had a drawn look. Her eyes seemed huge, and the effect had not been achieved with makeup. She hugged herself with one arm and smoked with the other. As he watched, she crushed a stub in the full ashtray beside her and immediately lit a fresh cigarette.
Anita brought his glass of milk. ″A drink, Sammy?″
″Please.″
Jimmy glanced at his watch: it was 12:30 P.M. He looked askance at the size of the vodka and tonic Anita poured.
He said: ″Tell me, how is life in the film world?″
″I′m thinking of leaving it.″ She took the glass from Anita, and the maid left the room.
″Good God.″ Jimmy took out his notebook and uncapped a pen. ″Why?″
″There′s not a lot to say, really. I feel films have given me all they can. The work bores me, and the end result seems so trivial.″
″Is there any one particular thing which has triggered this off?″
She smiled. ″You ask good questions, Jimmy.″
He looked up expectantly, and saw that she was smiling, not at him, but at the doorway. He turned, and saw a big man in jeans and a check shirt entering the room. The man nodded at Jimmy and sat beside Samantha.
She said: ″Jimmy, I want you to meet Tom Copper, the man who has changed my life.″
Joe Davies pressed the winder of his Quantum wristwatch and looked at the luminous red figures which flickered alight on its black face: 0955. It was a good time to ring a London evening newspaper.
He picked up the phone and dialed. After a long wait for the newspaper′s switchboard, he asked for James Whitewood.
″Morning, Jim—Joe Davies.″
″A filthy morning, Joe. What load of old rubbish are you peddling today?″
Joe could visualize the bad teeth exposed in the grin on the writer′s face: mock-hostile banter was the game the two of them played to disguise the fact that each did his best to use the other. ″Nothing very interesting,″ Joe said. ″A starlet landing a small part, is all. Just Leila D′Abo topping the bill at the London Palladium.″
″That played-out old cow? When′s it coming off, Joe?″
Joe grinned, knowing he had won the game this time. ″October 21, for one night.″
″Got it. By then she will just about be finished with that second-rate film she′s making at—where is it? Ealing Studios?″
″Hollywood.″
″Yes. Now, who else is on the bill?″
″Don′t know. You′ll have to ask the Palladium. You′ll also have to ask them whether it′s true that she′ll be paid fifty thousand pounds for the appearance, because I′m not saying.″
″No, you′re not.″
″Will that make a story for you?″
″I′ll do my best for you, old son.″
Joe grinned again. If the story was good enough to get in the paper on merit, Whitewood would always pretend he was doing the agent a personal favor. If the story was not good enough, the writer would say so.
Whitewood said: ″Now, have you given this to the opposition?″
″Not yet.″
″Are you going to give us an edition start?″
″As a personal favor to you, Jim—yes.″ Joe leaned back in his leather-upholstered chair with a feeling of triumph. Now the writer owed him a favor. Joe had won on points.
″Incidentally, what′s up with your blue-eyed girl?″
Joe sat forward suddenly. Whitewood had a card up his sleeve after all. Joe put a false nonchalance into his voice. ″Which one?″
″Joe, how many of them did I interview this week? The malnourished Miss Winacre, of course.″
Joe frowned into the telephone. Damn Sammy. He was on the defensive now. ″I meant to ask you: how did it go?″
″I got a great story—ʹSamantha Winacre retires.′ Hasn′t she told you?″
Christ, what had Sammy told the reporter? ″Between you and me, Jim, she′s passing through a phase.″
″An unfortunate one, it seems. If she′s turning down good scripts like Thirteenth Night, she must be pretty serious about retiring.″
″Do yourself a favor—donʹt put that in your article. She′ll change her
Anita brought his glass of milk. ″A drink, Sammy?″
″Please.″
Jimmy glanced at his watch: it was 12:30 P.M. He looked askance at the size of the vodka and tonic Anita poured.
He said: ″Tell me, how is life in the film world?″
″I′m thinking of leaving it.″ She took the glass from Anita, and the maid left the room.
″Good God.″ Jimmy took out his notebook and uncapped a pen. ″Why?″
″There′s not a lot to say, really. I feel films have given me all they can. The work bores me, and the end result seems so trivial.″
″Is there any one particular thing which has triggered this off?″
She smiled. ″You ask good questions, Jimmy.″
He looked up expectantly, and saw that she was smiling, not at him, but at the doorway. He turned, and saw a big man in jeans and a check shirt entering the room. The man nodded at Jimmy and sat beside Samantha.
She said: ″Jimmy, I want you to meet Tom Copper, the man who has changed my life.″
Joe Davies pressed the winder of his Quantum wristwatch and looked at the luminous red figures which flickered alight on its black face: 0955. It was a good time to ring a London evening newspaper.
He picked up the phone and dialed. After a long wait for the newspaper′s switchboard, he asked for James Whitewood.
″Morning, Jim—Joe Davies.″
″A filthy morning, Joe. What load of old rubbish are you peddling today?″
Joe could visualize the bad teeth exposed in the grin on the writer′s face: mock-hostile banter was the game the two of them played to disguise the fact that each did his best to use the other. ″Nothing very interesting,″ Joe said. ″A starlet landing a small part, is all. Just Leila D′Abo topping the bill at the London Palladium.″
″That played-out old cow? When′s it coming off, Joe?″
Joe grinned, knowing he had won the game this time. ″October 21, for one night.″
″Got it. By then she will just about be finished with that second-rate film she′s making at—where is it? Ealing Studios?″
″Hollywood.″
″Yes. Now, who else is on the bill?″
″Don′t know. You′ll have to ask the Palladium. You′ll also have to ask them whether it′s true that she′ll be paid fifty thousand pounds for the appearance, because I′m not saying.″
″No, you′re not.″
″Will that make a story for you?″
″I′ll do my best for you, old son.″
Joe grinned again. If the story was good enough to get in the paper on merit, Whitewood would always pretend he was doing the agent a personal favor. If the story was not good enough, the writer would say so.
Whitewood said: ″Now, have you given this to the opposition?″
″Not yet.″
″Are you going to give us an edition start?″
″As a personal favor to you, Jim—yes.″ Joe leaned back in his leather-upholstered chair with a feeling of triumph. Now the writer owed him a favor. Joe had won on points.
″Incidentally, what′s up with your blue-eyed girl?″
Joe sat forward suddenly. Whitewood had a card up his sleeve after all. Joe put a false nonchalance into his voice. ″Which one?″
″Joe, how many of them did I interview this week? The malnourished Miss Winacre, of course.″
Joe frowned into the telephone. Damn Sammy. He was on the defensive now. ″I meant to ask you: how did it go?″
″I got a great story—ʹSamantha Winacre retires.′ Hasn′t she told you?″
Christ, what had Sammy told the reporter? ″Between you and me, Jim, she′s passing through a phase.″
″An unfortunate one, it seems. If she′s turning down good scripts like Thirteenth Night, she must be pretty serious about retiring.″
″Do yourself a favor—donʹt put that in your article. She′ll change her
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