‘But adequate,’ he said to himself. It wasn’t The Palladium. It wasn’t The Haymarket.
‘It’s Lochnabrae,’ he said with a sigh. ‘My choice.’
He walked up the steps on the left-hand side and listened to one of his favourite sounds in the world: feet on an empty stage. There was something rather exciting about it – it was a sound full of promise. He smiled as he thought of how many people must have trod these very boards in the name of entertainment – both their own and that of the audience. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a West End stage; its objectives were just the same: to amuse, to provoke thought, and to pass the time. Wasn’t that the real purpose of art, he thought? There was a lot of time to fill during this life and it was his role as a playwright to help people pass it in as pleasurable a way as possible.
For a moment, he stood in the middle of the stage, looking out into the empty village hall. He always thought that stages looked sad when there were no performers on them but auditoriums looked even sadder, making the room look like a face without a smile.
Turning around, Alastair looked at the space behind the stage. The moth-eaten curtain hung limply. It had needed replacing ten years ago but, like everything else, the meagre LADS budget didn’t allow for such luxuries.
He walked towards the dressing rooms. Well, it was one room really, which had been divided by two curtains, which provided some sort of privacy when the cast were changing. Again, it smelt musty and mouldy. Flicking the light switch on, he caught his reflection in one of the mirrors. He hardly recognised himself. His hair was the longest it had ever been, tickling the neckline of his jumper, and the lower half of his face was covered in stubble. His mother would be appalled. His old London friends would be appalled. But he rather liked it. It represented him now: unstructured, unrestrained and – he laughed – unemployable.
So he hadn’t written a play all year – so what? All writers had dry spells, didn’t they? And he was sort of writing. Some sort of character was beginning to emerge only not with the same speed and technical brilliance that he was famous for.
What was happening to him? Had he been in the Highlands too long? Was he beginning to stagnate, just as his friends in the big city had told him he would? Perhaps he was just winding down and going at a more leisurely pace – a normal pace. He’d often been warned about his breakneck, workaholic attitude to life.
‘You’re heading for an early grave,’ his agent had warned him. ‘Or a cardiac arrest at the very least.’
Alastair had laughed. He was young and he loved his work. Until …
He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he walked around the rooms and corridors backstage, checking everything was in reasonable order. In just a few days, the place would be buzzing again with rehearsal mayhem. The costumes would be hauled out of the old wardrobes and Mrs Wallace would do her best to patch and repair them. There’d be a frantic scramble in the props chest to see if there was anything suitable at all, and then Hamish would be called upon to work his artistic brilliance on the scenery. Alastair felt sure that Hamish’s true talents were wasted working as a car mechanic. When Alister had first seen his ability with a humble paint pot and a brush, he was completely taken aback. Hamish had seemed surprised too. It was as if a secret side of him had been unlocked.
It’s what places like this needed: talented people to come together and give something back to the community. After the hassles and strains of life in London, Alastair had really appreciated being made to feel a part of such a community. It was a real privilege.
Now, as he walked the length of the corridor, he thought of the months that lay ahead with a sense of excitement. Okay, so it wasn’t the buzz he got from putting on a show of his own in the West End but he’d given that up, hadn’t he? He’d willingly walked away from that life and often wondered what his friends in Lochnabrae would think if they knew the real reason why he was there. They’d pretty much taken his arrival in their stride. It had helped that he was a Scot, of course, and, more importantly, he was always happy to get the rounds in at The Capercaillie. He’d been well and truly accepted. But what if they knew the truth?
No, he thought. He wasn’t going to think about that. How could anyone possibly find out? As far as he knew, the story hadn’t been widely reported outside of the London theatre scene and certainly wasn’t talked about north of the border. He had been able to start again and for that he was eternally grateful.
He was just returning to the stage when something caught his eye. Half-hidden behind the curtain lay a copy of a book and, bending down to retrieve it, he discovered it was one of his very own plays, Infinite Jest.
Alastair let out a laugh that echoed in the emptiness because it had been that very play that had been the beginning of the end for him, or could have been if he hadn’t left London.
He wondered who could have left it there and, picking it up, flicked through the pages. On page seventeen, there was a ring mark – about the size of a whisky tumbler.
‘Sandy,’ he said and he frowned. He didn’t know Sandy read his plays. He always seemed so reluctant to read anything other than the racing pages of the newspaper but maybe he hadn’t made it beyond page seventeen, Alastair mused.
For a moment, he thought of his play. Infinite Jest was one of his most famous. ‘A sparkling comedy’ The Times had called it. ‘A triumph of intelligent theatre’ the Guardian had written, and yet it had led to one of the most miserable periods of his life.
He put the ragged copy in his jacket pocket and whistled to Bounce as he walked down the stage steps and made his way towards the door. His dark-eyed companion looked up at him, his face alert in anticipation of a walk.
‘Yeah, yeah, all right!’ Alastair said. A good long walk was just what he needed too.
Chapter Twenty-One
By the time the morning of the pre-play hike came round, Connie was feeling really settled with life in Lochnabrae. She’d been there for just over a week and her once hectic timetable had been abolished, leaving her with whole days to do exactly what she pleased. She was sleeping well, eating what she liked, and taking long walks around the loch each day. Her eyes looked brighter and she’d lost the shadows underneath them that would normally be hidden under thick slabs of make-up. Her skin had improved too. Isla’s magical pot of Benet’s Balm had restored her complexion and she had even been brave enough to go make-up free for a couple of days, luxuriating in the feel of the wind on her bare skin as she took her walks. She was almost completely relaxed but there was one thing nagging at her. There was something she knew she had to do and she couldn’t put it off a moment longer.
Leaving her room, Connie went downstairs and found Isla dusting a sideboard in the dining room.
‘Good morning, Connie,’ Isla said. ‘You look like a woman on a mission,’ Isla observed.
‘Yes, I am,’ Connie said. ‘I wonder if I may use your phone. I’ve not replaced my mobile yet and – well – I really don’t want to but I should make a call to the states. I’ll pay, of course.’
‘There’s a phone in my room upstairs if you want a wee bit of privacy,’ Isla said.
‘Thanks,’ Connie said.
Isla’s room was small but beautiful. She’d given the three larger rooms of the house over to guest bedrooms and that had left her the tiny room at the back. Still, the view was lovely with fields rolling into the mountains beyond.
There was a small double bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers and that was it. An old-fashioned ragdoll sat on the bed looking woeful and there was a reading lamp under which was a stack of People’s Friend and a couple of Rosamunde Pilcher novels.
And the phone.
Connie took a deep breath. ‘Come on,’ she told herself, closing the bedroom door. ‘Just get it over and done with.’
She picked up the phone and dialled. There was no answer immediately and she was just about to hang up when a little voice answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Samantha?’
‘Connie?’
‘Did I wake you?’
There was a pause. ‘Er – yes!’ Samantha said. ‘It’s two in the morning.’
Connie gasped. ‘Oh my God! I totally forgot! Listen, I’ll call you later, okay?’
‘No, no! Don’t go, Connie. Just give me a minute,’ Samantha said. ‘There, that’s better, I can see what I’m doing now.’
Connie smiled, imagining her PA finding the light switch and putting her neat little glasses on.
‘I’ve been keeping a notepad by the phone in case you rang. Where have you been? I’ve left you messages. Did you lose your phone?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Connie said. ‘Look, I’m so sorry I didn’t ring earlier but I – well – I didn’t really want to.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. You all right?’
Samantha sighed, the weight of it travelling the Atlantic Ocean to assault Connie’s ear.
‘Oh, dear,’ Connie said, ‘you’d better fill me in.’ She sat down on the edge of Isla’s bed.
Samantha then began on the long list of messages that Connie’s agent, Bob Braskett, had left her. On and on it went, unrelentingly nasty and totally unnecessary. Connie interrupted with the occasional, ‘He didn’t really say that, did he?’ And Samantha had to assure Connie that he had.
‘I hung up on him the last time,’ she said. ‘I warned him but he wasn’t listening to me.’
Connie shook her head. ‘It’s about time I had a word with him. He has no right to speak to you like that and no right to talk about me in that way either.’
‘He said he was coming over,’ Samantha said.
‘Well, don’t let him in,’ Connie said.
‘No, not over here – over there.’
‘There where?’
‘Scotland. He’s flying to Scotland, Connie.’
‘No way!’
‘That’s what he said the last time I spoke to him.’
‘And when was that?’ Connie asked in panic.
‘A couple of days ago. He sounded furious. I thought he was going to have a heart attack on the phone.’
‘But how does he know where I am?’
Samantha was quiet.
‘Sammy?’
‘I’m sorry, Connie. I found the fan letter on your desk and you’d scribbled a flight number down on a pad. I just put two and two together.’
‘And told Bob?’
‘Oh, Connie! I wish I hadn’t. I’m so sorry but he was really putting pressure on me.’
‘It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I should’ve told you where I was. So, when did he leave?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve not heard from him since that call,’ Samantha said.
‘He’s probably just bluffing, anyway, but let me know if you hear from him again, all right?’
‘Sure, Connie.’
‘Here’s my number but don’t pass it on to Bob, okay?’
Connie gave out the bed and breakfast’s phone number and then hung up. She had a feeling that her face was now as woeful as that of the ragdoll on the bed. Bob wouldn’t really come all the way to Scotland, would he? He’d never stepped foot out of LA, let alone the States. He probably couldn’t even point to Scotland on a map. Still, Connie couldn’t help worrying that, any moment now, he could turn up and spoil her perfect existence in Lochnabrae.
Maggie’s bed was covered with clothes.
‘It’s a hike,’ she told herself. ‘Wear your hiking gear.’ And she would. There were the trusty hiking trousers that were warm and waterproof and, if they got wet, would dry quickly. What was causing her the problem was what she should wear on top. Normally, she had an old T-shirt with a faded Snoopy on the front. It was worn away to a whisper but was so wonderfully soft. However, it had gone in the bin bag when they’d had the sort out. Since then, they’d been shopping online together for replacements and there they all were on the bed. Five pretty T-shirts.
‘One for each day of the week in case you insist on wearing nothing else,’ Connie had told her.
They were lovely – really they were. It’s just they were so tight. Maggie was used to big and baggy not small and tight. She took a deep breath and picked out a creamy pink one, pulling it over her head and her chest. It was certainly a tight fit, hugging her breasts before skimming down to her waist. She took a peep in the mirror and swallowed hard. Everything was on display. This was terrible – terrible.
Hunting around on the bed, Maggie saw one of the new jumpers Connie had chosen for her. Like the T-shirt, it was a pale pink and it might do something to hide her protruding chest. She pulled it over her head and stood in front of the mirror. She looked a little less obvious now, at least. For a moment, she stood looking at her reflection. Her hair was looking amazing. She ran her fingers through it, luxuriating in its silky softness. Not only had Connie bought her clothes online but hair products too. They’d arrived in a beautiful box, smelling heavenly and promising miraculous things for even the most wayward of curls. Maggie had spent last night wearing a conditioning treatment under a shower cap. It had felt funny crunching and sliding across her pillow but the results were pretty amazing. For the first time in her life, Maggie had a glorious head of shiny, manageable curls. She’d even applied a little serum for a bit of added shine and she couldn’t stop looking at it now. The question was, would Mikey notice?
The meeting place for the pre-play hike was outside The Capercaillie and Connie and Isla walked there together from the bed and breakfast. It was a perfect spring morning; mild but with a crisp edge to it that would be just right for walking. The gently heaving hills glowed with their covering of bright bracken and the waters of the loch were the most perfect blue Connie had ever seen.
‘The gang’s all here,’ Isla said, nodding at the little crowd.
Connie could see them all shuffling around in their walking boots and looking up into the hills beyond to check what sort of weather was waiting for them. There was Alastair, a huge rucksack on his back, his dark hair curling over his waterproof jacket and Bounce sitting beside him. He saw Connie approaching and nodded. Connie nodded back and he threw a smile at her and she couldn’t help noticing – perhaps for the first time – how cute he was. Connie usually went for the clean-shaven type of guy – the sort to wear a sharp suit and tie but Alastair’s slightly unkempt look was strangely appealing and she found herself gazing at his long hair and dark stubble. Why hadn’t she noticed that before, she wondered? Maybe she’d been admiring the scenery too much to notice the very handsome man who lived smack bang in the middle of it.
It was just as she was pondering this that she felt a hand on her arm.
‘Have you thought any more about a western?’ a voice said.
‘Angus!’ Connie said.
‘Because I think it would be a good move. I mean for your career,’ Angus said, his long face solemn.
‘I’m not thinking about my career today,’ Connie said and quickly moved away from him as she caught sight of Maggie and Hamish.
‘Connie!’ Hamish said as she approached.
‘You’ve got to save me,’ Connie whispered. ‘Angus is practically stalking me.’
Maggie linked arms with her. ‘Stay with me,’ she said. ‘Hamish – get the other side of her.’
Hamish was happy to do as he was told and linked Connie’s other arm.
‘You look lovely,’ he half-whispered, looking like a love-struck teenager. ‘I like your hair like that.’
‘Thanks, bro,’ Maggie interrupted.
‘Not your hair – Connie’s!’ Hamish said, admiring the way she’d tied it into a knot at the back of her head.
‘But Maggie’s hair’s looking fantastic,’ Connie said. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Oh, aye!’ Hamish said, happy to agree with anything Connie said.
‘It does, Maggie. It looks wonderful.’ Maggie beamed at her and Connie looked around to see if the object of Maggie’
s affection was there to notice. There was Sandy, leaning on a sturdy walking stick, and Euan consulting a map. Young Kirsty Kendrick was there with her sister, Catriona. Both were sporting red hats and were giggling at something Connie couldn’t quite make out but there was no Mikey.
‘Anyone seen Mrs Wallace?’ Alastair suddenly bellowed.
‘Oh, she rang me this morning,’ Isla said. ‘Said she felt a cold coming on.’
‘What a shame,’ Maggie whispered to Connie. ‘We’ll all miss her friendly banter.’
Connie tried not to smile. She was so looking forward to this walk and getting to know everybody. In a funny way, she felt like she knew everybody already because they’d all made her so welcome but this was her time to start returning the favour and trusting them, really trusting them. She had to stop thinking that somebody was going to sell her out to the newspapers or that they only liked her for her fame. It was the only way forward and she had every intention of following it.
Just then, Mikey the Biker appeared around the corner, his sleek motorbike gleaming in the early morning light, its engine throbbing.
‘Wow!’ Maggie said before she could check herself.
Connie’s mouth dropped open. Wow indeed, she thought. He was Lochnabrae’s very own Marlon Brando.
He pulled over outside The Capercaillie in a cloud of dust and removed his helmet, shaking his dark hair free and nodding at the crowd. Kirsty and Catriona rushed forward, Catriona grabbing his helmet and pushing it on over her red hat.
‘Let me!’ Kirsty said, taking it off her sister.
Mikey laughed as he got off the bike, leaving the girls to fight over his helmet.
‘Well, hello there, Connie,’ he said, striding over to meet her. ‘You’ve got your bodyguards, I see.’
‘It’s Angus!’ Hamish whispered. ‘He’s been stalking Connie.’
‘Has he now?’ Mikey said, looking around to where Angry Angus was standing. He was watching them, a frown on his face as if he didn’t approve of any of them.
‘Well, I’ve just got to slip out of me leathers,’ Mikey said, ‘then I can join your little posse and make sure you’re safe.’ He sloped off to the porch of The Capercaillie.
The Runaway Actress Page 17
