Lucky Break (13 page)

‘Actually,' Nell folded her napkin and laid it on the table, ‘it's been great meeting you, but I really have to go now.'

‘No, no, no,' he looked astounded. ‘I never let anyone out of my house without giving them the tour. Come on, we can talk as we walk.' He seized the bottle and topped up both their glasses. ‘It won't take long.'

Nell was relieved to be on the move. Anything to get out of that claustrophobic tower of a room, and anyway, as soon as they reached the parlour with its copies of
Country Life
, she'd make her excuses and run. She imagined the door handle, already in her palm, the covered walkway leading to the outside world. But Harold Rabnik was walking the other way. ‘Take a look at this,' he flung open double doors that led into a sitting room, where deep, floral sofas were grouped around glass tables, their low surfaces heaped with photographic books, jugs of flowers, vases, lamps already lit. But what Nell noticed most was that outside it was dark. What time was it? She squinted to see the hour on a grandfather clock on the far side of the room, while Harold Rabnik walked to the window and closed a wall of curtains with a swift tug of a cord. ‘That's better,' he said, and he threw himself down on a couch. ‘Tell me. Do you ride?'

Nell wasn't sure if she'd misheard.

‘Am I wrong, or can I see a passion for ponies somewhere in your youth?'

‘Yes.' She laughed, despite herself. ‘I did ride. I used to help out in the local stables. But not for years.'

‘I thought so,' Harold Rabnik shook his head. ‘You see, I need my actress to be able to ride, and to have an air of . . .' he looked at her, ‘innocent reticence. Nell Gilby, I'm very excited about you. I may have found what I've been looking for.'

Nell moved forward and sat on the sofa opposite him. ‘Really?'

‘Let me tell you,' he lowered his voice, ‘there are girls out there, ten a penny, who hold nothing back. What you see is what you get, do you know what I mean? But with you it's different. I've been watching you, and I can see it. The old brain working, weighing things up, assessing. You're not impressed by just anything. Am I right?'

Nell took a breath. ‘Is the film set now . . . or in the past? Do you write the screenplays yourself, or, or . . . ?' Her heart was beating as she hurtled past his compliments. What would they say at Drama Arts if she overtook the favourites – Dan and Charlie, Hettie and Marvella, before they'd even finished college?

Harold Rabnik put his head on one side. ‘Well. At the moment everything is wide open. So, yes, no, or possibly, to all your questions. Anyway, come on, you want to see the house.' He led her out of the room and to the foot of the stairs, the wine in his glass wobbling as he ascended. ‘You're about to see some of the most up-to-date technology on this side of the Atlantic,' he said. ‘For anyone interested in film, which I know you are, it's not to be missed.'

Nell nudged her own glass on to a ledge on the landing and abandoned it.

‘Now, my girl,' they were peering into a bedroom, the bed's oxblood quilt piled high with cushions, its headboard draped in gold brocade, ‘expect to be amazed!' and he moved towards the bed and pressed a button which activated a full-sized screen which slid slowly, noiselessly down the wall behind her. ‘Quick, come in and shut the door,' and as she did so the lights dimmed and music poured from every corner of the room. ‘Here,' he patted the cushions beside him, ‘see this,' and there on the screen opposite them was a girl's back, a coil of strawberry-blonde hair snaking over one shoulder, the soft shape of one breast just visible. She had a cloth wrapped loosely round her waist, slipping a little to reveal her thigh, and then as she leant forward, large letters bled on to the screen. A HAROLD RABNIK FILM. The girl turned, hoisting up her muslin cloth, and Nell gasped as she recognised her favourite actress, the actress whose role in the TV series
Shannon
had prompted her to apply to the National Youth Theatre when she was thirteen.

‘Lovely, isn't she?' Harold Rabnik had kicked off his shoes and was stretched out on the quilt, his hands behind his head, gazing up from the front row of his own cinema. ‘She'd probably still be working in Tesco's if I hadn't given her a break.'

God, Nell thought, this is ridiculous. But good manners dictated that she watch ten minutes at least. The girl ran through a field, looking shyly back over her shoulder at the camera, her skirt bunched up in her hands, her white calico milkmaid's top laced with delicate ribbon. A shadow darkened the screen, a shoulder, the arm of a coat, and chasing her was a dark-haired man with gleaming teeth. A door flew open, the girl ran through a farmyard kitchen, across a flagstone floor, up a ladder to a loft, and now the man was behind her, and at last, as the music swirled, they tumbled together on to the bed, all oatmeal sheets and rough blankets, her summer hair falling across his face.

‘ENRAPTURE,' a trumpet heralded the title, ‘
written, directed and produced
by HAROLD RABNIK.'

Beside her, Harold Rabnik sighed. ‘Now,' his hand moved across and patted Nell's, ‘I want you to tell me which of these girls is the one who reminds me of you.' He kept his hand on hers, stroking it absent-mindedly. Nell cleared her throat and tried, politely, to remove it.

‘Ah, this scene, it looks so simple, it was actually a fucker to shoot.' On the screen a group of girls were wading into the river. They had their skirts hitched up, the ends already wet, and they were filling wooden buckets and bringing them dripping to the side. ‘Can you see her?'

Nell stared at the screen. As soon as she identified her she could go, and then one of the girls slipped, soaking her white cotton chemise, so that the material became invisible. The girl looked down at herself, the blush of her nipples appearing through the cloth, and hearing laughter she picked up her bucket, filled it and hurled a spray of water at her friend. The other woman shrieked. Her shirt was wet through too, and soon there was a frenzy of splashing and giggling, as the first girl peeled off her dripping blouse. ‘Her big scene,' Harold sniggered, and Nell leapt from the bed. ‘I have to go.' She looked round for the door, but his arm shot out and seized her. ‘Did no one ever teach you any manners?' His mouth was small and mean. ‘At that pony club of yours.'

Nell swallowed.

‘No one likes to be disturbed while watching a film, and especially not their own.'

‘I'm meant to be somewhere . . . my boyfriend . . .' she stuttered.

‘It's your boyfriend now, is it?'

On the screen the girl had fallen and slipped into some mud. The mud had splashed across her chest and now she was dabbing at her quite enormous breasts in a pathetic attempt to wipe it off.

‘Actually, we're engaged.' Nell pulled away and stumbled for the door, but with surprising alacrity Harold Rabnik was up and blocking her way. ‘Engaged?' He raised his eyebrows as if the whole thing was a joke. ‘So then, may I propose a last exquisite fling before you plunge into the banality of marriage?'

Nell tried to laugh. ‘No, really.'

‘Are you sure?' He moved in closer so that Nell was backed against the wall.

‘You may not know this but I never cast anyone unless I've had a chance to get to know them, personally.' He slid his short leg between hers and pushed his face close for a kiss. ‘No!' she protested. But the blunt end of his tongue, thick and liverish, slipped inside her mouth. Her stomach heaved. ‘Get off me!' She shoved him so hard he tottered back, and she ran to the door, wrenching it open. But it was only a cupboard, a row of bright shirts wavering with shock. ‘If you don't let me go right now,' she spat at him, ‘I'll call the police.'

‘And what will you tell them?' His eyes were tiny. ‘That, after an intimate supper and some very superior wine, you found yourself in a certain person's bedroom, only to change your mind?'

‘Ooooh,' the screen women moaned. They were rubbing mud into each other's bodies.

‘Just let me out and I won't say anything,' Nell changed tack, searching the dim room for another door. ‘I promise you. The thing is,' she forced tears into her eyes, ‘I'm pregnant.'

Harold Rabnik laughed.

‘I am, I really am. I know it doesn't show yet but . . .'

‘Is that what they taught you at that fancy drama school of yours? Pathetic!' And Nell blushed to the roots of her hair.

‘I am,' she insisted fiercely, ‘I am pregnant!' And as if to illuminate the havoc caused by her hormones she picked up a small statue that stood on its own podium and flung it across the room.

‘No,' Harold Rabnik gasped, ‘not my Global Globe,' and he careered after it as it slid under a chaise-longue.

Nell seized her chance. She hurled herself against the wall, searching for the door, until embedded in the soft flock of the paper she found a hinge. And there was the handle, disguised as the centre of a flower, and while the screen women moaned, she pulled the door open and slipped through. She ran without looking until she reached the landing, and then glancing back to check she wasn't being followed, she almost threw herself down the stairs. Nell scurried past the sitting room, the dining room, into the office, her blood racing, imagining him behind her, his hot fat hands holding her back. What if the door was double locked? She pulled at the catches, frantic, her nails tearing, sure she could hear his heavy steps, but magically she was out in the cool air, running along the covered corridor that led to the street.

In the distance, travelling towards her, was the orange light of a cab. ‘Taxi! she screamed, racing towards it, waving, terrified she wouldn't be seen, but the taxi stopped and the man rolled down the window.

‘Where to, love?'

‘Archway.' She threw herself into the back.

The cabbie adjusted his meter, flicked off his light and began moving forward. ‘Hey, that's where that Harold Rabkin lives, isn't it?' He twisted to look at the wall of metal spikes.

‘Yes,' Nell wiped her eyes. ‘I was just there. He's horrible. He tried to . . .'

But the cabbie wasn't listening. ‘Here,' he was grinning round at her, ‘when you see him again, you couldn't put in a word for me, could you? You see, I'm hoping to get into the old acting game myself. This job, this is back-up, while I wait for my big break.'

Nell turned towards the window. It had started to rain, fine slanting splinters that sliced against the glass. There was no film. She felt disgusted. And even if there was, it wouldn't be for her. ‘Actually,' the numbers on the meter were rising dangerously, ‘you'd better drop me here. I'll catch the bus.'

Tomorrow she'd get up and make her way to the juvenile court. She'd listen to the life story of someone with no chance at their dreams at all. Someone like Nonnie, the sixteen-year-old Turkish girl who'd been caught shoplifting and was in danger of being sent down. ‘I'm sentencing you,' the judge had told her, ‘to fifty hours' community service,' and he'd added that although he had to take into account the twenty-seven previous convictions against her, he was also keeping in mind the baby daughter she lived with in a hostel in Streatham, and the promises she'd made to reform.

‘I'll try my best,' Nonnie had stood out on the street with Nell and the lawyer. ‘Honest guv, I will.' And she'd flashed a mischievous smile, revealing the gap between her two front teeth, so that it had taken all Nell's strength not to run after her as she wandered down Vauxhall Bridge Road and slip her own address into her hand.

Big Heat

Charlie allowed herself a small triumphant smile. ‘She took me on.'

‘Really?' Rob looked up from his prone position on the sofa. ‘Maisie Monck?' He dropped the book he'd been reading, a worn, familiar copy of Bukowski –
The Most Beautiful Girl in Town
. ‘But of course she'd take you on. Why wouldn't she? She'll make a fortune out of you.' He sat up and stretched. ‘Come to think of it, I should get a cut, dragging her along to that interminable four-hour production of
Hamlet
.'

‘It was a work of genius.' Charlie narrowed her black eyes. ‘My Ophelia was sublime. And anyway, you do get a cut, regularly.'

‘I do?' He grinned. ‘Not every night, though, eh?'

The night before, after meeting Rob from his production of
Hedda Gabler
, Charlie had had to wait for thirty minutes, smiling coolly by the bar while Rob dispensed wisdom to a wide-eyed, melting understudy. ‘I have a meeting tomorrow morning, in case you've forgotten,' she'd said eventually, trying to keep sweet for the sake of her audience, and nodding goodbye, she'd headed for the door. But Rob didn't immediately follow. Charlie had stood out on the street, bracing herself against the taunts and whistles of a horde of football fans let loose on a night out, cursing him with every minute that passed. As punishment she'd stood stiffly apart on the busy late-night Tube, her mind searching round for evidence of all the grievances she had sustained in the three years since they'd met. ‘Wish me luck then, why don't you?' she'd spat, as they stamped up the stairs to their flat, and when he didn't speak, she'd pushed past him into the spare room and slammed the door so ferociously the loose panes of the window rattled.