Shadow Play

‘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.’