Sally Wentworth - Shadow Play

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.