Shadow Play

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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