Lucky Break (12 page)

‘Arsehole,' Mr Hawley sniggered.

A row collapsed around him. ‘Our soles. R soles.'

The South Americans watched unblinking as their shoes travelled the length of the courtroom. They didn't smile or glance round, denying themselves even the comfort of friendship in order to keep up the pretence of never having seen each other before.

‘Unless they really don't know each other?' Nell worried.

Colin, the clerk beside her, laughed. ‘They come from one small village in outer bloody Guatemala.' He shook his head. ‘They were rounded up during a single police sweep of the Tube. What do you think they were doing? Making separate trips to the circus?'

At the lunch break Colin asked if she wanted to get something to eat. She had been planning to buy a sandwich and sit in the cemetery, her face in the sun, the trilling of bird song sharp over the traffic, but instead she walked to a corner café with Colin, where they sat at a metallic table and ate sliced white bread sandwiches so tasteless, that, following his lead, Nell opened her bag of crisps and pushed some inside. Conversation became impossible as their lunch scattered and crunched. ‘How very civilised,' Colin wiped his mouth, his shirt front and his trousers. ‘We must stop meeting like this.'

‘Yes,' Nell laughed. ‘Actually, I'm on another case tomorrow. Down in Pimlico. At the juvenile court.'

Colin took a slug of Seven Up. ‘Shame. Will you be back in time to hear the verdict on this one, do you think?'

‘I don't know. I'd like to be.'

‘If you fancy . . .' Colin was searching for more crumbs, ‘I could take your number. Let you know how it ends up?'

‘Yes. I'd like that.' She didn't say how much she hoped that they'd get off.

‘Softie,' he said, as if he'd heard her anyway, and he passed her his pen.

 

Nell could hear the phone ringing as she turned her key in the lock of her flat door. It wasn't five yet, and Pierre would still be at the call centre, where he had a job. Nell threw down her bag and ran to answer it. ‘Hello?'

‘Is that Nell Gilby?'

‘Speaking.'

‘Ah ha.' It was a man and she could hear the rustle of paper before he went on. ‘Now, I got your number from
Spotlight
, and I have someone who would like to meet you. Do you have a pen?'

Nell looked round, frantic. She couldn't see one. She retrieved her bag and pulled out Colin the clerk's pen, which she'd absent-mindedly stolen.

‘Right?'

‘So . . .' the man coughed, ‘Harold Rabnik would like to see you for his new film. I'm arranging meetings for later today. If you could make, say, 6.45. He was very taken with your photo.'

Nell stared at the paper on which she'd written ‘Harold Rabnik'. Harold Rabnik! She and Pierre had been to see his most recent film only the week before. If she was honest she'd found it boring, gratuitously violent and comical by turns, but Pierre had loved it, said the knife-wielding psychopath was ironic and if she'd seen his earlier, edgier films she'd have understood. Nell pressed the point of the pen hard into the paper. ‘Today?'

‘Well, yes, this evening. For a quick chat? Are you available?'

‘Yes.' Nell wanted to suggest he see her tomorrow, when she'd had time to prepare, but then what about her case? She had to be in Pimlico by ten. ‘When would the job start?'

‘Oh, Mr Rabnik will talk to you about that,' the man said vaguely. ‘So, here's the address,' and he began to spell out for her the name of the street. ‘Thank you, we look forward to meeting you,' and he put down the phone.

 

Nell calculated she had an hour before she had to leave. She ran herself a bath, topping the lukewarm water up with kettles, searching through her clothes for something to wear. ‘Damn,' she told herself, ‘I should have asked what kind of character it was for.' She stared at the mess of cotton T-shirts and bobbled jumpers, the jeans and skirts and tights. The only smart things she owned, she was wearing. A black skirt with three buttons at the back before it fanned out. A cherry-coloured cardigan and cream silk shirt. But she needed something new for Harold Rabnik. She began to lift down the clothes she never wore. A black satin shift dress she'd made herself. A maroon velvet coat she could never quite accept was too long. She chose the dress, matched it with long socks and a beaded emerald cardigan. She hung them together on the bathroom door and watched them while she washed. What if the part was for a cleaning woman, or a revolutionary? She cursed herself for not asking. Or a character from history? Maybe she should put her hair up in a bun? But Harold Rabnik had seen her photo. She closed her eyes. He'd been ‘very taken' with her photo, and fat tears squelched out from under her eyelids as she allowed herself to imagine that he might be happy with her, exactly as she was.

 

Nell assumed she was heading for an office, with late-working secretaries and a lift, but once she was out of the Tube she found herself in a leafy street of houses. They had canopied front doors, huge windows, and the further she walked, the larger the houses loomed. Number 51, she checked the doors, and to her alarm she saw that number 51 was a mansion in its own enclosed garden, its stone wall, eight feet high at least, topped with iron spikes. Nell stared at the address. Her heart was beating. What if it was just her and Harold Rabnik? And then she remembered the man's voice. ‘We look forward to meeting you.' Of course, there would be any number of people there. She glanced at her watch. It was 6.44. She waited a few more seconds and rang the bell. ‘It's Nell Gilby,' she spoke into the grate, ‘I have an audi . . .' The door buzzed and she was in.

A covered pathway led through the garden, luscious and visible through glass, to another door that stood open. ‘Welcome. Very good of you to come.' An exceedingly smart man came forward to meet her. ‘Mr Rabnik will see you in a minute, he's just on a call.' He looked her over, giving nothing away. ‘Please, take a seat.'

Nell sat in an old-fashioned parlour, on an ornate wooden chair. There were Wellington boots and raincoats and a pile of
Country Life
magazines. It was so still she felt as if she was in the country. Faintly she could hear a gruff, American voice, unhurried, amused. She imagined a man with his feet up on the desk, a man prepared to give her a chance in his next block-busting film. She remembered to breathe and in an effort to calm herself, she picked up a magazine. A girl stared out at her. Pale-skinned, in pearls, her ash-blonde hair brushed over to the side. ‘Sir Anthony and Lady Browne are delighted to present their daughter Alice.' It was a coming-out photograph, in the old style. Alice was leaning against a stone pillar, a spray of pink roses complementing the blush of rouge across her cheeks. ‘Alice loves horses and dogs, especially her black and white terrier Minstrel. She is planning to take a cordon bleu cooking course . . .'

‘Nell Gilby?'

Nell flapped shut the magazine and stood up.

Harold Rabnik was a short, balding man, his shoulders sloping under a flowered shirt. He put out his hand to shake hers. ‘Well, hello,' he said in a transatlantic drawl. ‘Welcome to Rabnik Towers.'

‘Very nice to meet you,' she said, her hand still caught in his, and when he didn't let it go, she added, ‘Thank you. I mean. Great.'

Harold Rabnik looked at her. ‘There's nothing to be nervous of.' He let go of her hand. ‘Now, come along through and we can have a chat.' He led her into the main part of the house, into the office where his assistant was now on the phone, through into a dining room where a highly polished table was set with candelabra, and paintings of high-tailed horses lined the panelled walls. ‘Bought it fully furnished and kept everything the way it was.' He opened the door into another, smaller room. ‘Although this here is my favourite.' The room was oval, painted pale blue, with arched windows high up like a turret. A table was laid with a damask cloth, and there were place settings for two. ‘I hope you'll be my guest?'

Nell stepped back in surprise. ‘Your assistant . . . he just said, a little chat . . .'

‘Relax.' Harold Rabnik smiled. ‘It's OK. I was down on my luck once too, you know. So I like to share my good fortune.' He pulled out a chair. ‘Sit, eat, drink, enjoy.'

Nell flushed. ‘Actually,' she was stalling. ‘I really have to . . . can I use the bathroom?'

With an almost imperceptible frown, Harold Rabnik directed her along a corridor to a cloakroom the walls of which were lined with photographs of young men, Brideshead fashion, steering punts. Nell looked at them distractedly before examining herself. Her eyes shone glassily, her cheeks were blazing red, and her hair, held back for a day in court, stood out statically around her head. It's all right, she told herself, that man is here, and if we're having supper, there's probably a cook, and even a waiter. She washed her hands, adjusted her clothes, attempting to pull her socks as high as they would go to cover the suddenly suggestive schoolgirl gap above her knees.

‘So,' Harold Rabnik was sitting at the table, tearing apart a bread roll. ‘I hope you've built up an appetite, or at least a thirst that we can quench.' He rose from his seat and poured her a glass of wine. ‘This is a particularly fine full-bodied red.'

Nell put the glass to her mouth and sipped. ‘Mmm,' she said, obedient.

Soon there was a tap at the door and the assistant, an apron round his pinstriped waist, appeared with an enormous tray. He set it on the side and brought them each a bowl of soup. ‘Thank you, you can leave the rest of the dishes. We'll manage from now on ourselves.'

‘Of course.' The man dipped his head, and looked briefly in Nell's direction. ‘I'll see you tomorrow then?'

Nell looked up. ‘Good bye, nice to meet you,' she said brightly, and to show she was unconcerned she took up her spoon and dipped it into the pale green swirl of soup. Before she'd even raised it to her mouth she knew that it was cold. So there is no cook, she thought. Or if there was one, they've gone home. She laid her spoon down again, and listened, and hearing nothing but retreating footsteps, she took another gulp of wine.

‘Well,' Harold Rabnik wiped a streak of green from the corner of his mouth, ‘tell me about yourself, why don't you?'

Nell hesitated. What did he want to know? All she could think about was when it would be polite to leave. ‘Well . . .' Nothing that came into her mind – Drama Arts, the sixteen south American pickpockets, the usual procedure for auditions – seemed in any way appropriate. ‘Well,' she said again, ‘I went to see your film last week.'

Harold Rabnik smiled. ‘And what did you think?'

‘We . . . I liked it. I missed some of it, I had to keep my hands over my eyes . . .' She tried to laugh.

‘I'll take that as a compliment.' It was clear he was used to more overt enthusiasm. His smile was thin as he stood up to clear their bowls. ‘I hope you're not a vegetarian or anything.'

‘No.'

‘We have a little shoulder of lamb.'

‘So,' Nell wrested back the conversation. ‘What's your new film about? I mean . . . your assistant mentioned you had me in mind . . . ?'

Harold Rabnik cut into the meat. ‘The thing is, Nell, I'm at a very early stage with this film, and when I'm at an early stage I'm constantly looking round for inspiration. To be totally honest with you,' he slid a plate of pale pink meat into place before her, ‘your photograph reminded me of someone, a very interesting young woman . . . a talented actress, in fact . . .' He passed over a bowl of string beans. ‘I hope I haven't offended you. Insinuating you're not an original, in your lovely form. But it is uncanny . . .' He gazed at her.

‘No,' Nell said cheerfully, hoping he would stop.

‘Actually, this particular actress was in one of my very first films, one of my most successful, so I suppose if you were to psychoanalyse me, which I'm sure you have no desire to do, you might find I was trying to claw my way back to my youth. My days of glory.' He grinned and raised his glass. ‘More wine?'

Nell shook her head. She felt a little dizzy, but couldn't make herself eat.

Harold Rabnik's appetite, on the other hand, was hearty. He tore apart another roll, mopping up the gravy with bread, and then, heaping his plate with salad, he pushed the leaves into his mouth, leaning over so that the dressing dripped down his chin. Pierre would be home from work by now, Nell thought, regretting she'd been in too much of a hurry to leave a note. She'd call him as soon as she got out. But Harold Rabnik was pouring them more wine. ‘I've always loved the Brits,' he told her, ‘and everything British, so as soon as I could I came over here to make movies.' He embarked on a story involving a shoot in the West Country which ran into trouble when two wolves he'd had imported from Transylvania escaped and the leading lady refused to come out of her trailer. ‘Oh Lord,' he stopped, his fork in the air, ‘that reminds me, I never called back a certain young friend of mine. Poor sweetheart, she was fretting whether or not to sign up to some dreadful pilot with an option of six years, when of course she mustn't, especially when I haven't decided yet who I'm going to cast in my next film.' He winked at Nell and stood up to open another bottle.