

‘Well, lend it to him, will you, Nell? It’s important he should read it.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed, albeit with a strange inner reluctance. ‘I’ll bring it into your office so he can collect it, shall I?’

‘No. He wants it straight away. I’m to give him your address and he’ll send a special messenger to collect it. Will you be at home all this evening?’

‘Yes, I’ll make sure to be here.’

Max rang off, leaving Nell with an inner feeling of optimism. If the Eastern Trilogy was anything to go by, Benet Rigby must be really good. The series had hit the top of the ratings despite being a serious, and virtually sexless drama. Not the kind of thing the majority of viewers would be expected to go for, but the script and the actors had been outstanding.

Finding a padded bag, Nell carefully wrapped her copy, her only copy, of A Midwinter Night’s Dream inside it. The book was old, early Victorian, thick and heavy. Its hard cover had once been covered with bright blue cloth which was now very faded and stained. The pages were of thick paper, their edges uneven where they had originally been joined together and parted with a paper-knife wielded by an impatient hand. Nell couldn’t blame that first reader for having been so eager; when she’d come across the book, among a pile at a jumble sale that hadn’t sold and were waiting to be thrown away, she had dipped into it and immediately become riveted, realising that here was hidden gold. The book was by J.L.T., just the initials, with no indication whatsoever of the author’s sex. After she had found it Nell had spent a long time in the reading room of the British Library, trying to find out the writer’s identity, but without any success. In some perverse way this pleased her; she liked the air of mystery it gave to the book. In her own mind she was certain that it was by a woman; surely only a woman could have described those love scenes with such feeling, such intimacy.

Nell pushed the thought of the love scenes aside, finding them oddly disturbing. She would have to think about them when it came time to put them into the script, of course, but love scenes were usually visual things and they would be quickly done. Until then she would forget them and the strange feeling of disquiet they gave her.

The bell rang and she ran down the single flight of stairs to the front door. Her flat was in a mews, above what had once been stables for a large house on the main road that had been converted into luxury apartments fifty years ago. The stables were now used to garage cars but Nell had been living in the flat above for the last two years. She opened the door and was taken aback to see a figure that looked as if it had escaped from the latest robot-cop movie. Dressed all in black leather motorcycle gear and with a helmet with the visor down, the man was so tall he towered over her.

He had half turned away but looked round as the door opened. He lifted his hand as if to raise the visor but it must have been merely to shield his eyes from the sun. His voice was muffled and he said after a moment, ‘Miss Marsden?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve called to collect a parcel.’

Reluctantly she held the envelope out to him. ‘You will be careful with it, won’t you?’

Looking at the powerful black motorbike that stood at the kerb, she noticed that there were no panniers showing the name of the company as she’d seen on all the other messenger-service bikes that were forever weaving their way through the London traffic. She went to ask the man where he meant to put it for safety, but he had already unzipped the front of his leather jacket and was putting the envelope inside.

‘Are you sure it will be all right there?’ He nodded, but she was by no means reassured and said sharply, ‘I hope your company’s insured, because if you lose it I’ll sue.’

The messenger, so intimidating in his faceless blackness, looked down at her for a moment, making Nell feel physically weak and helpless, a sensation she didn’t like, but then he lifted a hand, whether in farewell or acknowledgement she couldn’t tell, put his legs astride the powerful machine, and roared off down the cobbled road.

Nell was at Max’s office promptly on Monday morning but Benet Rigby was late. It was almost ten before he appeared, and by then Nell was annoyed enough to notice only that he looked untidy, as if he’d thrown his clothes on, and that he needed a shave. Or maybe it was supposed to be designer stubble. If it was it didn’t suit him, she thought crossly.

But at least he apologised, if somewhat brusquely. ‘Sorry I’m late. Domestic crisis.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Max answered in what Nell felt was an ingratiating tone. ‘This is Nell Marsden, who had the brilliant idea of adapting the book.’

‘Hello.’

‘How do you do?’ Nell returned primly, still annoyed, and was rather surprised to have her hand taken in a firm grip and to be looked over by a pair of quizzical grey eyes as it was shaken. Max didn’t bother to introduce Ben to her. ‘Did you receive the book all right?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Of course.’

Her relief was tainted by the amusement in his answer, as if he thought her a silly, fussing female. Turning to Max, she said, ‘Have you got an office in mind for us?’

‘Yes, a couple of floors up. This way.’

They all got into the small lift, Nell standing next to Ben. She was wearing her high heels today which gave her several extra inches and usually allowed her to look most men near enough in the eye, but even so she only came up to his shoulder. She sighed inwardly, wondering if he was the kind of man who would use his extra height, as well as his masculinity and his extra experience, to try to browbeat her. Well, he’d soon find that his extra foot wouldn’t do him any good, Nell thought determinedly, then almost laughed aloud at the mental image that thought conjured up.

Her eyes were still bright with inner laughter when they walked into the office. Ben’s gaze swept round it and then turned towards her, but he stopped what he was going to say and instead lifted a questioning eyebrow when he saw her face. ‘What’s funny?’

She shook her head. ‘Private joke.’

The office was equipped with a couple of desks holding word processors, a central table, filing cabinet and a leather settee against the far wall. It was well lit, too, with lamps on the desks and a large window that caught the morning sunlight. ‘This is great.’ She turned to Max and smiled. ‘Thanks for arranging it.’

‘My pleasure. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.’

‘How about a phone?’ Ben suggested.

‘Well, I can get one put in if you really want one, but I thought you’d rather not be interrupted. You can always use the phone in my office if—’

‘I’d prefer a phone in here,’ Ben insisted.

His assumption that she’d go along with his wishes angered Nell. ‘I’m quite happy to do without one.’

Ben didn’t say anything, just glanced at her, then at Max.

‘I’ll have one put in straight away,’ Max said. ‘Anything else?’

‘Paper. Pencils,’ Nell said, not to be outdone. ‘A kettle to make coffee.’

‘All in the cupboard and drawers.’

‘A “Do not disturb” sign,’ Ben added with what Nell thought was a faintly mocking grin.

Max laughed. ‘Of course. I’ll find one for you.’ He rubbed his nose enthusiastically. ‘OK, then, I’ll leave you two to it. Keep me posted how you’re getting along and we’ll talk over the first draft of the first episode as soon as you come up with it.’

His going left behind him a silence that Nell didn’t find comfortable. Determined to be businesslike, she took off her jacket and hung it on the stand. ‘I’ll take the desk nearest the window, shall I?’ And she moved towards it.

But Ben shook his head. ‘No, let’s rearrange the place.’ He walked several times round the room, like a dog exploring a new kennel, looked out of the window and adjusted the sun-blinds. Max’s assistant came in with the phone and found himself helping Ben to move the furniture around. When they’d finished the settee was under the window and the two desks were in the middle of the room with their backs to each other. The phone was put on one of the desks, the one on which Ben dropped his briefcase.

Nell had been leaning against the wall, out of the way, watching with her arms folded, her indignation growing. ‘Happy now?’ she asked sardonically when they were alone again.

Ben shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see how it works. If we’re not satisfied with the arrangement we can always change it again.’

‘We?’ Again her tone was sardonic.

Ben’s eyes flicked at her and she braced herself for an argument, but he ducked it, merely saying, ‘As I said, if you don’t like it this way when we’ve given it a try, we’ll move the stuff around again until we get it right. Is that what you wanted me to say?’

‘No. I’d like to have heard you ask my opinion before you started throwing the furniture around.’

‘I see. Stating your terms and conditions already, are you?’

‘It would appear to be necessary.’

‘Only if you feel threatened.’ Picking up the phone, Ben dialled a number and when he got an answer said, ‘If you need me you can reach me on this number,’ and he gave the number and extension of the phone. Afterwards he dropped down on to the settee, leant back at ease, and put his hands behind his head as he looked her over. ‘What’s Nell short for?’

‘Eleanor. What’s Benet long for?’

He grinned at that. ‘Ben. Unfortunately Benet is a family name that gets handed down. Usually it misses a generation because the holder can’t stand it, but then sentimentality intervenes and it’s used again.’

Crossing to the swing chair in front of one of the desks, Nell said, ‘Shall we start work?’

But Ben only crossed his legs at the knee, the way men did when they were relaxed, and said, ‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea to get to know each other a bit more first?’

Nell didn’t, and said bluntly, ‘I don’t see why; we can learn as we work.’

‘Such eagerness,’ he grinned.

‘Naturally I’m eager,’ Nell replied, trying to keep her voice light. ‘After all, I’ve been working on this project for almost a year, writing the synopsis, trying to find a producer to take it.’

‘You’re telling me it’s your baby, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Until Max foisted me on to you.’ Ben was still sitting there casually, his eyes almost half-closed, but Nell had the feeling he was watching her narrowly.

Her chin came up. She had no choice but to work with this man, so she supposed she’d better keep him sweet. ‘He has great faith in you. He went overboard about your adaptation of the Eastern Trilogy and was certain that with you on the team we’d be absolutely sure of success. We were both terrifically pleased when your agent said you were free to take the assignment.’

‘I can see you have a career in creative fiction ahead of you,’ Ben remarked drily. His eyes ran over her again and he said, ‘You don’t look like a writer.’

Surprised, she said, ‘Why not?’

‘Too small, too feminine. Not tough enough.’

‘Should writers be tough, then?’

‘Oh, definitely. Especially women writers.’ Adding, with irony, ‘Strong enough to move their own desk around at any rate.’

She had begun to be amused, but didn’t know how to take that. Instead she looked at him, openly assessing him. She’d expected Benet Rigby, getting on for famous, to be a flamboyant character, long-haired perhaps, semi-intellectual certainly, but the reality seemed to be none of these. Ben was wearing casual clothes, looked even a little unkempt, and although his dark hair was quite long it wasn’t at all arty. Mostly he came across as what he’d said a writer should be—tough; his shoulders were broad and his chin masterful. He wasn’t that old, but there were a few lines around his mouth, and shadows of tiredness around his eyes. Maybe he’d lived it up too well the night before, she surmised, and wondered about the personality behind the face.

‘And your conclusions?’ he asked, perfectly aware of her thoughts.

She smiled a little. ‘You don’t look like a writer.’

‘Why not?’

‘Too tough.’

‘Ah... So we obviously have entirely different ideas about what a writer should look like.’

Nell shook her head. ‘No—we just look in different mirrors.’

Ben laughed at that; a laugh of genuine amusement. Different lines appeared around his mouth, and for the first time she thought that maybe this unwanted collaboration might just work after all.

Maybe Ben thought so too, because he took her synopsis and the book from his briefcase and put them on the table, drew up a chair. ‘I like the book. I tried to get hold of a copy, but there don’t seem to be any around.’

‘No. I found out that it was published privately; that’s why there isn’t a copy in the British Library.’

‘Vanity publishing,’ Ben commented. ‘Somebody must have really believed in the story to do that.’

‘Or else have felt the need to tell it,’ Nell said, coming to sit opposite him.

He raised his left eyebrow, the one that arched more than the other as if he was in the habit of questioning what he heard. ‘You think it’s a true story? That’s hard to believe.’

‘Stranger things have happened.’

‘Yes, but for the love-affair to have gone on for so long without the heroine realising who her secret lover was? It’s hardly credible.’

‘Maybe in her heart she did know but didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want to spoil what was perfect.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. It’s certainly very sensitively written.’

‘And that sensitivity is what I want to come over in the adaptation,’ Nell said earnestly. ‘I don’t want this to be just another serial with explicit sex scenes—bare limbs all over the place and moans and groans in the appropriate places. This is a romance in the true sense of the word. That’s the way it’s got to be treated if it’s going to be successful.’

‘Are you implying that I can’t handle that?’

She drew back, realising that her vehemence could have sounded like an accusation. ‘Not at all. I’ve watched the Eastern Trilogy again; you handled that really well.’

‘Again?’

‘I got the tapes out of the television film library to watch last weekend,’ she admitted.

‘Checking up on me?’

‘Doing my homework.’

Ben nodded. ‘Fair enough. But this book differs a great deal from the trilogy. There’s deep passion here as well as romantic love. Earthy, physical passion. That’s what makes the book, and will make it interesting to the viewers. You can’t cut it out.’ He paused, waiting for her to speak, but when she didn’t Ben went on, ‘It needs to be delicately handled to combine the two, but I think we should be able to do it.’

Nell didn’t comment on that, instead reaching out for the book. ‘Shall we make a start?’

‘OK. The first thing to decide is how many episodes.’

‘Max said he couldn’t get money for more than three of one hour.’

‘That should be enough. It will give us an opportunity to express the length of time covered in the book. It’s about twelve years, isn’t it?’

‘Twelve winters.’

‘Yes.’ Ben gave her an appraising look. ‘You’re very obsessed with this story, aren’t you?’

‘I told you; I’ve been working on it for a year.’

‘And you’ve started to identify with the heroine,’ he said shrewdly.

‘You’re supposed to identify with the characters when you read a book.’

‘But not when you’re adapting it for television. You have to have a clear mind; to be able to cut where necessary, not to be so involved with it that you can’t bear to lose a line of dialogue because you’re in love with the characters.’

It was said bluntly, almost rudely, and made Nell angry. ‘I have adapted books before,’ she pointed out coldly.

‘I know; I did my homework, too. But never a full-blooded love story, have you?’

Her mouth tightened. ‘I am not in love with the characters,’ she answered shortly. ‘The whole idea is ridiculous.’

‘Good,’ Ben said smoothly. ‘Then you won’t mind making any necessary cuts.’

She gave him a glare, knowing that she’d been outmanoeuvred. ‘Shall we get on with it?’

His lips twisted slightly. ‘All right. The next thing is to decide where the episodes will end. Now, the basic storyline is of a young girl, Anna, who is married off, in the mid-nineteenth century, to an older man she doesn’t love, a man she finds cold both physically and emotionally. Not a rotter, not unkind, just unable to rouse any feelings in her. They don’t have any children. Then one winter she goes alone to visit her parents but on the way back the carriage gets caught in a snow storm and she has to take shelter in the nearest house, which is inhabited only by a couple of servants who say that their master seldom comes there any more.’

Ben picked up the synopsis, glanced at it, then went on, ‘They give her the master bedroom and the first night nothing happens, but one of the horses has slipped and hurt its leg, so she has to stay on. The second night she feels very tired, and while she’s in bed she has a dream in which a man makes love to her. The most perfect, wonderful experience she could ever have imagined. The next day her husband turns up to look for her and everything is back to normal. But she treasures the memory of the dream, especially when she finds she is pregnant at last—but her husband hasn’t recently made love to her.’

‘She wouldn’t have thought of it as making love, not with her husband,’ Nell interrupted with certainty.

‘No. The act of procreation, then. So she thinks maybe it wasn’t a dream, maybe it was true. Anyhow she lets the husband into her bed, just in case, but finds his attentions even more abhorrent now— Is that the kind of language that suits you?’ Ben broke off to ask Nell.

Missing the slightly dry note in his tone, she nodded. ‘Yes, that’s how she would think.’

‘OK.’ He put his elbows on the table and pyramided his hands. ‘The child is born, a girl, but the husband still needs an heir, which isn’t forthcoming. So, two years later, in the depth of winter, she goes to visit her parents again, and ends up at the same house. Again the man comes to her and they make love, but on both nights this time. Again she seems to be in some strange kind of dreamlike state while it’s going on, but she knows it’s true because she sees the marks of his hands on her body the next day.’

‘Anna gets pregnant again, and this time she has a son.’ Nell took over. ‘She becomes desperate to find her lover and when her husband goes away on business she goes to the house to find him. But the house is closed up and empty, and no one can tell her whom it belongs to. She thinks that she’s lost him and is terribly sad, but when she passes that way the next winter she calls there out of sentimentality, and to her joy finds everything the way she first remembered: the same servants, the place warm and inviting, the same bed...’

‘And the same lover,’ Ben finished for her. ‘She begins to suspect that perhaps her food or drink was drugged before, so has nothing. She leaves the lights burning in the room, wanting to see her lover’s face, but it’s a big old-fashioned four-poster bed with heavy curtains all round, he blows out the candles and she doesn’t see him. She tries to talk to him, though, but he silences her with kisses, exhausts her with love, and when she wakes he’s gone. Afraid that by trying to see him she might have lost him, that night she drinks and eats, and again it’s like a dream when he comes to her.

‘So every winter she goes back. She has two more children but one of them dies. She is distraught and her husband can give her no comfort. It’s summer, but she goes to the house anyway, finds it empty as before. She sleeps on the bed and this time feels the warmth of his arms, his strength and love and is comforted for her loss. She leaves a locket behind with a picture of her dead child in it.’

Nell, unable just to sit and listen, took up the story again. ‘Anna has a child to take the place of the one she lost, again by her lover. Twelve years have passed. Then her husband is killed in an accident, and although she’s sad for him she’s filled with happiness at her freedom, because now she’ll be able to go and find her lover, be with him always.’ She paused, her face becoming sad. ‘Then her husband’s possessions that he was carrying when he was killed are sent to her—and she finds the locket. And she knows the truth, and knows that she has lost not only her lover, but all the years of happiness together if she had only know the truth before.’

‘I don’t agree there,’ Ben said matter-of-factly, breaking in on her sad sentimentality. ‘If she’d realised the first time who he was, it would have been a coupling just like all the others before, and she’d never have thought that she had a phantom lover. It was the secretiveness of the affair that aroused and fed her sensuality. She’d have gone on being lonely and unfulfilled—unless she’d been driven to have an affair with the stable-boy or some other available man.’ He grinned at Nell’s indignant look. ‘Lots of women were driven to that in those days, you know; either that or turning to religion and doing good works whether the poor liked it or not.’

‘That’s hypothetical,’ Nell pointed out. ‘The story finishes with her finding out it was her husband all along and being sad; we don’t have to worry about what might have been.’

‘How logical.’ Ben looked round. ‘Did Max say there were the tools for making coffee somewhere?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Nell answered, but didn’t get up to look.

Ben glanced at her and grinned. He went over to the cupboard, found a kettle and cups, packets of coffee, sugar and powdered milk. ‘All we appear to be short of is water,’ he remarked. ‘Where do we get that, I wonder?’

Satisfied she’d made her point, Nell stood up. ‘I noticed a cloakroom just along the corridor; I’ll get some from there.’

‘Thanks.’

But the water in the cloakroom wasn’t suitable for drinking and she was directed to another place on the next floor. It was almost ten minutes before she came back, and Ben was sitting on the settee, the phone in his hand, his feet up on the arm. The light from the window was behind him, outlining his profile, and for the first time Nell noticed its hardness, the leanness of his jawline and the good bone-structure. He could, she supposed, be considered good-looking, attractive to women, and wondered why she hadn’t noticed before. Because she’d been too tense, probably, too worried about having to work with him, and what he would want to do with her precious story. The latter was still undecided, perhaps still to be fought over, but she felt more relaxed with him now, more able to think of him as a man.

‘But surely you can manage,’ he was saying. ‘It’s only for a few days.’ He listened, then gave a resigned sigh. ‘OK, OK, I’ll get back as soon as I can and we’ll talk it over then. Yes, I do understand. Yes. Goodbye.’

Nell had been busying herself with the coffee, but looked round to say, ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘What?’ Ben had been gazing moodily out of the window. ‘Oh—one sugar, no milk.’

She handed him a cup. ‘I take milk and sugar,’ she told him. He frowned, not with it. ‘So you’ll know when it’s your turn to make the coffee,’ she supplied.

His mouth crooked a little but there was obviously something else on his mind. ‘I’ll try and remember.’

Sitting down at the table again, she stirred her coffee and said, ‘I think the first episode ought to end after her first night with her lover.’

‘Sounds right.’ But Ben was still frowning abstractedly. He took a swallow of the coffee but then put down the mug and stood up, his hands thrust into his pockets. He took a couple of paces round the room, head bent, then turned to frown out of the window again.

‘Hasn’t your crisis resolved itself?’ Nell asked sympathetically.

‘My what?’

‘You said you were late because of a domestic crisis,’ she reminded him.

‘Oh—yes. I mean, no, it hasn’t resolved itself.’ His face changed, grew bleak, the lines at the corners of his mouth deepening and becoming bitter. ‘Sometimes I don’t think it ever will.’ Before Nell could say anything, he glanced at his watch, picked up his briefcase, and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to leave. Why don’t you make a start and I’ll catch up with you tomorrow?’

‘But you can’t just...’ Nell’s voice tailed off as the door swung shut behind him.

CHAPTER TWO

NELL had wanted to do the book adaptation herself, but, perversely, when Ben abandoned her to it before they’d even got started she became indignant and angry. The word processor was pounded rather hard the rest of that day and quite a lot of work got done.

She expected him to be late again the next morning and was both surprised and irritated to find Ben there before her. Not only there but sitting at her desk and going through the work she’d done the previous day. ‘My, my, aren’t you the early bird,’ she greeted him sarcastically, dumping her bag on the desk.

Ben glanced at her. ‘Talking of birds; are you an owl or a lark?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you up with the lark in the morning or a night owl who never wants to go to bed? A morning person or a night person?’

Nell thought about it. ‘A night owl, I suppose.’

‘That would account for it, then.’

‘For what?’

‘For your bad temper,’ he said evenly.

She hung her jacket on a peg. ‘I think I’m entitled to be annoyed after the way you took off yesterday. You’d only been here a couple of hours and we hadn’t even got started on the book.’

‘For which I apologised and came in early today,’ he pointed out.

But Nell had met that male trick of trying to put you in the wrong and make you feel guilty before. ‘It was extremely unprofessional,’ she said shortly.

‘I’m a writer, not a clock-watching clerk,’ Ben told her, his voice hardening.

‘Yes, but you’re still a professional writer. You are getting paid, aren’t you?’

She had expected that to needle him, but to her surprise he grinned, and said in a schoolboy voice, ‘I’m very sorry, miss. I’ll try to do better in future, miss.’

The grin, and the mimicry, were captivating. Despite herself, Nell smiled in return.

‘That’s better. I was beginning to think I’d got to work with a dragon.’ That took her aback a little, but before she had a chance to say anything Ben tapped the screen with his finger. ‘What you did yesterday was good, but you’ve written it for the ear and not enough for the eye.’

‘I tried to write it visually,’ Nell said defensively. ‘I’ve read books on writing for television and studied other scripts.’

‘Yes, and you’ve had a good shot at it, but you haven’t gone into enough detail. You have to see and describe every emotion, almost every gesture. And you have to allow the time it will take the actors to show the emotions, make the gestures.’

Nell pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. ‘Show me.’

His mouth crooked a little at the command in her voice, but he went back to the beginning of her script and began to go through it with her. By the end of an hour Nell was realising there was far more to television script-writing than she’d ever imagined.

‘I think it would probably be best if we wrote the script as you did it yesterday and then went through each scene together putting in the camera and actors’ instructions,’ Ben suggested. He sat back and ran a weary hand over his eyes. ‘How about a coffee?’

She didn’t argue this time but got up to make it, taking some packages from her holdall-type bag. ‘I brought some biscuits. Would you like one?’ She opened a tin and offered it to him.

Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘They look home-made,’ he remarked, taking one.

‘Yes, they are.’

‘By you?’

She nodded.

‘It’s good. The coffee tastes different, too.’

‘I bought some decaffeinated. And a carton of real milk. I don’t like that powdered stuff.’

‘You sound like a girl who likes her creature comforts,’ Ben remarked.

‘Of course. Don’t you?’

‘Oh, sure—when I can get them.’ For a moment the bleak look was back in his face, but then was gone as he said, ‘Are you married, Nell?’

‘No. Career-girl.’

‘Does that mean you live alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you actually bother to cook for yourself?’

‘Yes, why not?’

‘Most people who live alone seem to exist on frozen ready-made meals. From the supermarket to the freezer to the microwave. There doesn’t seem to be much point in doing the shopping, spending so much time in preparation, and creating so much washing-up just for oneself.’

‘You seemed to stress the washing-up,’ Nell smiled.

‘I don’t like it, I admit,’ Ben grimaced. ‘But you must enjoy cooking. How did you learn?’

‘My mother taught me,’ Nell replied, her face and voice calm, betraying none of the inner swirl of emotions that memories of her mother always aroused. Yes, she taught me to cook, she thought bitterly. Just as she taught me to be clean and tidy, and punctual, and polite, and deferential, and come straight home, and not to make friends or talk to boys, and to be obedient, always obedient. And—

‘You’re lucky, my mother didn’t teach me a thing,’ Ben said, breaking into her thoughts, for which she was grateful. ‘I never even had to boil an egg before I went to university. And the first one I tried was so rock-hard I gave up and ate out the whole time.’

‘And now you exist on ready-made meals?’

‘Most of the time.’

‘So you’re not married, either?’ It was safe and acceptable to ask that because he’d asked her first.

‘No.’ His face hardened. ‘No, I’m not.’ He swung his chair round towards her. ‘Do you think I could possibly have another of those biscuits? They’re delicious.’

Nell grinned. ‘It isn’t necessary to flatter. I’ll leave the tin here so just help yourself.’

They got to work again but broke off for lunch at one. Nell went out to get some fresh air and investigate the local shops, but Ben picked up the phone to call his agent, to talk over more work he’d been offered, she supposed, feeling envious of his success. When she came back he was lying on the settee, his feet up on the arm again, but this time he was asleep.

He didn’t waken when she came in. Nell quietly put down the bag of shopping she’d bought, and stepped silently over towards him. She was about to reach out and waken him, but hesitated and withdrew her arm. He looked to be deeply asleep, and must have been very tired. Another night on the tiles? Nell wondered. She wouldn’t be at all surprised. Most of the bachelors she knew seemed to go out somewhere every night, living it up, dating girls, making the most of their youth and vitality, many of them often sweating away in gyms to be fit enough to go out drinking, or make love to the latest girlfriend through the night, or both.

Ben didn’t look particularly dissipated, she thought, gazing down at him. His skin was still tight around his jawline and there was no flabbiness about his tall frame. Muscle, yes. And a broadness of shoulder that suggested strength, but his stomach was flat, his waist lean. Maybe he worked out regularly. Maybe he went out with just one woman. Nell didn’t think he could be living with a woman, though, or else he wouldn’t be so tired, and he would have been looked after better; there was a button missing from his shirt, she noticed.

It felt odd to look down at a man asleep like this. It wasn’t something she could ever remember doing before. A man was, she supposed, vulnerable in his sleep, momentarily within one’s power. But Ben didn’t look very vulnerable; his features were still hard, the lines around his mouth still deep, even though his lashes brushed his cheeks in a soft curve and a lock of dark hair fell forward on to his forehead. An ambulance went by in the street below, its siren wailing, the noise penetrating his sleep, making him stir. Nell moved quickly away and appeared to be just hanging up her jacket when he yawned and sat up.

‘Must have dropped off,’ he murmured. ‘Excuse me.’

He went out and she noticed an empty sandwich pack and a beer can beside the settee. Fastidiously, unable to help herself, Nell picked them up and dropped them in the waste basket. Whoever had the misfortune to end up with Ben, she thought, would have to be willing to spend her life clearing up after him, because he certainly hadn’t been brought up to do it himself. For a moment she felt a fierce stab of envy, not for this imaginary woman, but for Ben’s joyous disregard of the rule of neatness, his ability to go through life in blissful untidiness, either not caring or with some wretched female to do it for him. The fault of a doting mother, she supposed, and devoutly wished she’d had one who’d cared half as much.

When Ben came back his hair was damp, as if he’d thrown water over his face to wake himself up.

‘You never said what you were,’ she reminded him. ‘A lark or an owl?’

He laughed. ‘Originally a lark, but lately I’ve had to be an owl.’

They worked well that afternoon, except for two longish phone calls for Ben. Nell tried not to listen but couldn’t avoid it. They were evidently from his agent, about the new project he was negotiating, and Ben seemed to be pushing for special working conditions. ‘You know my problem,’ she heard him say. ‘I either work at home or in London. If they can’t agree to that then tell them to get someone else.’ The agent must have become exasperated, because Ben went on, ‘Yes, I know it’s a great opportunity, but there’s no way I’m going to America... OK, see what they say and get back to me.’

Putting down the phone, he came back to where they’d been talking through a scene at the table, pads and pencils before them. ‘Sorry about that,’ Ben said shortly.

‘That’s OK.’ Nell glanced at him, wondering how far she could question him. She tried an oblique approach. ‘How long do you think it will take us to write the serial?’

‘Depends how much re-writing Max wants done. If he’s happy, then about six or seven weeks, I should think.’

‘That’s what I thought. I hope you’ll be free for that length of time.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Ben said drily, looking at her, knowing she’d listened. ‘I promised to do this book—and I always keep my promises.’

‘Oh, good.’ She was strangely over-pleased. For the book’s sake, she thought, but knew it wasn’t. Because I’m learning a lot from him, then, and he doesn’t seem to mind teaching me. Yes, that must be it, she told herself.

Ben left at three-thirty, which she thought was rather early, but then he had come in early this morning, she remembered. Maybe he’d decided those were the hours that suited him best. There didn’t seem to be any point in staying on herself, so after she’d printed off the work they’d done that day she went to have a chat with Max, to reassure him that they were getting on marvellously, and to pick up any gossip that was going. Most gossip was, of course, gathered in the ladies’ room, but no one that Nell knew came in, so eventually she gave up and went home.

As she cooked her solitary meal she remembered what Ben had said about frozen dinners and felt sorry for him. Maybe, she thought, the ladle in her hand forgotten as she gazed into space, I’ll give a dinner party.

Ben rang in to say that he had to go to a meeting the next morning and it was almost lunchtime before he arrived. Nell had been getting on with the script, but doing it the way he’d suggested, so that they could go through the cast and camera instructions together. As she wrote she found herself becoming ever more bound up in the storyline, and closely involved with Anna as she became disillusioned with the man she’d been made to marry against her wishes. The man had seemed so aloof, so strange, what he did to her in bed so humiliating. Nell was troubled about having to write that scene. But although it was in the book, she thought it would be better just to show Anna’s fear before the wedding night and then her reaction of loathing towards her husband the next morning.

She wrote the scene on those lines, but when Ben came in and read through the print-out he disagreed with her. ‘You’ll have to show more than that,’ he told her.

‘I don’t see why. Explicit sex scenes are old hat nowadays. People have got bored to death with writhing bodies all over the place.’ She spoke forcefully, a frown between her level brows.

Ben gave her a surprised look. ‘What have you got against sex?’

Nell flushed. ‘Nothing, of course,’ she said quickly. ‘I just think that the public are tired of having it thrust at them the whole time.’

His eyes rested thoughtfully on her face for a moment, but then Ben said, ‘You don’t have to be explicit. But the viewers don’t expect to have the bedroom door shut in their faces any more. And don’t forget we have to show the difference between the love scenes with her husband and with her lover. How the former are cold and businesslike and the latter magically sexual and satisfying.’

‘Surely the actors will do that.’

‘Yes, but we’re the ones who are playing God; the actors will only do what we decide they will do. It’s up to us to tell them what lines to say, what moves to make, how far to go.’ He paused, but when she didn’t speak he said, ‘I really think we have to put that scene in, Nell.’

She gave a tight smile. ‘You’re right, of course. How do you think it should go?’

‘Well, there we have the advantage of using camera angles. We could shoot it, perhaps, just watching Anna’s face. We may not need any dialogue. The important thing is to show how distasteful and humiliating she finds it in comparison with her dream lover.’

Nell voiced a point that had been worrying her. ‘I don’t see how we’re going to do that if the scenes with the lover are in the darkness of a curtained four-poster. And how are we going to avoid showing his face? If we do it will spoil the ending.’

Ben put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his fists as he thought about it. ‘There are always ways to get round problems like that. Maybe we could give the lover a mask. That would cut out problems about Anna being drugged in future scenes. That part has always worried me.’

‘But he didn’t wear a mask,’ Nell objected.

‘Nell, when you’re adapting something from the printed page you have to have scope for alteration to a different medium. In a book the author can describe the characters’ thought processes, go into minute detail about their feelings and emotions. Sometimes they take a whole page just to describe one kiss! You can’t do that on television. There’s no narrator. You have to try and show everything through the actors’ words and actions. Here we have the basic problem of not being able to film in the dark, so we have to use a ploy to get round it. And giving the lover a mask would seem to be the obvious way. Don’t you agree?’

‘From a convenience point of view, yes, but that first night...surely he wouldn’t have worn a mask the first time?’

‘No, but we can get round that by making her feel cold in bed and taking a drink or two to warm her up, so that she feels woozy and isn’t with it enough to get alarmed when he slips into bed and starts making love to her.’

‘And then she realises that she likes what’s happening to her. Yes, I suppose that could work.’

‘We could have Anna saying, “Who are you?” Maybe she struggles a little, but then her body takes over before her husband can speak and identify himself. But perhaps, when it’s over, she says it again.’

‘If he was going to tell her who he was, that would surely have been the time,’ Nell pointed out. ‘Why didn’t he tell her then?’

‘Maybe he realised to have told her would have spoilt it all; maybe she just fell asleep,’ Ben suggested. ‘But we don’t really have to worry about why the lover did or didn’t do anything. That’s all left to the imagination of the viewer.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. But it has to be believable.’

‘It will be.’ Reaching out, he put a reassuring hand over hers, gave it a slight squeeze. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll make your “dream” come alive.’

Bearing in mind the title of the book they were adapting, it was a good play on words. Nell smiled appreciatively. And she liked the way he had reassured her of his own accord; it showed that they were working well together, she thought, and for once she didn’t mind being physically touched. ‘Well, it’s nice to have one dream come true,’ she remarked.

Ben cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Does that mean you have other dreams?’

‘Of course,’ Nell answered lightly. ‘Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?’

‘What are your dreams, Nell?’

She shrugged slightly. ‘The same as every other girl’s, I suppose.’

‘To get married and live happily ever after?’ Ben suggested wryly.

‘Good heavens, no! To make a success of my career, of course.’

He burst out laughing. ‘Don’t tell me that’s the ambition of every single girl, because I don’t believe it.’

Nell smiled, pleased that she’d made him laugh. ‘Well, it happens to be mine and that of most of my friends.’

‘Until the right man comes along.’

‘Or the wrong one,’ she said pensively, then quickly said, ‘How about you; don’t you have any dreams?’

The sun was shining brightly through the window. Ben got up, pulled up the blind, and would have opened the window, except that it was a modern air-conditioned building and the windows wouldn’t open. He banged an annoyed fist against the frame. ‘I feel like a caged animal in here.’ He turned, gave her a moody look as she sat waiting for him to answer. ‘No,’ he said harshly, ‘I don’t have dreams any more—just nightmares.’

Nell blinked, taken aback, but was even more surprised when Ben said, ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

Picking up a microcassette recorder, he headed for the door. Grabbing her bag, Nell followed at a run.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Just out. Anywhere. I’m fed up with being cooped up inside. I need to stretch my legs.’

Considering how long his legs were, Nell wasn’t surprised. When they got out of the building he turned left and strode along the pavement at a brisk pace. Nell grabbed his arm. ‘Hey, slow down. I can’t keep up with you.’

He glanced down at her. ‘Oh, sorry. You’re awfully short, aren’t you?’

‘No,’ Nell answered, annoyed. ‘You’re awfully tall.’

He grinned at that, and took her arm to propel her more than help her across the road.

It was one of the best things about London that there was always a park or open space somewhere near by. They had only walked for a few minutes before they turned in the gates of one, the trees and lawns making a green oasis in the heart of the city. Ben’s pace immediately slowed, as if the tension had suddenly gone out of him. ‘I was wrong,’ he said. ‘There is one ambition—dream, if you like—that I have: to own a house in the country, a place with a garden that isn’t overlooked.’

‘An old thatched cottage with roses round the door?’

He grinned. ‘Trust a woman to think of the house first. I hadn’t given it a thought; all I’ve imagined is the garden and being out in the open instead of stuck over a word processor. I envy the old writers who could work anywhere, or someone like George Bernard Shaw with his garden house.’

‘Are the machines our slaves or are we the slaves of the machines?’

‘Quite.’ Ben smiled again and turned to look at her. ‘I’m not used to walking with someone as short as you.’

So how was she supposed to take that? Nell wondered. Wryly she said, ‘I suppose all your girlfriends are tall and willowy. Very fashionable.’

‘Is it? I should have thought it was a great advantage to be short. All the tall girls have to find taller men, whereas short girls can choose from the whole range.’

‘There is that, I suppose,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m not that short.’

Ben took the cassette recorder from his pocket and held it ready. ‘Now, that scene we were discussing...’

Soon they were absorbed in the adaptation, but not so deeply that Nell didn’t notice how pleasant it was to work like this, to breathe in the fresh air and feel a slight breeze in her hair, to walk from shade into sunlight, to smell the flowers in the beds and to hear the birds singing happily on this summer afternoon. It was easier out here, too, to discuss the wedding-night scene and how it should be handled. Anyone passing by, though, might have been startled to overhear their conversation as Ben said, ‘The whole sex act shouldn’t take longer than a couple of minutes,’ and Nell added,

‘No, and they should both have their nightclothes on the whole time.’

They sat on a seat while Ben dictated into the recorder and made good progress. But at three-thirty he glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better be getting back so I can collect my car. I have to do some shopping on the way home.’

‘More ready-made meals?’ Nell said with a smile, creating the opportunity she wanted.

‘That’s right.’

She hesitated for just a moment, wondering if she wasn’t being too precipitate, but then said casually, ‘I’m having a dinner party on Saturday night. If you’d like to sample some home cooking, you’d be very welcome to come and join us.’

Ben had been walking unhurriedly along, his arms loose at his sides, but now she felt him tense and saw him put his hands into his pockets. Damn! she thought angrily. He thinks I’m making a pass.

There were a couple of women pushing baby-buggies coming towards them. Ben moved to walk round the other side of them, giving him, she realised, time to compose a tactful answer. He smiled at her and said, ‘That’s very kind of you, Nell. I’d certainly be grateful for a good meal, but I’m afraid I’m going away this weekend. But ask me again, will you?’

‘Of course,’ she said with a polite smile. ‘I’ll let you know next time I have another dinner party.’

So that was that, she thought, feeling hurt. He obviously didn’t want to know, even though he’d been very polite and tactful about it. But so what? She’d only felt sorry for the guy. It was his loss, not hers. She would still have the dinner party; she usually gave one a month anyway, but she had brought it forward in the hope that Ben would come. When they reached the office he picked up his briefcase, said goodbye, and left in a hurry.

Nell sighed. She’d made her invitation as casual as possible, stressed that there would be other people there, but she had obviously scared Ben off. Going to the window, she watched as he drove out of the underground car park. He drove an ordinary estate car, which surprised her; she’d expected him to own something more sporty and powerful. Maybe he really was going away for the weekend, she thought. Or perhaps he already had a steady relationship and didn’t feel free to accept invitations from other girls. I suppose I should have asked him to bring a friend, she mused, and then laughed at herself. She wasn’t interested in Ben’s friends, wasn’t even sure that she wanted to be interested in him.

They worked together amicably enough for the rest of the week, but on Friday she did some shopping in the lunch-hour, letting him know that the dinner party was going ahead. The wedding-night scene was finished to their satisfaction, although Nell had strongly disliked having to read through the dialogue aloud, to make sure it ‘felt right’, as Ben put it.

‘I’m not an actress,’ she protested. ‘And, anyway, it sounds OK to me.’

‘Written dialogue often sounds stilted when it’s spoken. I always like to go through it aloud. And that way, too, you can get more idea of how long the scene will take.’

‘What do you do when you’re working alone?’ Nell asked.

‘Then I have to run through all the parts myself.’

‘Do that now, then, and I’ll listen and make any criticism I think necessary.’

Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘What have you got against reading it yourself? Don’t tell me you’re shy.’

‘No, of course not,’ Nell snapped back. ‘But I’m no good at that kind of thing; it will sound all wrong.’

‘Let’s just try it, shall we?’ he said on a patient note.

Nell flashed him a look, wondering why, when she’d so openly said that she didn’t want to do it, he should still expect to have his own way—and get it, too! Picking up the script, she started to read through the heroine’s lines, doing so in a clipped, short tone that lacked any emotion whatsoever.

‘Hey! Stop!’ Ben commanded. ‘What’s the matter with you? Put some feeling into it.’

‘I am.’

‘But you’re not. Look, like this.’ Standing up, he read through some of the husband’s lines. He had a good voice, quite deep, and was able to put almost as much emotion into it as an actor. ‘Now try,’ he instructed her.

Nell began to speak the lines again, and this time, almost against her will, she made them sound more realistic. Enough to satisfy him anyway. But it was so obvious that she didn’t like doing it that when they’d finished Ben said to her, ‘Aren’t you happy with that scene?’

‘Yes, it’s fine.’

‘You don’t behave as if you are.’

She looked away. ‘I told you; the scene is fine. Let’s get on, shall we?’

But he gave her an assessing look and said, ‘Maybe it’s the sex without love part of it you don’t like. But many of those arranged marriages started off with the woman submitting out of duty.’

‘Lie back and think of England,’ Nell said.

‘That kind of thing. I suppose as a romantic you think that’s all wrong?’

‘What makes you think I’m a romantic?’ Nell asked, immediately intrigued.

‘You chose this book,’ Ben replied with an expressive gesture.

‘Only because I thought it would make good television. I’m not at all romantic.’

‘Of course you are. All women are romantic at heart. I haven’t met one yet who wasn’t.’

‘Well, you have now,’ Nell said firmly. ‘I’m a realist.’

Ben laughed, amusement in his grey eyes. He hadn’t looked so tired the last couple of days and she guessed that his domestic problem, whatever it had been, must have sorted itself out. She wondered what it was; he didn’t talk about his private life, hadn’t opened up much at all, really.

‘Don’t you believe me?’ she asked.

‘How old are you?’

The question surprised her; she didn’t know where it was leading. ‘Twenty-five,’ she answered warily. ‘Why?’

‘Then you’re much too young to be a realist.’

‘Why so? Do you think realism only comes with age?’

‘More with experience.’

It was a risky question, but she said, ‘What makes you think I’m not experienced?’

‘Have you ever been married?’

‘No.’

‘Had a steady relationship with a man?’

Her wariness increased. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Until you’ve got love, or the hope for love, safely tucked away in experience, then you’ve no hope of becoming a realist.’

Nell thought about that for a moment, but it brought back pictures from the past, and she said quickly, ‘How about you? Would you call yourself a realist?’

A brooding look came into Ben’s face. ‘I suppose I am—not that I particularly want to be.’

He didn’t enlarge on that remark, so Nell said, ‘Are you a realist because you’ve got love and romance out of your system?’

His mouth hardened. ‘There are other ways, ways that force you into becoming what you don’t want to be.’

‘What do you mean?’

But Ben picked up the script again. ‘Time’s getting on; let’s go through this once more.’

So he ducked the question and she didn’t find out anything more about him.

On Saturday Nell had her dinner party. There was only room for eight people at the gatelegged table that she placed in the middle of her sitting-room, the rest of the furniture pushed against the walls out of the way. She had several girlfriends that she’d made during the last few years, and she usually invited one of these along—with her latest boyfriend if the friend couldn’t be prised apart from him for an evening, and also people she’d met through her work. As these were mostly connected with show business in some way, sometimes a quite remote way, and because the food she gave was always good and the wine plentiful, she had no worries about her invitations being accepted. Show business people were always eager to make new contacts and, in their turn, were generous in imparting any rumours they’d heard.

Occasionally Nell would have a hen-party, which she really enjoyed because the girls weren’t out to make an impression and could all let their hair down, but usually, as tonight, she mixed the sexes in equal numbers. One man had found himself asked at the last minute, to take the place she’d intended for Ben, but he was glad enough to be invited not to mind. The party went well, as it always did; Nell was experienced enough now to have got the format exactly right, but somehow she didn’t get as much enjoyment from it as she usually did. She felt strangely like an outsider looking on, not part of the party at all.

I must be having an off-day, she thought, and firmly rejected an up-and-coming actor’s offer to help her wash up—a euphemism for spending the night with her.

Sunday she worked on the outline for a radio programme for blind children. It was an educational programme, describing the background for books they would have to study for their O level exams. Nell had heard about the idea through a friend in local radio and had already talked to the producer and been asked to submit an example, showing the way she would handle it. The producer had warned her that there wouldn’t be a great deal of money in it, but Nell wasn’t worried about that. If her work was accepted it would be another credit to add to her growing list, and the work would be good practice. And, although she had to live, she wasn’t so hard up that she couldn’t forgo some time and money to help handicapped children. Helping at a distance was better, anyway. Nell had strong feelings of guilt where children were concerned and tended to avoid them as much as possible.

On Monday Ben was early again. Nell hadn’t expected him to be and, instead of taking the quicker Underground, had caught a bus and then walked the rest of the way because it was such a beautiful day. She felt good, enjoying the sun, wearing a sleeveless summer dress for the first time that year. The spring had been wet and long, but now summer seemed as if it had really arrived at last and, what was more, was determined to make up for all the earlier bad weather by being really hot.

Usually Nell was keen to start work, but today she lingered, reluctant to go and shut herself away in front of a machine. Knowing that Ben liked to be outdoors, she was surprised to find him already in the office.

‘Hello. I didn’t think you’d be here yet.’

Ben glanced round, paused as he looked her over. ‘Good morning. You look very feminine.’

‘I always look feminine.’

‘Especially feminine,’ he said with a smile.

‘I unearthed some summer clothes from the back of the wardrobe.’ She came to stand beside him. ‘What part are you working on?’

‘The scene where Anna’s mother comes to visit and tries to find out why she isn’t pregnant yet.’

‘Should we include in that scene the mother inviting them to stay for Christmas?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ Ben sniffed, and, picking up her hand, turned her wrist over and held it near his face. ‘That is the most delightful scent.’

‘Thank you.’ She was surprised and pleased; he hadn’t made any personal comment before, nor had he touched her very much.

And she was pleased again when, at around midday, he stood up and said, ‘Come on, let’s go out to lunch. My treat.’

She quite expected him to take her to the nearest pub, but instead he hailed a taxi and directed the driver to a restaurant with a terrace that overlooked the Thames. Her eyes widened when he ordered champagne. ‘Are we celebrating?’

‘Could be. I’ve been asked to write the screenplay for a film.’

Remembering the telephone call she’d overheard, Nell said, ‘Congratulations. A British film?’

‘No, American. But I’ve persuaded them to let me write it here rather than in Hollywood.’

‘Don’t you like America?’

‘Of course. It’s a great place, but I can’t leave here at the moment.’ He smiled at her. ‘We have A Midwinter Night’s Dream to finish.’

‘Wouldn’t they wait until we’ve finished it?’ Nell asked, stunned that he should think it important enough to risk losing the film contract.

‘Oh, yes. But I have other things that keep me here.’ A remark that put things back in perspective. The champagne came, their glasses were filled and Ben raised his in a toast. ‘To our collaboration.’

‘I’ll drink to that. Mm, it’s good. Is this how you usually live—alfresco lunches and champagne?’

‘Only on the first day of summer, when I have a pretty girl to take out.’

‘I’m flattered.’

His eyes met hers, warm and smiling. ‘You have no need to be.’

Nell caught her breath, a little taken aback. She was far from unused to receiving compliments, and had become not just blasé about them but at times almost resented them. So many men seemed to think that compliments were necessary to sweeten a girl up, that they only had to throw out one or two and the girl would be so grateful she’d do anything they wanted. Like patting a dog on the head so it would grovel at your feet. Other men paid compliments condescendingly, the stock phrases issuing from their mouths in exactly the same way, no matter which woman they were with. And the compliments weren’t really for the woman at all, but to boost her image in the man’s eyes, to make her conquest the more special.

Searching Ben’s face, Nell wondered in which category his compliment should be placed, but he had picked up the menu and was studying it, and made no attempt to follow it up. Which rather intrigued her. He was, she thought, rather an intriguing man altogether. But at least he seemed to be opening up a little today.

Their food ordered, Ben leaned back in his seat, making Nell say, ‘You seem very relaxed today.’

‘Don’t I always?’

‘No. Most of the time you seem to be pausing at the office before rushing off somewhere else.’

He gave a rueful grin. ‘Life does seem to get like that sometimes. But thankfully I hope to be able to spend more time working on the adaptation for the next few weeks. Until we’ve finished it with any luck.’

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