Since leaving college Nell had been on the books of a firm of solicitors whose offices were in Soho. She worked, filling in for other, more permanent clerks, sometimes a day here or there, and occasionally, if the case was quick, following it from beginning to end. The days were short, from ten to four, which meant, in theory, she was still available for auditions. Sorry, she could say, I can’t get to the high court tomorrow, I’m up for a musical touring production of Phaedra, but in reality, with no agent, and only a photograph and the most basic information, eyes – brown, hair – brown, height – 5 feet 3½ inches, listed in the actors’ directory, Spotlight, this rarely happened. Instead, Nell traipsed regularly into Soho to collect her wages, cash in hand, and sometimes, if she lingered, they would give her the details of a new job. A day at a magistrates’ court in North London, a week at a county court in the city, and once, a trip to the Old Bailey.
For the last few weeks Nell had been on the case of sixteen South American pickpockets. It was a complicated case, made more so by the fact that each of the sixteen accused, in an attempt to dissociate themselves from their alleged accomplices, had insisted on his own counsel. That week the courtroom was full. Nell sat behind her barrister, Mr Hawley, a broad-shouldered, heavy-limbed man, his black cotton gown carelessly thrown on, as if by failing to arrange the pleats and folds of it, he could continue to look manly. He sat in a row of his friends, all whispering, scribbling, drawing cartoons, passing along jokes, occasionally glancing round to guffaw at colleagues in the seats behind. Nell ignored them. She looked straight ahead at the miserable bent heads of the South Americans who’d been waiting for this trial for nearly a year. Had they noticed that their lawyers were giggling like schoolgirls, that the clerks, or at least one of them, were entirely unqualified for the job? She’d spent the last two years lying on the floor searching for sense memories, or visiting the zoo to study zebra. And now, she thought grandly, a man’s very life depends on me. The pickpockets looked oblivious. Their eyes, for the most part, were fixed on the floor, their bodies slumped forward, their heads drowsy with the wait. They were in the ninth week of their case, and they must have sensed it wasn’t going well. Last week Nell had gone down into the cells with Mr Hawley and listened to their man’s – Estaban’s – scrambled English as he’d begged them to find someone who could write a letter to his wife. ‘So long time. No one helping. No one.’ His hands, which he rubbed together, were stained and stubby. ‘You?’ he’d fixed his pleading eyes on Mr Hawley, ‘you help me? Yes? Please?’ And not knowing what else to do, Nell had taken notes.
Later, once they’d been locked and unlocked through a cage of double gates, checked out past a man in a booth, and free, had taken the twisting staircase two steps at a time, Nell had asked, hopefully, ‘Will he get off?’
‘Doubt it.’ Mr Hawley was already striding ahead, his black gown flapping. ‘The case isn’t looking good at all.’
‘But the letter . . .’ she asked, anxious.
Mr Hawley waited for her to catch up. ‘All the procedures for correspondence are in place.’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Hey,’ he looked amused, and she had the sudden flashing realisation he saw himself as attractive. ‘Don’t get drawn in.’
The next day there was much hilarity in the courtroom when several pairs of men’s platform shoes were presented as evidence. The shoes were examined by the judge and passed along the line of jurors. ‘Now the question arises,’ the prosecutor was enjoying himself, ‘do these gentlemen wear their high-heeled shoes for vanity, coming as they do from a race of, shall we say, vertically challenged peoples, or, as we are inclined to believe, to conceal stolen items of monetary value?’ Shoes were held up, cavities revealed, groans and jokes flung back and forth. ‘On my soul,’ a balding defence lawyer whispered, ‘I do believe I’ve been shoe-horned into this.’
‘It’s a job for a free man,’ another quipped. ‘Freeman, Hardy and Willis.’
‘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.
‘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.