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
