Page 137 of A Night with Damien Spur

Take it slow, the Voice said.You’re doing your number, piling on the patter.

‘I’m Frances,’ she said, extending a hand.

‘And I’m Damien,’ he replied, giving her his. She had a firm grip. He liked that. ‘So, Frances,’ he said. ‘What’s your story?’

‘I’m at film school.’

‘Oh really? Are you at the NFTS?’

‘Yes. How do you know the place? Are you in the movie business?’

‘Well, I’m a novelist primarily, but my last book,Writing in the Sand, has just been made into a film.’

Frances narrowed her eyes and searched Damien’s face. ‘Oh my God, yes! You’re Damien Spur.’

‘I am indeed.’

‘Wow, this is crazy!’ Her face had suddenly changed from a sophisticated woman into an excited teenager. ‘You’re not gonna believe this’ – she moved so close to him that he could smell the coffee on her breath – ‘but I’ve booked to see the screening on Saturday at the Academy of Cinema Arts, especially because you’re doing a Q&A after the show. Yup. I’m so interested in the discussion. “From Novel to Screenplay”, isn’t it?’ The words tumbled out of her mouth with such intense excitement that Damien drew back. ‘Oh my! Just a sec, do you mind if I tweet this?’

‘Not entirely sure it’s appropriate, but if you insist,’ Damien replied.

‘Thank you! It’s such a coincidence. My followers will love it. Okay! Here we go…’ She picked up her phone.

Damien watched her fingers move swiftly as she typed.

Guess what. I’m sitting next to Damien Spur, one of my favourite writers. Serendipity. I’m going to his lecture at the ACA next week, can you believe it?

‘So, Mr Spur’ – she slipped her phone back into her bag – ‘tell me more about the talk.’

‘Well, as the title suggests, the discussion is about the visual interpretation of the written word serving the story.’

‘I should imagine it’s quite a responsibility shifting a novel into a screenplay,’ Frances said. ‘Mind you, I suppose you have to be flexible. Maybe not always faithful to the novel. Especially if the producers want the changes.’

‘Not if it’s in your contract that as the writer you have the last word,’ Damien said.

‘Luckily, I don’t have that problem with my script. I originally wrote it as a book, a dark thriller which was published while I was at university. We’re shooting the short in a few weeks. Shall I tell you what it’s about?’

‘Ah, not now,’ Damien replied. ‘I’ve been so carried away chatting with you that I’m late for my meeting.’

‘Are you walking? If so, we could carry on talking.’

‘Actually, I am.’

She waved at the waitress. ‘Great! Then let’s pay the tab and go.’

Outside in the street, Damien increased his pace. His long legs covered the ground with such speed that Frances had to almost jog to keep up with him.

‘I don’t want to be pushy,’ she panted, ‘but rather than me telling you the story, maybe you could have a look at my script? I’m not sure that the transition from book to screenplay works. I’m sure you would be amazing at that.’ She took a deep breath and grabbed his arm. ‘It would be so great to have your masterful eye. It’s not very long, only about sixty pages.’

She was cheeky. But somehow or other her raw ambitionappealed to him.

Damien slowed down.

‘So, Frances,’ he said in a teacherly way, ‘what’s your course? Screenwriting?’

‘No. Directing.’ She paused. ‘Isn’t this fantastic?’ She gazed at him with a wide-eyed, where-will-this-take-us look.

Damien wasn’t used to such openness.

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