'It's an American book that's just come out. All misfits, lost souls and wretchedness.'

'Sounds charminga' Ronnie grumbled.

'Talking of America, we had an interesting conversation earlier,' Lydia said. 'We were having a drink with Danny Lascelles and Astrid Lake . . .'

'Obviously her real name,' muttered Archie.

Lydia smiled. 'We don't mention it. Anyway, we met David Franks. He's. .h.i.tchc.o.c.k's production designer and a.s.sistant director, and he's organising their weekend. He spent some time in Hollywood in the twenties, and he suggested that Marta should think about going out there to work a she's been quite a hit with Alma, apparently.' She looked proudly at Marta, oblivious to the bombsh.e.l.l she had just dropped. 'I knew you were being too modest. Just think how exciting America would be.'

'What do they do when they're working on a screenplay, Marta?' Archie asked, looking at Josephine's horrified face. 'How would Hitchc.o.c.k go about adapting A Shilling for Candles?'

Marta smiled at him, apparently grateful not to have to pick up Lydia's thread. 'Well, first they find a property,' she said.

'You make it sound like buying a house.'

'It's not dissimilar, actually. I've known people choose a home with less fuss.' She glanced quickly at Josephine, and, if she was trying to gauge the effect of Lydia's words, Archie guessed that she would not be disappointed. 'When they've found what they want to work with, they reduce it to a bare outline and talk about the characters a who they are, how they would behave in a given situation. From that, they produce a more detailed scenario, plotting the action scene by scene.'

'When does. .h.i.tchc.o.c.k get involved?'

'From the start. That sort of visual storytelling is what he does best. It's. .h.i.tchc.o.c.k, Alma, and the flavour of the moment is Charles Bennett. I'm sure he'll do A Shilling for Candles if Josephine doesn't want to have anything to do with it.' She paused, while Lydia lit her cigarette. 'When they're happy with what they've got, they call in people like me to write the dialogue. We're the lowest of the low, because Hitchc.o.c.k doesn't really think that dialogue is important. He'll have to change his habits if he does go to America, though. He won't get that kind of independence in Hollywood.'

'I dare say America will prove very popular when the war comes,' Josephine said, finishing her drink.

Lydia glanced sharply at her. 'Possibly, but people can't be expected to put their careers on hold for fear of seeming unpatriotic.'

'Can't they? What about for fear of being unpatriotic?'

Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k defused the tension as unwittingly as he had brought it about. The appearance of such a familiar figure on the terrace stopped the conversation at every table, and Lettice was one of many diners whose desire to move through to the restaurant became suddenly more urgent. For once, Archie was relieved to follow suit. Judging by the expression on Marta's face, he wasn't the only one.

8.

Hitchc.o.c.k handed the menu back to the waiter. 'I'll have the steak-and-oyster pie,' he said, 'but kindly remove the oysters.'

'Certainly, sir.'

'And bring some more wine.'

He smiled round at the table, and wondered who, if anyone, would be brave enough to question the purpose of the evening. So far, each of his guests was behaving more or less as he would have expected: Turnbull had drunk too much and was saying very little; Astrid Lake and Daniel Lascelles were both nervous, watchful for an opportunity to impress but too eager to please when it came; Spence was as detached from the conversation as usual, revealing nothing of himself except a wry amus.e.m.e.nt in the whole charade; and Alma sat by her husband's side with that air of patient resignation which was as integral to their public relationship as her love and guidance were to their private life. Only David Franks surprised Hitchc.o.c.k: he seemed preoccupied, his habitual friendliness replaced by a quiet unease, and several times. .h.i.tchc.o.c.k caught him looking nervously at Turnbull. Bella would have livened things up considerably, but, in hindsighta it was just as well that she had declined his invitation; she was one of the few people he knew with a personality as dominant as his own, and he wasn't in the mood to be eclipsed.

Every now and again, someone glanced curiously at the stranger in their midst and then at the rest of the party, but no one dared to say anything. In the end, it was the nun herself who broke the silence. 'Don't I know you from somewhere?' she asked, peering across the table at Leyton Turnbull. Hitch frowned at her; he was used to people doing what they were paid to do and no more, but she seemed oblivious to the warning. 'We've met before, surely? I never forget a face.'

Spence shook his head in mock admiration. 'Started on the convents now, have you, Turnbull? Is no woman safe from your charms?'

Turnbull ignored him. 'I'm an actor,' he said to the nun. 'You probably recognise me from a film.'

Hitchc.o.c.k was amused to see that he could still manage a note of pride in his voice as he spoke. 'Don't be so modest, Mr Turnbull,' he protested. 'You're looking at one of our finest leading men, Sister Venetia. He can rise to anything.'

There was a sn.i.g.g.e.r from down the table, but the nun was either oblivious to the innuendo or chose to ignore it. 'I don't watch films,' she said firmly. 'Murder, adultery, the worshipping of false idols a I can't think of anything that manages to break G.o.d's laws quite as effortlessly as the cinema.' Her eyes remained fixed on Turnbull as she addeda 'It corrupts the soul.'

'I can't help thinking you might be happier at another table, Sister,' Franks suggested.

'You really have made a mistake,' Turnbull insisted, and Hitchc.o.c.k noticed that the attention was beginning to make him uncomfortable. He settled back in his seat to enjoy the entertainment, forgetting his irritation; he had no idea where David had found this woman, but he had to admit she was good.

'It will come to me eventually,' she said, and there was a barbed promise in the words which belied the smile they were delivered with. 'You've changed, but I definitely know you.'

'He hasn't changed that much,' Spence said. 'I saw you dropping that girl off earlier, Turnbull. Old habits die hard.'

'I was only giving her a lift back. She'd had an accident and her bicycle was damaged. What was I supposed to do? Drive past and let her walk?'

'Mr Turnbull has quite an eye for the ladies, Sister,' Spence explained conspiratorially. 'That's his latest, over there.' He pointed to a dark-haired girl who had just joined the band on stage. Everyone turned to look at hera and Hitchc.o.c.k noticed a flicker of recognition cross Lascelles' face.

'Ignore my colleague,' Turnbull said. 'His imagination runs away with him. It's a casualty of the industry we work in. And we really haven't met,' he added firmly, trying to close the conversation once and for all. 'I'd remember if we had. Anyway, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?'

Hitchc.o.c.k cut in before the nun could answer. 'Sister Venetia takes care of my daughter's education,' he explained. 'Alma and I wanted to bring her up as a good Catholic girl, and the sister runs an excellent school in Cavendish Square.' He paused. 'The only trouble is, she drinks.'

All eyes turned to the nun in astonishment. Her hand hovered over the gla.s.s she had been about to pick up, but she withdrew it and lowered her head. There was an uncomfortable silence as her shame touched everyone but the director. Eventually, Astrid made an effort to change the subject. 'Are you making plans to go to Hollywood, Mr Hitchc.o.c.k?'

Hitchc.o.c.k looked at her and smiled. 'You'll have to ask the Madame,' he said, winking at Alma. 'She does continuity.'

'If I had my way, Miss Lake, we'd be leaving for the plane in about ten minutes.'

Everyone laughed. Although Hitchc.o.c.k knew that his wife's comment was a subtle warning rather than a joke, he chose to ignore it. The waiter arrived with the winea and, as the nun leant to one side to allow him to fill her gla.s.s, Hitchc.o.c.k held up his hand. 'Nothing more for her.' He glared at her, and tried to keep any telltale trace of amus.e.m.e.nt out of his voice. 'You know what happens when you drink. Don't you remember St Moritz? You were lucky no one pressed charges. Now show some respect.'

'Please . . .'

'Absolutely not. You're embarra.s.sing everybody. Just be quiet.'

Hitchc.o.c.k smiled apologetically at the other guests, and saw to his satisfaction that embarra.s.sment was an understatement; no one knew where to look. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that tears were now falling quietly down the nun's face, and he marvelled again at her performance. She continued to cry softly as the waiters served dinner, and eventually it became too much for Astrid Lake. 'Are you all right?' she asked gently.

Sister Venetia looked at her gratefully. 'If I could just have a drop of . . .'

Hitchc.o.c.k slammed his hand down hard on the table, knocking over a gla.s.s of wine in the process. 'That's enough,' he shouted. 'You're ruining our whole evening and I won't have you taking advantage of my guests. I should never have invited you. Go to your room.'

The nun stood and left the restaurant without another word. David got up to follow her, but Hitchc.o.c.k put a hand on his arm. By this time, the embarra.s.sment had spread to the rest of the dinersa and the band's cheerful rendition of 'No One Can Like the Drummer Man' was an incongruous backdrop to the tension. With all eyes on him, Hitchc.o.c.k summoned a waitress to clear up the mess and calmly carried on eating. He knew without looking that Alma was staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and weariness; one day she would hit him for a stunt like this, if someone didn't beat her to it. As the other diners tried to gauge if they could safely resume their conversations without missing anything, Jack Spence began to applaud. 'It's a gag,' he said, and a ripple of nervous laughter ran through the restaurant, although several of the guests seated at Hitchc.o.c.k's table seemed unconvinced. 'You're a gag, too,' Spence continued, pointing at Turnbull. 'Always have been, always will be. One of these days, you'll meet a woman who gives as good as she gets.'

'I'm not sure what gives you the right to lecture me on how to treat a woman,' Turnbull snapped. 'It's hardly your area of expertise.' He drained his gla.s.s and looked defiantly at the other guests. 'Women are there to take direction. Don't you think so, Hitch?'

'Oh, nothing pleases me more than to knock the ladylikeness out of chorus girls,' Hitchc.o.c.k said cheerfully, knowing that Turnbull was too far gone to notice the irony in his voice, or to realise that he was being encouraged to hang himself. Astrid Lake frowned; it was only a matter of time before she joined in, and he raised his gla.s.s to her with a wink. Across the table, David Franks smiled and shook his head in admiration.

'Beautiful women think they're too clever,' Turnbull continued. 'People will overlook lack of talent for a pretty face, but only for a while. After that, they have to think of other ways to get themselves noticed.' He leant across Lascelles and put his hand on Astrid's leg. 'You've got a very pretty face, Miss Lake. What sort of films do you have a mind to star in?'

Danny stood up, his fists clenched, and for a moment Hitchc.o.c.k thought he was going to use them, but Astrid put a hand on his arm and shook her head. 'Watch your mouth, Turnbull,' Lascelles warned as he sat down. 'One more crack like that and she won't be able to stop me.'

'Is it true that you take what you can't get, Mr Turnbull?' Astrid's voice was low and even, but she was obviously livid. 'I hear you like to continue the action long after the director shouts cut.'

'No prizes for guessing who's been pouring poison in your ear.'

'Is she lying?'

'Bella would say anything to slur my reputation,' he insisted, and looked to Franks for support. 'Tell them, David. She's always been out to get me.'

'Just leave it, Turnbull. You've caused enough trouble with Bella tonight.'

'Why do you always take that b.i.t.c.h's side?'

'I'm not taking her side, but I won't side against her. She's been too good to me.'

'And will continue to be, no doubt, unless you step out of line.' Even Hitchc.o.c.k was surprised by the hatred in Turnbull's eyes as he talked about Bella Hutton, and it occurred to him that if the actor had been capable of showing such pure emotion on screen, his career might have been very different. 'She's no f.u.c.king saint, David, so grow up and find yourself another idol to worship. Bella looks out for herself, just like we all do, and she doesn't care who she hurts in the process. One of these days, you'll wish I hadn't stopped myself tonight.'

Hitchc.o.c.k caught Franks's eye. 'Don't forget our wager, David,' he said, but his a.s.sistant scarcely seemed to care whether he won or lost.

'And what sort of role model would you have been, I wonder?' Franks asked, smiling innocently at Turnbull. 'Perhaps things turn out for the best after all.'

9.

'Well, this has been considerably more engrossing than any of his films,' Ronnie said.

The hotel's beautiful curved dining room, which added a bold modernist touch to the original Victorian architecture, was as elegant on the inside as it was distinctive on the out: rich walnut walls blended effortlessly with a blush-rose ceiling and a floor of light polished oak, whilst the glazed, open frontage ensured that the restaurant was flooded with light for most of the day. Tonight, though, the surroundings paled into insignificance. All eyes were fixed on the Hitchc.o.c.ks' table, and Josephine pitied the musicians who had been booked to provide the official entertainment: their set a no matter how good a was bound to seem bland by comparison. She had watched on and off, intrigued more by the subtle dynamic between the Hitchc.o.c.ks than by the histrionic reactions of their guests; Alma seemed smaller than ever next to her husband, but Josephine noticed how often he looked to her for a reaction to something he had said and was genuinely touched by the way his face lit up whenever she spoke. She had read somewhere that the director was shy, but to her he seemed watchful and quietly self-confident, able to express himself with ease and humour when he wished but just as content to stand back from the conversation and observe. As he drained his gla.s.s and stood up to leave the table, Alma whispered something in his eara and he glanced in their direction and nodded. 'Oh G.o.d, he's coming over,' she said, nudging Archie. 'Just when I thought we'd got away with it.'

'Shouldn't that be "G.o.d is coming over"?' Archie said acidly. 'It's how they've been behaving all night. No wonder the nun had to leave. It must have been quite confusing for her.'

Lettice frowned at him. 'Don't be such a killjoy. It's so exciting.'

'How do I look?' Lydia asked, fumbling in her bag for a mirror.

Marta snapped the bag shut and affectionately brushed Lydia's hair back from her face. 'Perfect. Margaret Lockwood's better-looking sister.'

'Better-looking younger sister, I a.s.sume.'

'Naturally.'

For a large man, Hitchc.o.c.k wore his clothes well; despite the fractious dinner, he looked elegant and unruffled as he walked across the restaurant. He smiled at them all, nodded to Marta, and held out his hand to Josephine. 'Miss Teya my wife tells me the opening skirmishes have been satisfactorily negotiated and we might even have reason to be optimistic?'

Feeling a little railroaded, but seeing no point in playing hard-to-get now that she had made up her mind, Josephine nodded. 'Yes. As long as we can agree on the terms, I'd be very happy for you to work on A Shilling for Candles.'

'Splendid. I'm so glad.' His acting was almost as good as his directing, Josephine thought; if it had not been for Alma's frankness, she would never have guessed that Hitchc.o.c.k's att.i.tude to her novel was at best lukewarm. 'We're shooting Sabotage in the autumn,' he added, 'so we'll be keen to get started on a new project as soon as possible after that.'

'Good. I'll be interested to see what you do with it.'

'You intend to take a back seat in the adaptation processa then?'

She detected a note of relief in his voice, and didn't blame him: there must be nothing worse for a director than an author clinging to her novel with white knuckles, and she knew it would make it easier for both of them if she just took the money and ran. If she didn't like the results, she didn't have to do it again, and she might as well learn her lesson with the most successful director of the moment. Much to her surprise, she trusted Alma to find a compromise that would satisfy both her husband's ambitions and the integrity of the novel. 'I think I'll stick to books and the theatre,' she said with a smile. 'Adding another string to my bow might be pushing my luck.'

He nodded. 'You're wise to stick to what you enjoy most, and the stage is lucky to have you.' He smiled briefly at Lydia, acknowledging the part she had played in making Richard of Bordeaux such a success. 'Perhaps you'd all like to join us in the Mirror Room for a nightcap to celebrate?'

Lettice stood up as Josephine shook her head. 'Thank you, but no,' she said firmly, feeling Lydia's eyes in the back of her neck. 'We haven't finished herea and your evening looks complicated enough.'

There was a twinkle in his eye as he saida 'Ah, you noticed. Please don't let that put you off. I'm about to conduct an experiment which might interest you. After all, we both deal to some extent in fear and guilt.' He paused when he saw her surprise. 'Professionally speaking, of course. There's no hurry: just come through when you're ready.' He turned to go, then stopped and looked at Archie. 'Have we met before?'

'Yes. At Scotland Yard.' It was a good line, and Josephine admired the restraint with which Archie gave it the timing it deserved. 'You wanted to know how to arrest a man,' he explained, 'and I was the detective inspector who told you.' He held out his hand. 'Archie Penrose.'

'Chief inspector now,' Lettice added proudly.

Hitchc.o.c.k looked surprised, and Josephine could see that it was the last thing he had expected: n.o.body looked less like a policeman than Archie in black tie. He recovered well but seemed a little uncomfortable as he walked away, and she wondered if he regretted having unwittingly invited a senior detective to witness his experiment, whatever it might be.

'G.o.d, I thought you'd blown it there,' Lydia said.

'What makes you think she hasn't?' Ronnie lit a cigarette. 'We should have made a run for it as soon as he stood up. Now we're stuck with them.'

'Sorry, but he didn't leave me much choice.'

Marta drained her gla.s.s and shook her head as a waiter stepped forward to refill it. 'I think I'll give coffee with the film crew a miss,' she said.

'Are you all right?' Lydia asked. 'You've been quiet all evening.'

'I'm fine a just a bit tired from the drive and not really in the mood for that.' She nodded towards the hallway.

'What will you do?'

'Oh, go and finish unpacking or something.'

'I could give you a hand.'

Lydia looked torn. Marta smiled and gave her a kiss. 'Go and dazzle the Hitchc.o.c.ks. You know you want to.'

'Are you sure you don't mind?'

'Of course not. I'll see you all later. You can tell me about it then.'

Josephine watched her go, trying to ignore how flat and colourless the evening had suddenly become. If she felt like this when Marta left the room, what effect would her leaving the country have? 'Let's go,' she said reluctantly. 'The sooner we get there, the sooner we can make our excuses and leave.'

Coffee and brandy were already laid out for them when they sat down in the extraordinary sitting room which adjoined the hotel's lounge. Hitchc.o.c.k had wasted no time in getting under way. He acknowledged their arrival with a brief nod and carried on talking, making the most of a captive audience. 'Ten years agoa film was still the poor relation of the stage. We clung to its material and idolised its stars.' Josephine sighed, wishing she had been firmer. 'But the world has changed. The only thing a play can do that a film can't is bring those actors into the same room as their audience.'

'Good to know we count for something,' Lydia muttered.

'These daysa people expect realisma not unconvincing rooms full of cheap stage props.' Ronnie cleared her throat, ready to say something in defence of her profession, but Lettice glared at her and she thought better of it. 'And the same is true of conversation,' Hitchc.o.c.k continued. 'Film allows us to deliver dialogue more effectively than a stage ever could.' It was Josephine's turn to feel indignant. She wondered if he had set out to be as rude as possible, or if it just came naturally. It was inconceivable that he didn't realise how offensive he was being, and she sensed that it was only a matter of time before he steered his insults closer to home: the people who knew him best were looking apprehensive rather than smug. 'But sound mustn't make us lazy. We can't simply film someone talking. By cutting to whoever is listeninga we give each word more meaning by showing its effect.'