Shadow Play

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?’