took a seat at a table against the window where she had a fantastic view across the roofs of London, a view that never ceased to fascinate her, especially when the sun was shining brightly as it was today. But not all her attention was given to the view; she’d taken a seat facing the entrance so that she could see everyone queuing up for their food, and could wave to anyone she knew. When you were starting out on a rather precarious writing career, it was a good idea to see and be seen, to make and keep as many contacts as possible.
There was a book in her briefcase and she would rather have taken it out to read, to have sat with her back to the room and ignored everyone in it, but it was necessary to be friendly and outgoing. The canteen—it was now more grandly called a restaurant but the old name seemed to stick—wasn’t very busy at first, but after half an hour a young actress who was in the serial came in with a friend. Nell waved to her, the girls came over and soon they were joined by two other actresses they knew. That was good; you learned things, not only about the serial she’d written from the cast’s point of view, but about other productions the actors were in, and projects they’d heard rumours about where there might possibly be an opening.
Nell enjoyed chatting with the girls, especially when they talked shop, but got bored when they started talking boyfriends and pulling men to pieces.
‘How about you, Nell?’ one of the girls asked her. ‘Who’s your latest?’
‘Oh, I don’t have even an earliest, let alone a latest,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m far too busy working on my career and trying to earn a living.’
‘And me,’ said another girl feelingly. ‘This is the first part I’ve had in three months.’
So they were safely back discussing show business again.
When it was time to go to the rehearsal studio, Nell followed them out. Anyone watching them might well have taken it that they were all actresses; Nell, at twenty-five, was older than the other girls, and although she was quite short she had a good, slim figure, and a bell of thick dark hair that curled gently at the neck. But it was her face that caught and held the attention; her eyes, large and long-lashed, were set wide beneath level brows and a high forehead, and she had high cheekbones that thinned her face and gave it elegance. They also, though, helped to add to the look of cool withdrawal that came naturally to her and which she often had to fight against. But here she was aided by her mouth, which had a full, soft underlip that gave an impression of unawakened sexuality and was an attraction in itself.
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
