скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Sounds right.’ But Ben was still frowning abstractedly. He took a swallow of the coffee but then put down the mug and stood up, his hands thrust into his pockets. He took a couple of paces round the room, head bent, then turned to frown out of the window again.
‘Hasn’t your crisis resolved itself?’ Nell asked sympathetically.
‘My what?’
‘You said you were late because of a domestic crisis,’ she reminded him.
‘Oh—yes. I mean, no, it hasn’t resolved itself.’ His face changed, grew bleak, the lines at the corners of his mouth deepening and becoming bitter. ‘Sometimes I don’t think it ever will.’ Before Nell could say anything, he glanced at his watch, picked up his briefcase, and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to leave. Why don’t you make a start and I’ll catch up with you tomorrow?’
‘But you can’t just...’ Nell’s voice tailed off as the door swung shut behind him.
CHAPTER TWO
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.
