Shadow Play

Shadow Play

Sally Wentworth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘BUT that isn’t fair!’ Nell protested. ‘After all, it was my idea to adapt the book.’

‘And it was a good idea which deserves to succeed,’ the producer said smoothly. ‘You do want it to succeed, don’t you?’

‘Meaning?’ Nell’s face hardened even as she asked the question because she already knew his answer.

‘Meaning that it will have a much better chance with someone who’s experienced in writing for television to adapt it.’

‘I’ve adapted several books for radio,’ she pointed out.

‘But television is an entirely different medium.’

‘I know I can do it,’ she said doggedly, trying to keep the anger out of her voice, knowing it was useless, that he’d already made up his mind.

Max Elliott shook his head. ‘Sorry, Nell, I can’t afford to take the chance. But what I will do is to have you collaborate on the adaptation; that way you’ll get some good experience so that maybe next time you’ll be able to do the job yourself. How does that sound?’ He grinned at her, expecting her to be grateful.

Stifling her disappointment with great difficulty, knowing that she had to keep him sweet, Nell managed a small smile and said tightly, ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

Max laughed, pleased that he’d managed things so diplomatically. Reaching across the desk, he patted her hand. ‘Don’t look so unhappy; your name will be on the credits and everyone will know it was your idea.’

Nell dropped her pen on the floor and took her hand from under his to pick it up. It looked perfectly natural but wasn’t. Afterwards she folded her hands in her lap, out of his reach. ‘Who were you thinking of to do the adaptation, then?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure yet. I have to find out who’s available. But I do have someone in mind, and if we can get him...’ He made an expansive gesture, but then tapped his finger against the side of his rather long nose. ‘But I mustn’t speculate. I have to make sure first.’

‘It’s got to be someone good,’ Nell insisted.

‘Don’t worry, it will be. I want this project to be a success for all our sakes,’ Max assured her.

She leaned towards him, her chin thrust forward determinedly. ‘And there’s something else I want made clear.’

‘And what’s that?’ he asked indulgently, willing to accede a point now that he hadn’t been forced to fight and come the heavy to make her accept someone else to do the job. She’d taken defeat gracefully enough, and for that he was grateful.

‘I want whoever does it to be quite sure that this is a collaboration, an equal collaboration,’ she stressed. ‘I’m not going to be there as some glorified secretary, at some man’s beck and call. The person you’re going to get may have the technical know-how for television, but I know how I want the book to be adapted. You know that from the comprehensive synopsis I gave you.’

‘And it was the synopsis that sold the idea to me, and that’s the way I want it to be adapted, too. So you’ve got no worries on that score.’

‘But I might have on the other,’ she guessed shrewdly.

Max shrugged. ‘It’s up to you to work out a working relationship with the adaptor. It wouldn’t be professional of me to tell him how to behave towards you.’

He’d said ‘him’ again, Nell noticed, and was sure now that the person he had in mind was definitely a man. It was bound to be, she supposed wryly. ‘But you will make it clear to him that this is to be an equal collaboration?’ she repeated.

Max looked at her, wondering how a girl who had such striking looks could also be so intelligent. For a moment he was tempted to tell her to sort it out herself, but the book would make great television and he wanted her to come to him if she had any more bright ideas, so he said, ‘It will be written into the contract.’

She nodded, satisfied, and got down to practicalities. ‘How soon do you think we would be able to start?’

‘All depends if I can get the person I want.’

‘Haven’t you asked him yet?’

‘I’ve put out feelers to his agent,’ he admitted cautiously. ‘I gather there are one or two problems, but I should know definitely within a couple of weeks. I expect there’s some work he’s got to finish or something,’ he guessed.

‘Where will we work?’

‘How about your place?’

Nell shook her head decisively. ‘Too small and too noisy.’

‘Well, if the writer doesn’t have an office you can always use a spare one in this building. That OK?’

‘Fine.’ Her brown eyes filled with eagerness. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

Max smiled, but said rather drily, ‘Well, don’t make a start by yourself; don’t forget this is supposed to be an equal collaboration, and equal works both ways.’

She gave a genuine smile of appreciation at that, warming and lighting a face that, although attractive, could be withdrawn in repose. ‘I won’t.’ She stood up. ‘You’ll let me know as soon as you know who the writer will be for sure?’

‘Of course.’

Nell left then, and took the Tube to Broadcasting House where a children’s serial she had adapted was due for rehearsal. There were a couple of hours to kill first, so she walked up the stairs to the first floor and took the lift up to the canteen on the eighth. Here she bought a coffee and sandwich, and 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 own mind she was certain that it was by a woman; surely only a woman could have described those love scenes with such feeling, such intimacy.

Nell pushed the thought of the love scenes aside, finding them oddly disturbing. She would have to think about them when it came time to put them into the script, of course, but love scenes were usually visual things and they would be quickly done. Until then she would forget them and the strange feeling of disquiet they gave her.

The bell rang and she ran down the single flight of stairs to the front door. Her flat was in a mews, above what had once been stables for a large house on the main road that had been converted into luxury apartments fifty years ago. The stables were now used to garage cars but Nell had been living in the flat above for the last two years. She opened the door and was taken aback to see a figure that looked as if it had escaped from the latest robot-cop movie. Dressed all in black leather motorcycle gear and with a helmet with the visor down, the man was so tall he towered over her.

He had half turned away but looked round as the door opened. He lifted his hand as if to raise the visor but it must have been merely to shield his eyes from the sun. His voice was muffled and he said after a moment, ‘Miss Marsden?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve called to collect a parcel.’

Reluctantly she held the envelope out to him. ‘You will be careful with it, won’t you?’

Looking at the powerful black motorbike that stood at the kerb, she noticed that there were no panniers showing the name of the company as she’d seen on all the other messenger-service bikes that were forever weaving their way through the London traffic. She went to ask the man where he meant to put it for safety, but he had already unzipped the front of his leather jacket and was putting the envelope inside.

‘Are you sure it will be all right there?’ He nodded, but she was by no means reassured and said sharply, ‘I hope your company’s insured, because if you lose it I’ll sue.’

The messenger, so intimidating in his faceless blackness, looked down at her for a moment, making Nell feel physically weak and helpless, a sensation she didn’t like, but then he lifted a hand, whether in farewell or acknowledgement she couldn’t tell, put his legs astride the powerful machine, and roared off down the cobbled road.

Nell was at Max’s office promptly on Monday morning but Benet Rigby was late. It was almost ten before he appeared, and by then Nell was annoyed enough to notice only that he looked untidy, as if he’d thrown his clothes on, and that he needed a shave. Or maybe it was supposed to be designer stubble. If it was it didn’t suit him, she thought crossly.

But at least he apologised, if somewhat brusquely. ‘Sorry I’m late. Domestic crisis.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Max answered in what Nell felt was an ingratiating tone. ‘This is Nell Marsden, who had the brilliant idea of adapting the book.’

‘Hello.’

‘How do you do?’ Nell returned primly, still annoyed, and was rather surprised to have her hand taken in a firm grip and to be looked over by a pair of quizzical grey eyes as it was shaken. Max didn’t bother to introduce Ben to her. ‘Did you receive the book all right?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Of course.’

Her relief was tainted by the amusement in his answer, as if he thought her a silly, fussing female. Turning to Max, she said, ‘Have you got an office in mind for us?’

‘Yes, a couple of floors up. This way.’

They all got into the small lift, Nell standing next to Ben. She was wearing her high heels today which gave her several extra inches and usually allowed her to look most men near enough in the eye, but even so she only came up to his shoulder. She sighed inwardly, wondering if he was the kind of man who would use his extra height, as well as his masculinity and his extra experience, to try to browbeat her. Well, he’d soon find that his extra foot wouldn’t do him any good, Nell thought determinedly, then almost laughed aloud at the mental image that thought conjured up.

Her eyes were still bright with inner laughter when they walked into the office. Ben’s gaze swept round it and then turned towards her, but he stopped what he was going to say and instead lifted a questioning eyebrow when he saw her face. ‘What’s funny?’

She shook her head. ‘Private joke.’

The office was equipped with a couple of desks holding word processors, a central table, filing cabinet and a leather settee against the far wall. It was well lit, too, with lamps on the desks and a large window that caught the morning sunlight. ‘This is great.’ She turned to Max and smiled. ‘Thanks for arranging it.’

‘My pleasure. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.’

‘How about a phone?’ Ben suggested.

‘Well, I can get one put in if you really want one, but I thought you’d rather not be interrupted. You can always use the phone in my office if—’

‘I’d prefer a phone in here,’ Ben insisted.

His assumption that she’d go along with his wishes angered Nell. ‘I’m quite happy to do without one.’

Ben didn’t say anything, just glanced at her, then at Max.

‘I’ll have one put in straight away,’ Max said. ‘Anything else?’

‘Paper. Pencils,’ Nell said, not to be outdone. ‘A kettle to make coffee.’

‘All in the cupboard and drawers.’

‘A “Do not disturb” sign,’ Ben added with what Nell thought was a faintly mocking grin.

Max laughed. ‘Of course. I’ll find one for you.’ He rubbed his nose enthusiastically. ‘OK, then, I’ll leave you two to it. Keep me posted how you’re getting along and we’ll talk over the first draft of the first episode as soon as you come up with it.’

His going left behind him a silence that Nell didn’t find comfortable. Determined to be businesslike, she took off her jacket and hung it on the stand. ‘I’ll take the desk nearest the window, shall I?’ And she moved towards it.

But Ben shook his head. ‘No, let’s rearrange the place.’ He walked several times round the room, like a dog exploring a new kennel, looked out of the window and adjusted the sun-blinds. Max’s assistant came in with the phone and found himself helping Ben to move the furniture around. When they’d finished the settee was under the window and the two desks were in the middle of the room with their backs to each other. The phone was put on one of the desks, the one on which Ben dropped his briefcase.

Nell had been leaning against the wall, out of the way, watching with her arms folded, her indignation growing. ‘Happy now?’ she asked sardonically when they were alone again.

Ben shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see how it works. If we’re not satisfied with the arrangement we can always change it again.’

‘We?’ Again her tone was sardonic.

Ben’s eyes flicked at her and she braced herself for an argument, but he ducked it, merely saying, ‘As I said, if you don’t like it this way when we’ve given it a try, we’ll move the stuff around again until we get it right. Is that what you wanted me to say?’

‘No. I’d like to have heard you ask my opinion before you started throwing the furniture around.’

‘I see. Stating your terms and conditions already, are you?’

‘It would appear to be necessary.’

‘Only 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.’