if you feel threatened.’ Picking up the phone, Ben dialled a number and when he got an answer said, ‘If you need me you can reach me on this number,’ and he gave the number and extension of the phone. Afterwards he dropped down on to the settee, leant back at ease, and put his hands behind his head as he looked her over. ‘What’s Nell short for?’
‘Eleanor. What’s Benet long for?’
He grinned at that. ‘Ben. Unfortunately Benet is a family name that gets handed down. Usually it misses a generation because the holder can’t stand it, but then sentimentality intervenes and it’s used again.’
Crossing to the swing chair in front of one of the desks, Nell said, ‘Shall we start work?’
But Ben only crossed his legs at the knee, the way men did when they were relaxed, and said, ‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea to get to know each other a bit more first?’
Nell didn’t, and said bluntly, ‘I don’t see why; we can learn as we work.’
‘Such eagerness,’ he grinned.
‘Naturally I’m eager,’ Nell replied, trying to keep her voice light. ‘After all, I’ve been working on this project for almost a year, writing the synopsis, trying to find a producer to take it.’
‘You’re telling me it’s your baby, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Until Max foisted me on to you.’ Ben was still sitting there casually, his eyes almost half-closed, but Nell had the feeling he was watching her narrowly.
Her chin came up. She had no choice but to work with this man, so she supposed she’d better keep him sweet. ‘He has great faith in you. He went overboard about your adaptation of the Eastern Trilogy and was certain that with you on the team we’d be absolutely sure of success. We were both terrifically pleased when your agent said you were free to take the assignment.’
‘I can see you have a career in creative fiction ahead of you,’ Ben remarked drily. His eyes ran over her again and he said, ‘You don’t look like a writer.’
Surprised, she said, ‘Why not?’
‘Too small, too feminine. Not tough enough.’
‘Should writers be tough, then?’
‘Oh, definitely. Especially women writers.’ Adding, with irony, ‘Strong enough to move their own desk around at any rate.’
She had begun to be amused, but didn’t know how to take that. Instead she looked at him, openly assessing him. She’d expected Benet Rigby, getting on for famous, to be a flamboyant character, long-haired perhaps, semi-intellectual certainly, but the reality seemed to be none of these. Ben was wearing casual clothes, looked even a little unkempt, and although his dark hair was quite long it wasn’t at all arty. Mostly he came across as what he’d said a writer should be—tough; his shoulders were broad and his chin masterful. He wasn’t that old, but there were a few lines around his mouth, and shadows of tiredness around his eyes. Maybe he’d lived it up too well the night before, she surmised, and wondered about the personality behind the face.
‘And your conclusions?’ he asked, perfectly aware of her thoughts.
She smiled a little. ‘You don’t look like a writer.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too tough.’
‘Ah... So we obviously have entirely different ideas about what a writer should look like.’
Nell shook her head. ‘No—we just look in different mirrors.’
Ben laughed at that; a laugh of genuine amusement. Different lines appeared around his mouth, and for the first time she thought that maybe this unwanted collaboration might just work after all.
Maybe Ben thought so too, because he took her synopsis and the book from his briefcase and put them on the table, drew up a chair. ‘I like the book. I tried to get hold of a copy, but there don’t seem to be any around.’
‘No. I found out that it was published privately; that’s why there isn’t a copy in the British Library.’
‘Vanity publishing,’ Ben commented. ‘Somebody must have really believed in the story to do that.’
‘Or else have felt the need to tell it,’ Nell said, coming to sit opposite him.
He raised his left eyebrow, the one that arched more than the other as if he was in the habit of questioning what he heard. ‘You think it’s a true story? That’s hard to believe.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Yes, but for the love-affair to have gone on for so long without the heroine realising who her secret lover was? It’s hardly credible.’
‘Maybe in her heart she did know but didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want to spoil what was perfect.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. It’s certainly very sensitively written.’
‘And that sensitivity is what I want to come over in the adaptation,’ Nell said earnestly. ‘I don’t want this to be just another serial with explicit sex scenes—bare limbs all over the place and moans and groans in the appropriate places. This is a romance in the true sense of the word. That’s the way it’s got to be treated if it’s going to be successful.’
‘Are you implying that I can’t handle that?’
She drew back, realising that her vehemence could have sounded like an accusation. ‘Not at all. I’ve watched the Eastern Trilogy again; you handled that really well.’
‘Again?’
‘I got the tapes out of the television film library to watch last weekend,’ she admitted.
‘Checking up on me?’
‘Doing my homework.’
Ben nodded. ‘Fair enough. But this book differs a great deal from the trilogy. There’s deep passion here as well as romantic love. Earthy, physical passion. That’s what makes the book, and will make it interesting to the viewers. You can’t cut it out.’ He paused, waiting for her to speak, but when she didn’t Ben went on, ‘It needs to be delicately handled to combine the two, but I think we should be able to do it.’
Nell didn’t comment on that, instead reaching out for the book. ‘Shall we make a start?’
‘OK. The first thing to decide is how many episodes.’
‘Max said he couldn’t get money for more than three of one hour.’
‘That should be enough. It will give us an opportunity to express the length of time covered in the book. It’s about twelve years, isn’t it?’
‘Twelve winters.’
‘Yes.’ Ben gave her an appraising look. ‘You’re
