Write Your Own Script

by A. L. Brooks

  Tamsyn sipped her fizz, mind whirling. Maggie was delighting her more by the second, and it was getting way beyond the physical now.

  “Okay, I can’t quite believe I’m going to say this, but would you like to have dinner with me? You mentioned you’re a writer, and I’d love to hear about that, and, well, I’d quite like an evening where I could just be me, talking to another human being, if that makes sense.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, you don’t even know me.”

  “Trust me, I’m qualified in ‘Stalker 101’ and you have none of the trademark signs. I think I’m safe.”

  Maggie threw back her head and laughed. “Then my cunning disguise has worked. Hurrah.”

  Tamsyn sniggered, a sound she wouldn’t have known she was capable of making. “Damn, you’re good. I’m doomed.”

  “Nah, you’re right. You’re safe with me.” Maggie smiled over the top of her glass.

  They shared a look then, a look that contained warmth, and understanding, and…something else. Affection? Maybe. But maybe something already deeper than that. Whatever it was, it shook Tamsyn, but not enough for her to turn away.

  “But,” Maggie continued, “as much as I would like to accept your offer, I have to get back to Gizmo. I didn’t leave him any food out because I only thought I’d be a few minutes over here.” She sipped the last of her champagne. “But, um, if you really would like to spend an evening together, you could always come over to our place tomorrow, if you like. I mean, if that’s not too—”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Tamsyn beamed at Maggie, a sense of excitement coursing through her. “Shall I bring a bottle?”

  “Of this?” Maggie tipped her empty glass. “Certainly!”

  Chapter 6

  I’m cooking dinner for Tamsyn Harris tonight. I must be bloody mad.

  Maggie skittered around the cottage trying to do eighteen things at once to make the place presentable for a BAFTA-winning actress to dine in. The panic in her belly made her hands tremble every time she attempted to pick something up. Gizmo sat in his bed, licking his chops after eating his dinner, and staring at her.

  “Yes, I know. Your mum’s turned into a crazy woman. Blame her!” She pointed in the vague direction of the other cottage.

  “‘You could always come over to our place tomorrow, if you like’,” she muttered. “Jesus H Christ, what was I thinking?”

  She slumped down on the sofa, cleaning temporarily forgotten. “I wasn’t thinking. That was the whole bloody problem. She was standing there, looking so gorgeous and a little bit vulnerable, and I’d had a glass of champagne, and then bleugh, out vomited the invite.” Maggie hung her head in her hands. “Oh, my God. What the hell am I going to talk to her about all evening?”

  Gizmo padded over and laid his chin on her knee. It barely reached, but she appreciated the gesture. She stroked his snout and his whiskers, and he made that cute little snuffling noise that meant he was enjoying it. She’d figured out long ago it was his equivalent to a cat’s purr.

  “And you have to help me, okay? You need to be charming, and quiet, and just all round cute. Keep distracting her, okay?”

  He gazed up at her, those big brown eyes melting her heart, as always, and she chuckled and pulled him onto her lap for a proper snuggle.

  “God, Gizmo. This is crazy,” she said into his fur as she nuzzled his neck. He licked her cheek, the soft rasp of his tongue feeling strangely soothing, when normally she would push him away and wipe her face with a loud “Yuk!”

  After a few minutes of cuddling, she felt better. It was amazing how therapeutic a doggy hug could be.

  Okay, let’s do this, but let’s do it properly, and methodically.

  She inhaled and exhaled nice and slow, then popped Gizmo back on the floor and stood up. Glancing round the room, she took stock. Fire already lit, and plenty of wood to last through the night. The living room itself was reasonably tidy and a few minutes’ work would sort out what was left. She wandered over to the bathroom on the other side of the entranceway. This took only a minute of hanging towels properly and tidying her toiletries to make it presentable before she moved to the kitchen-cum-dining area.

  “Well, this needs a bit of work.”

  Rolling up her sleeves, she got on with it, all the while thinking about what she’d cook. She had some salmon in the fridge, and a selection of vegetables, and decided that would make a decent meal for a famous actress.

  After cleaning and preparing veg, she remembered to get cleaned up herself and changed into the nicest pair of jeans she’d brought with her, as well as a soft, long-sleeved shirt. It was about the most presentable outfit she could put together, but even if she’d brought something ‘posher’, she wouldn’t have worn it. As much as it was freaking her out that Tamsyn Harris was coming to dinner, this was Maggie’s home, albeit a temporary one, and she had every right to feel comfortable in it. And, she reasoned, Tamsyn had said she wanted to have an evening where she could just be herself, and not the famous actress. So jeans, plain old salmon and veg, and an ordinary chat was what she’d get.

  Satisfied at last with all she’d done, Maggie returned to the kitchen and poured herself a small, fortifying glass of white wine. She eased into the armchair and sat watching the fire as she sipped, smiling to herself—no one she knew would believe her if she told them who she was having dinner with. Not that she would tell anyone. She was determined to protect Tamsyn’s privacy. Still, it would make a great story over dinner one night with her sister, or her friend Sally, both of whom were also big fans.

  She sat bolt upright in her chair.

  To hell with telling her sister or Sally. This whole situation would make a great story, period. Her mind exploded. Yes! Imagine, the scene—famous lesbian actress in hiding from the press meets lonely writer on retreat. Sparks fly, romance blossoms, they return to ‘real life’ as partners and face the world together.

  Scrambling out of her chair, nearly spilling the wine in her haste to place her glass on the coffee table, she looked around the room for her notebook and pen. The brown leather Moleskine went everywhere with her for exactly this purpose. When inspiration struck, she wanted some means of recording it before it was lost. Finally spotting it on the bookshelf across the room, she strode over to retrieve it. Not even bothering to sit down again, she scribbled frantically as the outline of the story spilled out onto the pages. She couldn’t write the words down fast enough, and her handwriting turned into an ugly scrawl within moments, but who the hell cared? It was the first concrete idea she’d had for a new book in months and her blood was almost fizzing in her excitement.

  When Gizmo scurried towards the front door moments before the knocker rattled against it, she almost groaned aloud in frustration—the ideas were still coming, and she didn’t want to be interrupted, not now! Then she remembered who was on the other side of the door and her heart thumped. This was where reality stepped in and took over from her imagination. The famous actress, who was very obviously straight, was only here for dinner and some conversation. But that was okay—Maggie could let her imagination run riot later. The thrill of sitting down to write a new story brought a lightness to her steps as she crossed to the door, and she smiled. God, when was the last time she’d had that buzz?

  When she swung open the door, Gizmo weaving around her legs to greet their visitor first, the smile was still plastered on her face.

  “Hi,” Tamsyn said, and held out an ice-cold bottle of champagne. Then she tilted her head as she studied Maggie. “You’re beaming. Had some good news?”

  Maggie chuckled and stepped aside to let Tamsyn into the house, watching her walk carefully around the excited Gizmo, who was doing that quirky little half-jump step he did when he sensed a special occasion.

  “Sort of. I…I’ve been experiencing writer’s block for a while, and suddenly had…an inspiration…for a story.” She willed
her cheeks not to blush, given the inspiration was standing only three feet away. “It’s quite exciting to have that feeling again.”

  Tamsyn peeled off her coat and hung it on a hook beside the door. “I can imagine. Good for you!” She bent down to unlace her boots.

  “Oh, I’d keep those on if I was you,” Maggie said quickly. “The floors are freezing and I don’t have spare slippers.”

  “Ah!” Tamsyn continued with the unlacing. “I came prepared.” She slipped off the boots and dipped a hand into her large handbag. “Ta-da!”

  Maggie laughed as Tamsyn pulled out a pair of fluffy slippers that looked very well worn.

  “Perfect. I’m impressed.”

  Tamsyn smiled. “I told you, I wanted an evening where I could just be me, and me wears these slippers all the time when I’m actually able to be at home. I even have a slightly more serious pair for when I’m travelling or on set. Standing around all day in the heels they usually make me wear is so hard on the feet.”

  “I can imagine. So, please come in, and sit down—rest those feet.”

  Tamsyn grinned. “I like your thinking. But first, let me open the champagne. It’s nicely chilled, as you can probably tell.”

  Maggie handed it back and led Tamsyn into the kitchen. Her nerves had dissipated rapidly under the warmth of their initial interaction. Tamsyn—if she could just get used to thinking of her as that, and not as Tamsyn-Harris-famous-actress—was lovely company.

  After pulling two glasses down from the cupboard and placing them on the small dining table which she’d already set for their meal, Maggie moved to switch on the oven.

  “I’m baking some salmon and steaming a mix of vegetables for supper. Is that okay?”

  “Oh, sounds lovely. And no carbs, which is brilliant.”

  “Yes, I knew you didn’t eat them so—” Maggie stopped, her face flushing crimson. She didn’t dare turn round.

  Tamsyn walked up behind her and leaned round to look at her. “Please don’t be embarrassed that you knew that about me. I know things like that are in the public domain, and easy for you to find out. I think it’s very thoughtful that you made the effort to check.”

  Oh, lordy, if only it were that simple. There was no way she was going to tell Tamsyn that she knew about her diet because she’d followed her career and life so closely she knew pretty much everything that was in the public domain and had no need to check in advance of the evening.

  Instead she shrugged, and smiled, and said nothing. She also wasn’t comfortable lying outright to Tamsyn, so silence was the best path.

  “Right,” Tamsyn said briskly, stepping back. “Champagne.”

  “Yes,” Maggie said, glad for the save. “Lovely!”

  When Tamsyn had poured, they chinked glasses and sipped.

  “Thank you for this,” Tamsyn said over the rim of her glass.

  “Wait until you taste the food before you say that.” Maggie smirked, amazed at how relaxed she felt around Tamsyn—and at how it was already getting easier to think of her as just Tamsyn.

  Tamsyn laughed. “Okay, now I’m worried.”

  Maggie gestured towards the living room. “Want to sit by the fire before I cook? Unless you’re hungry right now?”

  Walking over to the sofa, Tamsyn shook her head. “No, I’m fine for now.” She sat on the sofa, crossed one leg over the other and wriggled back into the cushions. “That’s better.”

  Maggie didn’t feel so comfortable that she’d sit next to her on the sofa, so she opted for her usual armchair. Gizmo padded into the space between the two pieces of furniture, his favourite soft toy—a long, snake-like shape made with tiger stripe material—between his jaws, and stopped at Tamsyn’s feet, gazing up at her.

  Tamsyn stared at him and Maggie tutted. “Oh, Gizmo, really? I told you to be charming and you bring her Snakey?”

  “Snakey?” Tamsyn had one eyebrow arched in a way that simultaneously made Maggie’s breath catch and caused her severe eyebrow envy.

  “Well, you know, given he’s a dog it doesn’t have a proper name—he couldn’t pronounce it, not with the shape of his jaw.”

  Tamsyn snorted. Actually snorted, and Maggie chuckled.

  “He’s had that toy for two years,” Maggie continued, gazing fondly at Gizmo. “Prior to that most toys were ripped to shreds within months, or even weeks, of being in his possession. But there’s something about Snakey, apparently.”

  As if aware he was being watched, Gizmo marched across the room, Snakey clamped tightly in his jaws, and settled down in front of the fire. He stretched out so it looked like he was cuddling the toy.

  “Oh, my God, that is beyond cute.” Tamsyn was staring at Gizmo with an awestruck expression on her face. “I said yesterday I’m not too fond of dogs but this one might persuade me otherwise.”

  Maggie gave a little fist pump, which made Tamsyn laugh again. Maggie loved that she could do that because every time it happened, Tamsyn looked a little less worried about the world.

  “So,” Tamsyn said, after another sip of her champagne, “you’re a writer. Published?”

  You could say that.

  “Um, yes, actually.”

  Tamsyn made a rolling motion with her free hand. “And…? Details please?”

  Maggie half grimaced, half smiled. “Er, well. I write under a pen name, publishing historical fiction.”

  “And how many books have you published?”

  “Six, so far.” And eight lesbian ones, but we’re not talking about those.

  Tamsyn’s eyes went wide. “Six? Wow. I’m impressed.” She paused to take another sip of her drink. “Um, I’ve read a bit of historical fiction, but not much. Well, just one author actually. Wasn’t really my cup of tea, I’m afraid—all those heaving bosoms and macho men riding about the countryside.”

  Maggie dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Well, that’s okay. At least you tried. A lot of people can be quite snobbish about the genres they read, as if only certain ones have value.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure. A little like moviegoers.”

  “Of course! Yes, I imagine we have quite similar experiences of that.”

  “So, is that the only genre you’ve ever written in? Don’t fancy trying something else?”

  “Well… I have dabbled in some other things, yes. But those six have been my money makers. And I do really enjoy the research side of things, which you get to do more of than in most other genres.”

  “So, are you famous?” Tamsyn waggled her eyebrows. It was extraordinary how many nuances she could generate just with her face. All that acting, Maggie assumed.

  She chuckled and blushed. “I am quite well known, yes.”

  “Go on then, tell me your published name.”

  There was no harm, was there? After all, she knew exactly who Tamsyn was.

  “I write as Jessica Stewart. I doubt you’ve—” Tamsyn’s rich blush had the words dying on her lips. “Oh. It was one of my books you read, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, God,” Tamsyn said in a whisper, “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t the writing, let me say that straight away. It was just the storylines and, well…” She shook her head. “Good grief, this is embarrassing.”

  It did sting, Maggie could admit that much. She knew that not everyone loved her books. She’d always known that. But she’d rarely come face-to-face with someone who had made it so clear that they didn’t like what she wrote. And for it to be Tamsyn Harris was just the sour icing on the bitter cake.

  Tamsyn put her glass down and shuffled forward to the edge of her seat. “Maggie, I’m so sorry. The words I used earlier were careless and thoughtless. If I had known who—”

  Maggie raised a hand. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’ve heard worse, believe me.” Her voice sounded flat even to her own ears.

  “Should I go?” Tamsyn was alread
y half standing.

  “What? No!” Maggie was aghast—did Tamsyn really think her that shallow? “Seriously, it’s fine. You are perfectly entitled to your opinion.” She sighed. “I can’t lie though, having someone I admire so much not like what I do…. I mean, there’s no rule that says you should, but it just… Do you get what I mean?”

  Tamsyn nodded and sat back down again. “I do,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

  “Apology accepted. Let’s just forget it, shall we?”

  “We shall.” Tamsyn grinned suddenly. “Of course, you could get your own back, if you wish.”

  Maggie was puzzled, and her face clearly reflected this, as Tamsyn’s grin became a laugh.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure you haven’t loved everything I’ve done, have you? Go on, score one for your side—tell me which of my films or programmes you hated.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t! And I don’t need to. We’re fine, honestly.”

  Tamsyn shrugged. “Okay. But I still think I might want to worm that out of you sometime this evening. Maybe after another glass of champagne, hmm?”

  Maggie laughed. “You’re crazy, has anyone ever told you that?”

  Tamsyn rolled her eyes. “Frequently.”

  They prepared dinner together. Not that there was much to prepare—Maggie had taken care of most of it before Tamsyn arrived. As she watched Maggie work, Tamsyn berated herself for the umpteenth time for the gaffe over Maggie’s writing. It was the strangeness of their situation, she knew that. She’d never have said anything so artless at any other kind of social occasion. As famous as she was, she always had to watch what she said; one never knew who was bloody listening. She’d let her guard down, which was testament to the warm welcome Maggie had given her this evening.

  And I paid her back by insulting her.

  She wanted to groan out loud but bit it back. Maggie seemed fine, after all, laughing with her as they tried their best to Julienne the vegetables—as per some of the upscale restaurants they’d both dined at—and failed to produce anything more than lopsided straws of carrots and pepper. Like her, Maggie was used to a modicum of fame, and they had already swapped stories of the best places they’d eaten in London thanks to various events in each of their own entertainment worlds. It had levelled things between them a little, and Tamsyn was glad, because relaxed Maggie was even more delightful to be around than quietly star-struck Maggie. And a heck of a lot more attractive, if that were possible…