Читать книгу Shadow Play - Sally Wentworth, Sally Wentworth - Страница 5

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.’