The Runaway Actress

by Connelly, Victoria

  Alastair nodded. ‘I know you think it’ll be difficult but that’s part of the challenge actors must face.’

  ‘But we’re not really actors, now, are we Alastair?’ Sandy said.

  ‘Humph! Speak for yourself,’ Mrs Wallace said.

  ‘But we’re not!’ Sandy insisted. ‘I can’t remember me own telephone number some days let alone a speech by Shackspeare.’

  ‘Then we’ll ease you in gradually,’ Alastair said. ‘I’m not going to give you Hamlet’s soliloquies, for goodness’ sake. I thought we could do Twelfth Night. It’s a comedy.’

  ‘Is it funny, then?’ Angus asked.

  ‘It’s a comedy, Angus,’ Alastair repeated.

  ‘I know but some of that so-called comedy don’t work now, does it? What them ancient folk thought was funny might not be funny today.’

  ‘It’s funny, Angus – believe me. It’s got girls dressing up as boys and girls falling in love with the boys who are really girls. It’s got mistaken identity and one of the best revenge plots ever.’

  ‘It sounds perverted to me,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘Can’t we do a nice farce?’

  ‘Oh, gawd blimey no!’ Angus said, ‘All them slamming doors and fainting women!’

  ‘Or one of those nice Gilbert and Sullivan plays?’ Mrs Wallace suggested.

  ‘With singing?’ Alastair said. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ he said, looking around the table at the LADS present.

  ‘Well, maybe you’re right,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘But I’ve got a very good voice, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sandy said, ‘a fine pair of lungs, I’ll warrant ye.’ His eyes, which were starting to blur with one Scotch too many, gaped at Mrs Wallace’s impressive chest.

  ‘So, what do you all think? Are we on for giving Shakespeare a go?’ Alastair asked.

  Nobody answered for a moment.

  ‘I am,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Good gal, Maggie!’ Alastair said. ‘I knew I could count on you.’

  ‘And me,’ Kirsty said. ‘Me and Catriona are in too.’

  ‘Anyone else? I know this is a play where lasses dress as lads but it would be nice to have one or two real lads involved.’

  ‘Well then,’ Sandy said, ‘I dare say I could give it a go.’

  ‘Excellent! And Angus? What do you say?’

  Angus cleared his throat. ‘I say I’ll do it as long as I’m not one of them cross-dressers.’

  ‘You have my word for it,’ Alastair said. ‘Mrs Wallace, now you’ll take a part, won’t you? You know how I always value your work as an actress.’

  Sandy spluttered into his tumbler but Mrs Wallace chose to ignore him. ‘I will bring my own special magic to the Bard,’ she said.

  ‘I know you will,’ Alastair said. ‘And Euan?’

  Everyone turned to face Euan Kennedy who’d barely said a word since the arrival of Connie Gordon.

  ‘Aye,’ he said softly and slowly. ‘I’ll play a part.’

  Alastair rubbed his hands. ‘And Hamish too and Isla. Where’s Isla tonight?’

  ‘Oh, she’s over in Strathcorrie at Mrs Patterson’s,’ Maggie said. ‘But I’m sure she’ll want to be involved.’

  ‘Great,’ Alastair said. ‘Well, if you can think of anyone else who’d like to be involved – on- or off-stage – let me know. We can always use more people.’

  At that, Sandy cleared his throat.

  ‘What?’ Alastair asked.

  Sandy nodded towards the head of the table and everyone turned to look at Connie who was sitting there, examining her beer mat as if she’d never seen one before in her life.

  ‘Connie!’ Angus all but shouted.

  ‘What?’ Connie shouted back, shocked into sudden alertness.

  ‘Connie should have a part too!’ Maggie said, following the train of thought. ‘Oh, you will, won’t you, Connie?’

  Connie looked completely gobsmacked by the very idea. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘Why not?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘Oh, say yes!’ Catriona said. ‘It would be amazing. A real Hollywood actress in our play!’

  ‘But I don’t know how long I’m staying,’ Connie said.

  ‘That doesn’t matter, does it? Tell her, Alastair! She has to have a part,’ Maggie insisted.

  ‘Now, don’t go putting pressure on Connie. She’s got her own roles to worry about,’ Alastair said and there was an anxious expression on his face that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  ‘Go on, Connie, lass!’ Sandy said.

  ‘Aye,’ Angus said. ‘If you’re not going to make a western, the least you can do is be in our play.’

  ‘Even if it’s just for a wee while,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Go on!’ Kirsty said. ‘Please!’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Catriona echoed and, suddenly, the whole bar was full of ‘go ons’ and ‘pleases’.

  ‘ALL RIGHT!’ Connie suddenly blurted. ‘Enough already! I’ll be in your play.’

  A huge cheer went up in The Capercaillie followed by an ear-splitting whistle from Angus. Everybody was beaming. Connie Gordon – movie star – was going to be in their play. They couldn’t have been happier.

  Only Alastair and Connie didn’t look happy with the arrangement. They both sat in stunned silence, a look of doom hovering over their faces as the rest of the pub went mad with elation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Maggie wasn’t as elated as she should have been by Connie’s acceptance of a role in the forthcoming LADS play. Such news would normally have had her reeling for joy but she had something else on her mind that evening: Michael Shire. Where was he? Maggie looked at her watch. It was half past nine and there was no sign of him. Maybe he wasn’t coming or maybe he’d met up with Hamish at the flat.

  Everybody at the table was chatting away. Maggie looked at them. They all looked happy and contented. Even Connie was looking relaxed now and was leaning forward on her stool, nodding and smiling with Kirsty and Catriona. But Maggie didn’t feel like smiling. At least, she didn’t until the door of The Capercaillie opened and in walked Michael Shire.

  Maggie gasped. He was just as she remembered him: tall, broad shoulders encased in his leather biker’s jacket, and shoulder-length black hair that curled in such a way that made Maggie’s fingers itch to twirl it.

  Euan was the first – or rather second – to spot him. ‘Michael!’ he called. ‘Get yerself a drink and join us.’

  Mikey nodded, casting his eyes around the table. Maggie caught them and smiled, her face heating up like a furnace.

  ‘Are you all right, our Maggie?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve got something I want to ask you later,’ he said with a wink and then walked across to the bar.

  Maggie’s heart fluttered like a caged bird’s. He wanted to talk to her. He had something to ask her. Perhaps he’d come to his senses at long last. He’d travelled the world and had come back to their little corner of Scotland because he had realised that Maggie was the only woman he wanted. He’d take her hand and lead her out of The Capercaillie into the velvet-soft night. ‘Maggie, my Maggie!’ he’d whisper, the stubble on his face brushing against her cheek. ‘I’ve waited so long to tell you. I came as quickly as I could. My darling Maggie. How I’ve longed for this mo—’

  ‘Maggie?’ Sandy cried.

  ‘What?’ Maggie said, somewhat startled to be dragged out of so sweet a daydream.

  ‘Alastair wants to know if you think Mikey will join the play.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Maggie said. ‘I mean, I think so.’

  ‘Good!’ Alastair said. ‘I’ll let you ask him, okay?’ Alastair said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Aye, lass,’ Sandy said. ‘You ask him.’ He gave a lascivious grin that Maggie tried to ignore, but then he did something that Maggie was secretly grateful for: he shuffled up on the seat and beckoned to Mikey who was walking towards the table with his pint. ‘Here you are, lad. Park yerself here now.’

 
‘Thanks, Sandy. You all right?’

  ‘Ah, can’t complain,’ Sandy said. ‘My memory’s a little shorter and my nose hair’s a little longer but I can’t complain.’

  Mikey laughed as he took the seat that had been Hamish’s, his leg brushing Maggie’s as he sat down.

  At last, he turned to her, a huge smile on his face. ‘So, then, Maggie!’

  She took a deep breath. ‘So, then, Mikey.’

  ‘You’re still running the shop, aren’t you?’

  ‘I certainly am,’ Maggie said, wondering where this might be leading. Perhaps he wanted to move in? Perhaps he wanted Maggie to move out?

  ‘Good, good,’ Mikey said, shaking his long hair back over his shoulders. ‘Cause there’s something I’ve got to know. You don’t still sell them packets of Taste the Highlands Shortbread Selection, do you? I’ve been dreaming about them all the way around the world.’

  Maggie’s mouth dropped open in befuddlement.

  ‘Shortbread?’

  ‘Aye! Taste the Highlands,’ Mikey said. ‘My favourite. They melt in the mouth. There’s nothing comes close. Tell me you still sell them.’

  ‘Aye,’ Maggie said, her voice flat and emotionless. ‘We still sell them.’

  ‘Oh, Maggie! You’re my queen! My empress of the world!’ he said. ‘Let me buy you a drink. Anything you like.’

  ‘Scotch,’ Maggie said. ‘Double. Straight.’

  Mikey nodded and leapt up from his seat, having no idea how furious Maggie was. He hadn’t been thinking about her at all, had he? As he’d hiked through Nepal and trekked through Chile, he hadn’t been thinking about her but of Taste the Highlands Shortbread Selection.

  It was ridiculous. Maggie was now officially jealous of a packet of biscuits.

  She didn’t spend much longer in the pub after that. For most of the time, Mikey had his back to her as he and Sandy swapped tall stories about women from around the world that went something like this:

  ‘I met this lass in Spain. She had armpits hairier than me but, man, could she kiss!’

  ‘Reminds me of a holiday in Italy when I was seeing two sisters. And their mother.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. And the grandmother was a looker too.’

  Maggie had had enough. She got up and left.

  ‘I’ll call around for that shortbread sometime, Mags,’ Mikey called after her.

  ‘Bloody shortbread,’ Maggie said under her breath. ‘Bloody men.’ Honestly, why couldn’t Mikey be more like a hero from a Connie Gordon film? They didn’t go on about shortbread all the time. They were true romantics who knew how to treat a woman.

  Maggie sighed in exasperation as she walked back up the main street in the dark. She never bothered with a torch even though there was no street lighting. She knew every step of the way, as did all the locals. Everything was still and silent and there was a cool breeze. She looked out into the great blackness where she knew the loch to be. It was strange to have its presence and that of the mountains even though she couldn’t see them. It was like a kind of faith, she thought. I can’t see them but I know they’re there and that’s a comfort.

  ‘Far more reliable than any man!’ she told the night.

  When she got home, Maggie was surprised to discover that Hamish was in bed. He’d helped himself to some beer from the shop, which, no doubt, Maggie would have to square with the till later.

  ‘Bloody men,’ she cursed as she went to her room and took off her jumper.

  She looked at her reflection. What a waste of time it had been worrying about her appearance. Mikey wouldn’t have noticed if she’d sported prosthetic elfin ears and a fake beard. He was only interested in her for her shortbread.

  ‘Bloody shortbread. Bloody beer. And bloody men!’

  Unlike Maggie, Alastair did take a torch out with him on his trips to the pub because his walk home was slightly longer and slightly more precarious. The road was steep and the drop to the right was sheer in some parts. It would take just one fatal footfall and – crash, bang, splash, he’d be ‘deed in the loch’ as Sandy often warned him. Which was a shame because it meant he had to watch his alcohol consumption. Still, there were compensations to walking, like the fresh night air and the enormous dark sky stuffed with stars and the whole magical peace of it all. He liked turning back to see the lights of the village getting smaller and smaller and to hear the sounds of the pub fading behind him. He felt like a king returning to his castle high up on the hill. Only it was a very small castle – a haggis-sized castle, perhaps – and he liked to whistle as he walked. Tonight, he was whistling ‘Long Ago and Far Away’ – a song he knew from childhood from the Gene Kelly film, Cover Girl, the rhythm in time to his footfall on the road. Why was he singing it? Because Connie Gordon had reminded him of Rita Hayworth – and not just for the obvious reason that her hair was red but she had that luminosity about her, and the way she held herself had reminded him of her too.

  Alastair sighed. It was happening again – the pull of the actress. That flirtatious quality they held, that vulnerability. He shook his head. He mustn’t think of Connie. He mustn’t think of Connie.

  ‘I mustn’t think of Connie!’ he cried out into the night, startling a nearby sheep. ‘Sorry,’ he said. But, even though he stopped whistling, the song kept playing in his head, and instead of Rita Hayworth and Gene Kelly dancing, it was Connie Gordon and himself.

  Looking up at the Milky Way, he suddenly felt very small. The stars were so beautiful here and yet there was only one star he wanted to see and that was Connie. She’d been so nervous tonight. How could a world-famous actress be nervous about meeting a bunch of Lochnabrae locals, he wondered? But, in a wonderful way, it showed that she was human and everybody had loved her for it. She hadn’t lorded her fame over them. She had answered their questions calmly and carefully and had even said she’d join in the play.

  Alastair sighed. The play. That was going to be a problem, he just knew it.

  Arriving home, he opened the door. ‘Hello, Bounce!’ he said as the turbo-charged animal crashed into his legs, a tail slapping into him painfully before Bounce rolled over onto his back for tummy-tickling pleasures. Alastair obliged, kneeling down and rubbing the furry belly. ‘Why’s life so complicated, Bounce?’ he asked. ‘I came here for uncomplicated things and now this woman – this actress turns up!’

  Bounce looked up at him, his brown eyes un-comprehending.

  ‘She bothers me,’ he continued undeterred. ‘She shouldn’t be here. What’s she doing here?’

  Bounce didn’t seem to have any ideas. His wasn’t a world complicated by human emotions. For him, a walk – perhaps with the added bonus of a swim or at least a paddle – food and a belly rub were as complicated as things got.

  Alastair, however, was very complicated. He didn’t like to admit it but he had a thing about actresses. They got to him and, as a playwright and director, he’d met his fair share of them. They were a worrying species and part of coming to Lochnabrae had been to escape from all that – from the phone calls at two in the morning when an actress was panicking about her opening night, from tantrums when they thought they knew the character better than the playwright, from fits of jealousy if Alastair dared to praise anybody else on the stage. He had sworn off actresses. When he’d left London and headed north, he’d promised himself that actresses were a thing of the past and, if he was ever going to settle down, it would be with a nice normal girl who didn’t scan the papers every day and get all insecure if she didn’t rate a mention. No, he wasn’t going to get involved with actresses again. Once had been more than enough.

  He shook his head. He wasn’t going to think about that now. The past was the past and it could jolly well stay there.

  Getting up from the floor, Alastair took his coat and shoes off and walked through to the bathroom and turned the shower on. He got undressed, folding his trousers neatly over a chair and putting his laundry into the basket in a careful way that would raise a smile from any
woman. Stepping into the shower, he thought about that evening. What would his old friends in London say if he told them he’d got Connie Gordon to star in his next production? He allowed himself a smile but it soon turned to a frown. The truth was, he didn’t want her in the play at all. As beautiful and talented as she no doubt was, she was an actress and that meant one thing – trouble.

  She’ll be back in sunny LA before the first rehearsal, he told himself.

  But what if she wasn’t? What if she hung around? He’d really have to offer her a role – the LADS would demand it – and he couldn’t very well offer her a small part, could he? Imagine how insulting that would be.

  ‘Look, I know you’re an Oscar-nominated Hollywood actress and everything but would you mind playing the role of Valentine? You have five lines in scene four.’

  But then, if he gave her a main part, that would breed resentment in the others. He’d seen it before. Once a big name became involved, everyone else would feel insecure and tantrums would start.

  As he got himself into a physical as well as a mental lather, Alastair couldn’t help but realise that, whatever way he looked at it, trouble was just around the corner. He could only hope that Connie’s visit to Lochnabrae wouldn’t be a long one.

  Having returned from her evening in Strathcorrie, Isla was waiting up for Connie when she returned to the B&B.

  ‘You have a nice evening, dear?’ she called.

  Connie went through to the sitting room. Isla was sitting in front of the TV. There was some film on starring a male-model-turned-actor.

  ‘I turned that role down,’ Connie said, sitting down next to Isla.

  ‘Alec Steven’s?’

  ‘No!’ Connie said. ‘The woman’s role.’

  ‘Oh,’ Isla said. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised you turned it down. It’s the worst thing I’ve seen in ages.’

  ‘That’s what I thought when they sent me the script.’

  There was a pause. ‘So, did you enjoy your evening at our local?’

  Connie nodded.

  ‘And you were made welcome?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And you liked everyone? And everyone liked you?’