Extract from Paper Moon
PROLOGUE
Soho, 1939
The robe the man had given her to change into was dark blue silk, printed with storks and Japanese gardens and tiny bridges on which pigtailed men crossed shimmering streams. The silk felt cold and slippery against her bare skin and she shivered as though snakes slithered over her flesh. She raised her hands and lifted her hair free to fall around her shoulders. From behind the camera the man, who had introduced himself only as Jason, held up a hand as if to silence her. She hadn't thought to speak - the idea that he thought she might surprised her because she was scared and cold and her teeth were chattering. The camera flashed and Jason lowered his hand. She blushed darkly.
"Well done." His voice was posh and effeminate, and she remembered what was said about certain types of English men. "Now," he said, "Take off the robe."
There was a café across the road from the studio, the same place where Jason had introduced himself and told her she had good bones for the camera, as though the camera was a beast in need of feeding. The café's tables were covered in oilcloths in red checks and steam hissed from a tea urn on the counter where Bath buns sweated beneath a glass dome smudged with an intricate pattern of fingerprints. Only men sat at the other tables, hunched possessively over fried bread and bacon and eggs that ruptured and spilled yellow yolks over the thick white plates. Nina looked away, remembering she was hungry.
At the counter, her companion pointed at the buns. She heard him laugh and looked up. In the studio he had seemed serious, not given to friendliness, he had barely spoken to her at all, only watched as Jason took photo after photo. Behind the café's counter the woman lifted the glass dome and dropped two buns onto a plate, smiling at him, obviously charmed.
He carried the tray of tea and buns to her table and sat down opposite her. His face was serious again. He took cigarettes from his pocket and offered her the open packet. When she shook her head he frowned.
"You don't smoke?"
"It makes me sick."
"You get over that." He went on frowning at her, shaking out the match he used to light his own cigarette. "If you want to be an actress you should smoke. Smoking gives you something to do with your hands."
He poured the tea, pushing a cup towards her along with the plate of buns. "Come on, now, eat up." He imitated her Irish accent so accurately she blushed, bowing her head to hide it. She heard him laugh and forced herself to meet his eye, intending to give him a fierce gaze. But he was smiling at her and once again she was struck by how beautiful he was, like the colour plate of Gabriel in her Children's Illustrated Bible.
She said, "He takes your picture, too, doesn't he?"
He nodded. "And afterwards I come here for sticky buns."
"To feel normal again."
He gazed at her. Holding out his hand he said, "Bobby Harris, pleased to meet you."
His hand was cold and dry in hers. Letting go she said, "Nina Tate."
"Tell me your real name."
She looked down, stirred sugar into her tea. At last she said, "Patricia O'Neil." She met his gaze, daring him to laugh. He only nodded. Taking one of the buns he bit into it and discreetly licked the sugar crystals from his lips.
"Nina, would you like to go to the pictures, after this?"
