The hunt was on for the exotically named Marla Rubin. The lady who reportedly holds the key to the Festen performing rights.

Google. Marla Rubin.

A whole host of articles as it seems she's an extremely illustrious producer. West End. Broadway. Most recently attached to the NTS' production of Let The Right One In which just transferred to the Royal Court in a beautiful bit of orchestration by Vicky and John T. Pictures of her with various dignitaries. Lots of warm very warm words from writers, directors, actors.

And I need to find her. Hashtag awkward.

Google again. Marla Rubin Productions telephone number. (Well, it's worth a shot.)

Another plethora of entries. A listing mostly of those scrappy business directory type entries. Websites that have sprung up from scraped content from other, more respectable websites.

One particularly dubious one featured a telephone number. Nothing ventured and all. I phoned it. 5pm on a Friday.

The phone rang.

A lady answers the phone.

I speak my request.

"Who wants to speak to her?"

I explain (sheepishly) my role in proceedings. Trying to avoid mentioning the dread word "amateur".

"I am she," says the lady. 

I am silenced temporarily. I'd assumed secretaries, underlings, minions. Not just Marla Rubin on the end of a phone.

"Oh," I say, finally. "Hello. Do you have a moment to speak?"

"Actually," she drawled (beautiful drawl), "I've been pretty busy this week and I've got a few calls to make right now. Do you mind if I call you back later this evening or Monday?"

"No, no, I don't," stutters the fawning fool (which is me).

"Great, give me your number."

So I did.