‘But my dear Anna, no, they’re not surprised at anything, how could they be, with the magic box?’ ‘Well, I’ve had a lovely lunch.’ ‘Oh, my dear Anna, you are so right, of course you are. But obviously with your intelligence, you must see we couldn’t do it in Central Africa, the boys at the top simply don’t let us have that sort of money.’ ‘No, of course not - but I think I rather suggested that in my letters.’ ‘It would make a lovely film. Tell me, would you like me to mention it to a friend of mine in films?’ ‘Well, I have been through all that already.’ ‘Oh, my dear, I do know, I do really. Well all we can do is to keep on plodding I suppose. I know when I go home at night sometimes, and I look at my desk - a dozen books to read for possible stories, and a hundred scripts, and there’s my poor novel half-done in a drawer and I haven’t had time to look at it for months - I console myself with the thought that I do sometimes get something fresh and authentic through the meshes - please think about my suggestion for Frontiers of War, I really do believe it would work.’ We are leaving the restaurant. Two waiters bowing. Reginald gets his coat, slips the coin into the man’s hand with a small, almost apologetic smile. We are on the pavement. I am very dissatisfied with myself: what am I doing this for? Because I knew exactly what would happen from the first letter from Amalgamated Vision; except they are always one degree worse than one expects, these people. But if I know it, why bother? Just to prove it? My self-disgust begins to turn into another emotion I recognize quite well - a sort of minor hysteria. I know quite well that in a moment I’m going to say something wrong, rude, accusing, or self-accusatory. There is a moment when I know I can either stop myself, or if not, I’ll be propelled into speech which I can’t stop. We are on the pavement, and he wants to get rid of me. Then we walk towards Tottenham Court Road tube station. I say: ‘Reggie, do you know what I’d really like to do with Frontiers of War?’ ‘But my dear, do tell me.’ (He frowns involuntarily however.) ‘I’d like to make a comedy out of it.’ He stops, surprised. Goes on. ‘A comedy?’ He gives me a quick sideways look, revealing all the dislike for me he in fact feels. Then he says: ‘But my dear, it’s so marvellously in the grand manner, simple tragedy. I can’t even remember a comic scene?’ ‘Do you remember the excitement you talked about? the pulse of war?’ ‘My dear, yes, too well.’ ‘Well I agree with you that that’s what the book is really about.’ A pause. The good-looking charming face tightens: he looks cautious and wary. My voice is hard, angry, and full of disgust. Self-disgust. ‘Now you must tell me exactly what you mean.’ We are at the underground entrance. Crowds of people. The man selling newspapers has no face. No nose, rather, his mouth is a rabbit-toothed hole, and his eyes are sunk in scar tissue.