by Ken Follett
An idea struck her. ″Have your A-level results come yet?″
″Yeah. This morning.″
Samantha turned around. ″How did you do?″
″I passed,″ the girl said flatly.
″Good grades?″
″Grade one in English.″
″That′s terrific!″ Samantha enthused.
″Is it?″
Samantha stood up and took the girl′s hands in her own. ″What is it, Anita? Why aren′t you pleased?″
″It don′t make no difference to anything, does it? I can work in the bank for twenty pounds a week, or work in the Brassey′s factory for twenty-five pounds. I could do that without A-levels.″
″But I thought you wanted to go to college.″
Anita turned away. ʺThat was just a silly thing—a dream. I could no more go to college than fly to the moon. What′ll you wear—the white Gatsby dress?″ She opened the wardrobe door.
Samantha went back to her mirror. ʺYes,ʺ she said absently. ″Lots of girls go to college nowadays, you know.″
Anita laid the dress on the bed and put out white tights and shoes. ″You know what it′s like up my place, Sammy. The old man′s in and out of work, no fault of his own. My mum can′t earn much, and I′m the eldest, see. I̋ʹll have to stop home and work for a few years until the little ones start bringing some money home. Actually—″
Samantha put down her lipstick and looked past her own image in the mirror to the young girl who stood behind her. ″What?″
″I was hoping you might keep me on.″
Samantha said nothing for a moment. She had employed Anita as a sort of maid-cum-housekeeper during the girl′s summer holidays. The two of them got on well, and Anita had turned out to be more than efficient. But it had never occurred to Samantha that the arrangement might become permanent.
She said: ″I think you ought to go to college.″
″Fair enough,″ Anita replied. She picked up the teacup from the bedside table and went out.
Samantha put the final touches to her face and dressed in jeans and denim shirt before going downstairs. As she entered the kitchen Anita put a boiled egg and a rack of toast on the small table. Samantha sat down to eat.
Anita poured two cups of coffee and sat down opposite her. Samantha ate in silence, then pushed her plate away and dropped a saccharine tablet into the coffee. Anita took out a short filter-tipped cigarette and lit it.
″Now listen,″ Samantha said. ″If you must get a job, I′d be delighted for you to work for me. You′re a terrific help. But you mustn′t give up hope of going to college.″
″There′s no point in hoping. It′s not on.″
″I′ll tell you what I′m going to do. I′ll employ you, and pay you the same as I′m paying you now. You go to college in the term, and work for me in the holidays-and get the same money all the year round. That way I don′t lose you, you can help your mother, and you can study.″
Anita looked at her wide-eyed. ″You′re ever so kind,″ she said.
″No. I′ve got much more money than I deserve, and I hardly spend any of it. Please say yes, Anita. I could feel I was doing somebody some good.″
″Mum would say it′s charity.″
″You′re eighteen now—you don′t have to do what she says.″
″No.″ The girl smiled. ′″Thank you.″ She stood up and impulsively kissed Samantha. There were tears in her eyes. ″What a bleedin′ turn-up,″ she said.
Samantha stood up, slightly embarrassed. ″I′ll get my lawyer to draw up some kind of thing to make it secure for you. Now I must fly.″
″I′ll ring for a cab,″ said Anita.
Samantha went upstairs to change. As she put on the flimsy white dress which had cost more than Anita′s wages for two months, she felt oddly guilty. It was wrong that she should be able to change the course of a young girl′s life with such a small gesture. The money it would cost would be negligible—and probably tax-deductible, she realized suddenly. It made no difference. What she had told Anita was true. Samantha could quite easily have lived in a stately home in Surrey, or a villa in the South of France: she spent virtually nothing of her vast earnings. Anita was the only full-time servant she had ever employed. She lived in this modest house in Islington. She had no car, no yacht. She owned no land, oil paintings or antiques.
Her thoughts turned to the man who had called last night—what was his name? Julian Black. He had been a bit of a disappointment. In theory, anyone who called on her on the hop had to be interesting: for everyone assumed they would have to pass through a battery of security guards to get at her, and the duller sort of visitor never bothered to try.
Julian had been pleasant enough, and fascinating on his own subject, which was art. But it had not taken Samantha long to find out that he was unhappy with his wife and worried about money; and those two things seemed to sum up his character. She had made it clear she did not want to be seduced by him, and he had made no advances. They had enjoyed a couple of drinks and he had left.
She could have solved his problems as easily as she had solved Anita′s. Perhaps she ought to have offered him money. He didn′t seem to be asking for it, but it was clear he needed it.
Perhaps she ought to patronize artists. But the art world was such a pretentious upper-class scene. Money was spent with no clear idea of its value to real people: people like Anita and her family. No, art was not the solution to Samantha′s dilemma.
There was a ring at the door. She looked out of the window. The taxi was outside. She picked up her script and went down.
She sat back in the comfortable seat of the black cab and flipped through the script she was going to discuss with her agent and a film producer. It was called Thirteenth Night, which would not sell any cinema tickets: but that was a detail. It was a reworking of Shakespeare′s Truelfth Night, but without the original dialogue. The plot made much of the homosexual innuendoes in the play. Orsino was made to fall in love with Cesario before the revelation that Cesario was a woman in man′s clothes; and Olivia was a latent lesbian. Samantha would be cast as Viola, of course.
The taxi stopped outside the Wardour Street office and Samantha got out, leaving the commissionaire to pay the driver. Doors were opened for her as she swept into the building, playing the role of a film star. Joe Davies, her agent, met her and ushered her into his office. She sat down and relaxed her public façade.
Joe closed the door. ″Sammy, I want you to meet Willy Ruskin.″
The tall man who had stood up as Samantha entered now offered his hand. ″It′s a real pleasure, Miss Winacre,″ he said.
The two men were such opposites it was almost comical. Joe was short, overweight, and bald; Ruskin was tall, with thick dark hair over his ears, spectacles, and a pleasant American accent.
The men sat down and Joe lit a cigar. Ruskin of fered Samantha a cigarette out of a slim case; she declined.
Joe began: ″Sammy, I′ve explained to Willy here that we haven′t come to a decision on the script yet; we′re still kicking it around.″
Ruskin nodded. ″I thought it would be nice for us to meet anyway. We can talk about any shortcomings you might think the script has. And I′d naturally like to hear any ideas of your own.″
Samantha nodded, collecting her thoughts. ″I′m interested,″ she said. ″It′s a good idea, and the film is well-written. I found it quite funny. Why did you leave the songs out?″
″The language is wrong for the kind of film we have in mind,″ Ruskin replied.
″Right. But you could write some new ones, and get a good rock composer to write tunes.″
″′That′s an idea,″ Ruskin replied, looking at Samantha with a surprised respect in his eyes.
She went on: ″Why not turn the jester into a loony pop singer—a kind of Keith Moon character?″
Joe interjected: ″Willy, that′s a drummer with a British pop group—″
″Yeah, I know,″ Ruskin said. ″I like this idea. I′m
going to get to work on it right away.″
″Not so fast,″ Samantha said. ″That′s a detail. There′s a much more serious problem with the film for me. It′s a good comedy. Period.″
″I′m sorry—why is that a problem?″ Ruskin said. ″I′m not following you.″
″Me neither, Sammy,″ Joe put in.
Samantha frowned. ″I′m afraid the thought isn′t all that clear in my own mind, either. It′s just that the film doesn′t say anything. It′s got no point to make, nothing to teach anyone, no fresh view of life—you know the sort of thing.″
″Well, there is the thought that a woman can pose as a man and do a man′s job successfully,″ Ruskin offered.
″That may have been subversive in the sixteenth century, but not anymore.″
″And it has a relaxed kind of attitude to homosexuality which might be thought educational.″
″No, it doesn′t,″ Samantha said forcefully. ″Even television allows jokes about homosexuals nowadays.″
Ruskin looked a little resentful. ″To be candid, I don′t see how the kind of thing you′re looking for could be written into a basic commercial comedy like this.″ He lit another cigarette.
Joe looked pained. ″Sammy baby, this is a comedy. It′s meant to make people laugh. And you want to do a comedy, don′t you?″
″Yes.″ Samantha looked at Ruskin. ″I′m sorry to be so down on your script. Let me think about it a little longer, will you?″
Joe said: ″Yeah, give us a few days, okay, Willy? You know I want Sammy to do it.″
ʺSure,ʺ Ruskin said. ″There′s nobody better than Miss Winacre for the part of Viola. But, you know, I have a good script and I want to get a film off the ground. I′ll have to start looking around for alternatives soon.″
″I′ll tell you what, why don′t we talk again in a week?″ Joe said.
″Fine.″
Samantha said: ″Joe, there are some other things I want to talk to you about.″
Ruskin got up. ″Thank you for your time, Miss Winacre.″
When he had left Joe relit his cigar. ″Can you understand how I might feel pretty frustrated about this, Sammy?″
″Yes, I can.″
″I mean, good scripts are few and far between. To make life harder, you ask me to find you a comedy. Not just any comedy, but a modem one which will bring in the kids. I find one, with a beautiful part for you, and you complain it doesn′t have a message.″
She got up and went to the window, looking down upon the narrow Soho street. A van was parked, blocking the road and causing a traffic jam. A driver had got out and was abusing the van driver, who ignored the imprecations and went about delivering boxes of paper to an office.
″Don′t talk as if a message is something you only get in avant-garde off-Broadway plays,″ she said. ″A film can have something to say and still be a commercial success.″
″Not often,″ Joe said.
″Who′s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.?, In the Heat of the Night, The Detective, Last Tango in Paris.″
″None of them made as much money as The Sting.″
Samantha turned away from the window with an impatient jerk of her head. ″Who the hell cares? They were good films, and worth making.″
″I′ll tell you who cares, Sammy. The producers, the writers, the cameramen, the second unit production team, the cinema owners, the usherettes, and the distributors.″
″Yeah,″ she said wearily. She came back to her chair and slumped in it. ″Will you get the lawyer to do something for me, Joe? I want a form of agreement drawn up. There′s a girl working for me as a maid. I′m going to put her through college. The contract should say that I will pay her thirty pounds a week for three years on condition she studies in the term and works for me in the vacation.″
″Sure.″ He was scribbling the details on a pad on his desk. ″That′s a generous thing to do, Sammy.″
″Shit.″ The expletive raised Joe′s eyebrows. Samantha said: ″She was going to stay at home and work in a factory, in order to help support the family. She′s qualified to go to university, but the family can′t do without her earnings. It′s a scandal that there should be anyone like that while there are people earning what you and I earn. I′ve helped her, but what about the thousands of other kids in that position?″
″You can′t solve the world′s problems all on your own, honey,″ Joe said with a touch of complacency.
″Don′t be so bloody condescending,″ she snapped. ″I′m a star—I ought to be able to tell people about this sort of thing. I should shout it from the rooftops—it is not fair, this is not a just society. Why can′t I make films that say that?″
″All sorts of reasons—one being that you won′t get them distributed. We have to make happy films, or exciting films. We have to take people away from their troubles for a few hours. Nobody wants to go to the pictures to see a film all about ordinary people having a hard time.″
″Maybe I shouldn′t be an actress.″
″So what else are you going to do? Be a social worker, and find you can′t really help people because you have too many cases to cope with, and anyway all they really need is money. Be a journalist, and find you have to say what the editor thinks, not what you think. Write poetry and be poor. Be a politician and compromise.″
″It′s only because everyone is as cynical as you that nothing is ever done.″
Joe put his hands on Samantha′s shoulders and squeezed affectionately. ″Sammy, you′re an idealist. You′ve stayed an idealist much longer than most of us. I respect you for it—I love you for it.″
″Ah, don′t give me all that Jewish showbiz crap,″ she said, but she smiled at him fondly. ″All right, Joe, I′ll think about this script some more. Now I have to go.″
″I′ll get you a taxi.″
It was one of those cool, spacious Knightsbridge flats. The wallpaper was a muted, anonymous design; the upholstery was brocaded; the occasional furniture antique. Open French windows to the balcony let in the mild night air and the distant roar of traffic. It was elegant and boring.
So was the party. Samantha was there because the hostess was an old friend. They went shopping together, and sometimes visited each other for tea. But those occasional meetings had not revealed how far apart she and Mary had grown, Samantha reflected, since they had been in repertory together.
Mary had married a businessman, and most of the people at the party seemed to be his friends. Some of the men wore dinner jackets, although the only food was canapes. They all made the most appalling kind of small talk. The little group around Samantha was in an overextended discussion about an unremarkable group of prints hanging on the wall.
Samantha smiled, to take the look of boredom off her face, and sipped champagne. It wasn′t even very good wine. She nodded at the man who was speaking. Walking corpses, the lot of them. With one exception. Tom Copper stood out like a city gent in a steel band.
He was a big man, and looked about Samantha′s age, except for the streaks of gray in his dark hair. He wore a checked workman′s shirt and denim jeans with a leather belt. His hands and feet were broad.
He caught her eye across the room, and the heavy mustache stretched across his lips as he smiled. He murmured something to the couple he was with and moved away from them, toward Samantha.
She half-turned away from the group discussing the prints. Tom bent his head to her ear and said: ″I′ve come to rescue you from the art appreciation class.″
″Thanks. I needed it.″ They had turned a little more now, so that although they were still close to the group, they no longer seemed part of it.
Tom said: ″I have the feeling you′re the star guest.″ He offered her a long cigarette.
″Yeah.″ She bent to his lighter. ″So what does that make you?″
″Token working-class representative.″
″There′s nothing working-class about that lighter.″ It was slender, monogrammed, and seemed to be gold.
He broadened his London accent: ″Wide boy, ain′t I?″ Samantha laughed, and he switched to a plum-in-the-mouth accent to say: ″More champagne, madam?″
They walked over to the buffet table, where he filled her glass and offered her a plate of small biscuits, each with a dab of caviar in its center. She shook her head.
″Ah, well.″ He put two in his mouth at once.
″How did you meet Mary?″ Samantha asked curiously.
He grinned again. ″What you mean is, how does she come to be associated with a roughneck like me? We both went to Madame Clair′s Charm School in Romford. It cost my mother blood, sweat and tears to send me there once a week—much good did it do me. I could never be an actor.″
″What do you do?″
″Told you, didn′t I? I′m a wide boy.″
″I don′t believe you. I think you′re an architect, or a solicitor, or something.″
He took a flat tin from his hip pocket, opened it, and palmed two blue capsules. ″You don′t believe these are drugs, either, do you?″
″No.″
″Ever done speed?″
She shook her head again. ″Only hash.″
″You only need one, then.″ He pressed a capsule into her hand.
She watched as he swallowed three, washing them down with champagne. She slipped the blue oval into her mouth, took a large sip from her glass, and swallowed with difficulty. When she could no longer feel the capsule in her throat she said: ″See? Nothing.″
″Give it a few minutes, you′ll be taking your clothes off.″
She narrowed her eyes. ″Is that what you did it for?″
He did his cockney accent again. ″I wasn′t even there, Inspector.″
Samantha began to fidget, tapping her foot to nonexistent music. ″I bet you′d run a mile if I did,″ she said, and laughed loudly.
Tom gave a knowing smile. ″Here it comes″
She felt suddenly full of energy. Her eyes widened and a slight flush came to her cheeks. ″I′m sick of this bloody party,″ she said a little too loudly. ″I want to dance.″
Tom put his arm around her waist. ″Let′s go.″
