The wide, low-ceilinged living room took up the whole depth of the house. It was Anitas favorite room. Narrow windows high in the walls at front and back let in a little light, but most of the illumination came from a battery of spotlights trained on posters, small pieces of abstract sculpture, and vases of flowers. Expensive scatter rugs covered much of the block floor, and the room was furnished out of Habitat Anita opened a window and tidied up quickly. She emptied ashtrays into a bin, shook the creases out of cushions, and got rid of some flowers which were past their best. She picked up two glasses from the chrome occasional table; one smelled of whisky. Samantha drank vodka. Anita wondered whether the man was still here.
She went back to the kitchen and pondered whether she had time to wash up before waking Sammy. No, she decided; Sammy had an appointment later in the morning. Still, she could probably clear the kitchen while Sammy was drinking her tea. She put the kettle on.
The girl entered the bedroom and pulled back the curtains, letting the sun pour through like water from a bursting dam. The bright light woke Samantha instantly. She lay still for a moment, waiting for the last few cobwebs of sleep to dissolve in the awareness of a new day. Then she sat up and smiled at the girl.
Good morning, Anita.
Morning, Sammy. The girl handed Samantha a cup of tea and sat down on the edge of the bed while she sipped it. Anitas accent had the broad twang of a cockney teenager, and her bustling, motherly manner about the house made her seem older than she was.
I ve tidied downstairs and done the dusting, she said. I thought Id leave the washing until later. Are you going out?
"Mmm."Samantha finished her tea and put the cup down beside the bed. Ive got a script conference. She threw the bedclothes aside and got up, crossing the room to the bathroom. She got under the shower and washed herself quickly.
When she came out Anita was making the bed. I got that script out for you, she said. The one you was reading the other night.
Oh, thanks, Samantha said gratefully. I was wondering what Id done with it. With the huge bath towel wrapped around her, she went to the desk at the window and looked at the volume. Yes, thats the one. What on earth shall I do without you, girl?
Anita busied herself about the room and Samantha dried her urchin-cut hair. She put on her bra and panties and sat in front of the mirror to make up her face. Anita was not as chatty as usual this morning, and Samantha wondered why.
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.
Thats terrific! Samantha enthused.
Is it?
Samantha stood up and took the girls hands in her own. What is it, Anita? Why arent you pleased?
It dont make no difference to anything, does it? I can work in the bank for twenty pounds a week, or work in the Brasseys factory for twenty-five pounds. I could do that without A-levels.
But I thought you wanted to go to college.
Anita turned away. "That was just a silly thing-a dream. I could no more go to college than fly to the moon. Whatll you wear-the white Gatsby dress? She opened the wardrobe door.
Samantha went back to her mirror. "Yes," 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 its like up my place, Sammy. The old mans in and out of work, no fault of his own. My mum cant earn much, and Im the eldest, see. I'll 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 girls 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, Id be delighted for you to work for me. Youre a terrific help. But you mustnt give up hope of going to college.
Theres no point in hoping. Its not on.
Ill tell you what Im going to do. Ill employ you, and pay you the same as Im 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 dont lose you, you can help your mother, and you can study.
Anita looked at her wide-eyed. Youre ever so kind, she said.
No. Ive 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 its charity.
Youre eighteen now-you dont 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. Ill get my lawyer to draw up some kind of thing to make it secure for you. Now I must fly.
Ill ring for a cab, said Anita.
Samantha went upstairs to change. As she put on the flimsy white dress which had cost more than Anitas wages for two months, she felt oddly guilty. It was wrong that she should be able to change the course of a young girls 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 Anitas. Perhaps she ought to have offered him money. He didnt 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 Samanthas 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 Shakespeares Truelfth 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 mans clothes; and Olivia was a latent lesbian. Samantha would be cast as Viola, of course. 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 mans 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 facade.
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. Its 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, Ive explained to Willy here that we havent come to a decision on the script yet; were 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 Id naturally like to hear any ideas of your own.
Samantha nodded, collecting her thoughts. Im interested, she said. Its 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.
Thats 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, thats a drummer with a British pop group- Yeah, I know, Ruskin said. I like this idea. Im going to get to work on it right away.
Not so fast, Samantha said. Thats a detail. Theres a much more serious problem with the film for me. Its a good comedy. Period.
Im sorry-why is that a problem? Ruskin said. Im not following you.
Me neither, Sammy, Joe put in.
Samantha frowned. Im afraid the thought isnt all that clear in my own mind, either. Its just that the film doesnt say anything. Its 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 mans 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 doesnt, Samantha said forcefully. Even television allows jokes about homosexuals nowadays.
Ruskin looked a little resentful. To be candid, I dont see how the kind of thing youre 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. Its meant to make people laugh. And you want to do a comedy, dont you?
Yes. Samantha looked at Ruskin. Im 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.
"Sure," Ruskin said. Theres 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. Ill have to start looking around for alternatives soon.
Ill tell you what, why dont 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 doesnt 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.
Dont talk as if a message is something you only get in avant-garde avant-garde off-Broadway plays, she said. A film can have something to say and still be a commercial success. off-Broadway plays, she said. A film can have something to say and still be a commercial success.
Not often, Joe said.
Whos Afraid of Virginia Woolf.?, Woolf.?, In the Heat of the In the Heat of the Night, The Detective, Last Tango in Paris. 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.
Ill 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. Theres a girl working for me as a maid. Im 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. Thats a generous thing to do, Sammy.
Shit. The expletive raised Joes eyebrows. Samantha said: She was going to stay at home and work in a factory, in order to help support the family. Shes qualified to go to university, but the family cant do without her earnings. Its a scandal that there should be anyone like that while there are people earning what you and I earn. Ive helped her, but what about the thousands of other kids in that position?
You cant solve the worlds problems all on your own, honey, Joe said with a touch of complacency.
Dont be so bloody condescending, she snapped. Im 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 cant I make films that say that?
All sorts of reasons-one being that you wont 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 shouldnt be an actress.
So what else are you going to do? Be a social worker, and find you cant 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.
Its only because everyone is as cynical as you that nothing is ever done.
Joe put his hands on Samanthas shoulders and squeezed affectionately. Sammy, youre an idealist. Youve stayed an idealist much longer than most of us. I respect you for it-I love you for it.
Ah, dont give me all that Jewish showbiz crap, she said, but she smiled at him fondly. All right, Joe, Ill think about this script some more. Now I have to go.
Ill get you a taxi.