Vanity project's hard journey

I still remember that call. It was from my agent: a young producer named Howard Cohen was looking for writers to adapt Thackeray's Vanity Fair. It sounded like a dream job for me and my writing partner, Mark Skeet, the sort that industry giants would tussle over in the dust, but did we really stand any chance of landing it?

Little did we know that we would hover between dream and nightmare for the next 10 years.

This was 1993, when our success was still measured by our ability to avoid starvation. But armed with youthful optimism, a love of the novel, and very low expectations of payment, we sent Howard a letter of unremitting sycophancy. To our amazement, he agreed to meet us during a forthcoming trip to LA. It was a great meeting - until we mentioned the subject of Vanity Fair: his boss, he awkwardly explained, had instructed him to find more experienced writers. We left the office feigning indifference, but bleeding inside.

A few months later fortune swung our way. Howard had moved jobs, taking Vanity Fair with him and planned to produce it independently. He still needed writers but had no funds.

It was a no-brainer. We agreed to write the script on spec, and accept part ownership of the project in lieu. It was a big commitment - I had to rent out my London flat and move to a remote country cottage. But by the autumn of 1995, Mark and I had a draft with which we were pleased. Howard used it to get Jonathan Lynn, the Yes, Minister writer turned director, and Granada Films on board.

He also helped us gain our first serious commission - to write a miniseries about Lord Nelson. The company was TNT, the UK producer Sir David Puttnam. It all seemed to be going swimmingly.

Swimmingly, yes, but then sharks appeared - in the shape of the BBC and Andrew Davies. The Beeb had decided to make its own version, and we knew that if they went into production-ahead of us, it could delay our project by years, or even kill it completely. We desperately needed to land a big actress to play the amoral, ruthless, low-bred minx Becky Sharpe. Minnie Driver, Bridget Fonda and Juliet Binoche all expressed interest: none would commit. And when the BBC went into production, our project went into a coma.

We chugged on. In fact, on the back of Vanity Fair and the yet unmade Nelson, we were gaining some attractive commissions. But it was frustrating that we still had nothing produced. And no answer to that dinner-party question: "What have you done that I've seen?"

Then suddenly, with Vanity Fair languishing in "development hell", a call came from Paramount to say they liked the script. Everyone got thoroughly excited again ... until we learnt an important lesson: wherever there is change, there is sacrifice.

Jonathan Lynn was gently informed that his services were no longer required. The studio wanted new blood. It was a bitter blow; and, as it turned out, the affair with Paramount was short-lived. Soon we were without US studio or director, and still without a major " produced" credit.

Just as we began to discuss the merits of smallholdings in France, luck turned again. We were asked to do a high-speed rewrite on a huge-budget mini-series, Jason and the Argonauts. The deadline was impossible but we worked like hell and before we knew it, our names were sharing a screen with Dennis Hopper, Derek Jacobi, Adrian Lester and Olivia Williams. Life was good again, and our stock was rising. Yet nothing was moving on Vanity Fair.

All the while, however, to their immense credit, the Granada producers Janette Day and Pippa Cross had kept fighting. Their reward was a call from Donna Gigliotti of USA Films, a hot American studio, to say they loved Vanity Fair. The film was on again. Press releases went out, with Donna praising our "fine adaptation".