Runaway Actress (10 page)

‘Oh,’ she said, wiping her face quickly with the back of her hand, ‘it’s you.’

‘Yep,’ Alastair said. ‘That’s a fact I have to live with every day.’

She stared at him for a minute and then the tiniest of smiles raised her lips. ‘That’s something we all have to face,’ she said quietly.

Alastair dared to step closer. ‘All right if I sit here?’

Connie shrugged. ‘It’s a free country.’

‘Oh, no,’ Alastair said, sitting down. ‘Everything is paid for.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Take this view – this seat. A man had to die to enable us to sit here.’ Alastair nodded to the brass plaque and Connie turned to look at it, reading the words.

‘You knew him?’

‘No. Before my time here. But I’ve heard wonderful stories about him. He could be seen by the loch in all weathers. Didn’t matter if it was icy cold or thick fog, you could guarantee that Hector would be pacing the shore.’

‘Why? To get away from his wife?’

Alastair shook his head. ‘To feel closer to his daughter. She drowned in the loch.’

‘Oh!’ Connie exclaimed. ‘How awful.’

Alastair nodded. ‘She was fifteen.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nobody’s sure. She was out swimming on her own and she was a good swimmer too by all accounts. Perhaps she’d been racing and got cramp.’

The two of them looked out across the loch.

‘Well, that’s ruined the view for me now. I won’t be able to enjoy it.’

‘But you should,’ Alastair said. ‘Hector did. He loved this place – I guess he felt close to his daughter here and it’s a very good place for being quiet in,’ he said. ‘A great place for being still and just – well –
being
. Not enough people give into that these days. Everyone’s in such a rush. It’s one of the reasons I moved here. It’s great for a writer. You have time to breathe here. Time to think and turn the thoughts inward.’ He paused. ‘Sorry,’ he added, ‘I’m rambling, aren’t I?’

‘No,’ Connie said, ‘you’re not. It’s one of the reasons I came here too – to get away from everything and think.’

Alastair nodded. ‘Yes. But you didn’t tell me who you were when we met before.’

‘Should I have?’

Alastair shrugged. ‘Might’ve been nice.’

‘Would you have behaved any differently?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I would probably still have thought you were incredibly rude.’

Connie’s mouth dropped open. ‘
Me
rude?’

Alastair nodded and Connie continued to stare at him open-mouthed.

‘And sad,’ he added.

She looked down at the ground. ‘I’m not sad.’

‘No? Then you’re doing a very good impression of a sad person. Oh,’ he said, ‘I just remembered you’re an actress. You’re just acting sad in practice for a future role, then?’

Connie stood up abruptly. ‘Don’t presume to know how I’m feeling,’ she said, her eyes flashing. ‘It’s none of your business.’

‘It is when you’re being sad in my garden.’

She frowned. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know I was in your garden.’

‘Well, not officially, it has to be said,’ Alastair said. ‘But I like to think of the whole side of this hill as an extension of my garden. I keep an eye on it, you see.’

‘You’re not one of these – what do you call them – lords?’

‘Lairds?’

‘You’re not going to have me thrown off your land for trespassing, are you?’ she teased.

‘No,’ he said.

Connie looked at him and then allowed her shoulders to slump.

‘You look tired,’ Alastair said.

‘I am.’

‘Why were you crying?’

‘Why are you so nosy?’

‘I’m not nosy. Well, perhaps I am. I’m a writer. It’s kind of an occupational hazard.’

‘You’re not a journalist, are you?’

‘God, no! Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘Because I’ve had that before.’

‘What?’

‘Someone pretending to be all kind and caring. Asking me how I am and then printing it all in the paper the next day.’

‘I’m a playwright,’ Alastair said. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’

‘If I do, you’ll probably write a play about it.’

‘I promise I won’t.’

Connie stared at him. Her face had almost returned to its normal colour now, the blotchiness being vanquished by a beautiful paleness.

‘I’ve been horrible to Maggie,’ Connie suddenly said. ‘You know Maggie?’

‘Yes, I know Maggie.’

‘Oh God! She’s not your sister, is she?’

Alastair grinned. ‘No, she’s not my sister.’

‘Because I know places like this – well – you’re all related, aren’t you?’

‘That is one of the worst generalisations I’ve heard in a long time,’ Alastair said. ‘But go on. How were you horrible to her?’

‘I found out some things about the fan club that I didn’t like and I yelled at her. I made this big speech too. I think I might have shocked her.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘Do you think she’ll forgive me? She seems like a really sweet girl.’

‘She is,’ Alastair said. ‘Maggie’s as sweet as they come.’

‘I feel just awful. I’ve only been here a few hours and already everybody hates me.’

‘Not everybody.’

‘What do you mean?’ Connie asked.

‘Well, you’ve not really met everybody, have you?’

‘Who’ll want to meet me now?’

‘Are you kidding? You’ve come to the home of your fan club.
Everyone
will want to meet you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. And, as luck would have it, there’s an official meeting in The Capercaillie tonight.’

‘The Caper-what?’

‘Capercaillie. It’s a kind of Scottish bird. A bit like a turkey but black. It’s the local pub and your fan club meets there once a fortnight and tonight’s the night.’

Connie didn’t respond.

‘You’d be very welcome,’ Alastair added.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know what?’

‘That I should go. To the Caper-what’sit.’

‘But you’ve got to!’ Alastair said. ‘You can’t come all the way to Lochnabrae and not come to a fan club meeting. It would be like—’ Alastair paused, ‘like flying to the moon with your eyes closed.’

Connie smiled.

‘Besides, I’d never hear the end of it if I let you get away. If everyone knew I’d been sitting next to Connie Gordon herself, talking about the fan club, and then not managed to persuade her to come, I’d be driven out of Lochnabrae quicker than you could say
Highland fling
. You wouldn’t want that to happen now, would you? Wouldn’t want me to be humiliated and embarrassed?’

‘You mean like I was before when your dog covered me in muddy paw prints?’

‘And he’s unutterably sorry about that. He’s in the doghouse as we speak. No more bones for a month, I’ve told him.’

Connie’s mouth dropped open. ‘You didn’t?’

‘Well, he certainly knows not to do it again,’ Alastair said, ‘Probably. You can never be quite sure with Labradors. Selective hearing, you see.’

‘Like most men, then?’

Alastair grinned and they were silent for a moment. Alastair was the first to speak.

‘You will come, won’t you?’

Connie sighed but then a smile slowly spread across her face, lighting her eyes and making them sparkle. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to the Caper-what’sit.’

‘Great!’ Alastair said. ‘I’ll see you there, then – eight o’clock?’

Connie nodded and Alastair got up to go. He couldn’t wait to tell Maggie the good news and he couldn’t help but acknowledge the feeling that he was looking forward to spending more time with Connie himself.

Maggie was just stepping out of the shower when she heard the front door of the shop open and close.

‘Damn and blast!’ she cursed.

It wasn’t the first time she’d left it open. There’d been that terrible time when old Mr Finlay had wandered up the stairs and had caught Maggie in her nightdress.

‘I just wanted a can of beans,’ he’d said.

‘Mr Finlay, the shop’s been closed for four hours.’

‘Och, you wouldna see an old man starve, would you?’

Maggie had had to endure his goggling eyes as she took his money from him and escorted him back down the stairs and out of the shop, locking the door securely behind him.

She hoped it wasn’t him now.

‘Hello?’ she called anxiously, grabbing her dressing gown and wrapping it around her. She looked around the flat for some sort of protection. It wasn’t likely to be a burglar, she told herself. They were as rare in Lochnabrae as tower blocks. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry and, grabbing a hardback novel from her bedroom, she inched her way down the stairs.

She could feel her heart thudding in her chest as she reached the squeaky stair that had once given away eight-year-old Maggie who’d sneaked downstairs in the middle of the night to steal a gobstopper. She’d had her gob stopped all right – when her father had caught her and given her a hiding with his slipper.

Swallowing hard, she gripped her hardback with both hands and turned the corner into the shop, eyes wide, ready to strike.

‘Hamish!’ she yelled, spotting the scruffily-dressed chap standing in the middle of the shop flicking through a copy of the newspaper
Vive!

‘Hello, sis!’

‘You gave me the shock of my life,’ she said, lowering her hardback to a less threatening height.

‘You really should lock that door, Mags. Any old oddball could be walking around.’

‘So I see!’

‘Haven’t you got a kiss for me, then?’

‘Aw, back off,’ Maggie said, pushing her oil-stained brother away. ‘I’ve just had a shower.’

‘And I’ve just done a hard day’s work. What do you expect me to look like?’

‘Cleaner than you do! You’ve got a shower at the flat, haven’t you?’

‘That old thing! Have you been in that room lately? There’s more mould than wall in there.’

‘Then you should get your landlord to do something about it.’

Hamish scoffed and ran a hand over his hair. It was about as short as it could be and made his eyes look huge and cartoon-like.

Maggie shook her head. ‘You really should give your hair a chance to grow. Girls don’t like short hair like that.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Hamish said. ‘I’ve had a fair few brushing their fingers against this crop.’

Maggie sighed. ‘Well, you’d better get changed and spruce yourself up a bit. You’ve still got some clothes in your old room, haven’t you?’

‘Gawd, sis, you sound just like Ma. Why would I want to go to all that bother? It’s just a night at The Bird.’

‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t,’ Maggie said in a sing-song voice.

‘I just want to put me feet up for half an hour. Be a love and make us a cuppa.’

Maggie rolled her eyes.

They went through to the kitchen where Hamish read his paper whilst Maggie filled the kettle.

‘All right if I stay the night?’ Hamish asked over the top of the paper.

Maggie nodded absentmindedly. She was used to her brother’s company when he wanted to sink a few pints and not worry about getting back to Strathcorrie. ‘Sure.’

‘Oh, guess who’s back in town?’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Mikey.’

Maggie stopped stirring sugar into Hamish’s mug. ‘Michael Shire?’

‘Well, of course Michael Shire. And he’s crashing at mine. Snores like a pig. I’ll be glad of a night’s peace and quiet here.’

Maggie sighed, her eyes wide. She wouldn’t have cared if Mikey snored like the Loch Ness monster if only he’d crash at her place instead of her brother’s.

‘He’s back from his travels at long last,’ Hamish added.

‘Where’s he been?’ Maggie asked, trying not to sound overly interested as she hung on her brother’s every word.

‘Everywhere,’ Hamish said. ‘Hitching and hiking in India, Nepal and China. Arizona. South America too.’

‘Wow!’ Maggie said.

‘He’s got the best tan in the world.’

‘I bet he has,’ Maggie said, thinking of what those strong biker arms would look like bronzed and toned from all that hiking in the sunshine.

Michael Shire
.

Handing Hamish his cup of tea, Maggie wandered through to the bathroom to finish drying her hair before it set in a fleecy lump. Closing her eyes, she thought of Michael.
Mikey the Biker
, he was known as because of his obsession with motorbikes. He was always saving up for a new one or tinkering around with an old one until it roared and reared into life, and then you wouldn’t see him for dust as he raced around the Highland roads, the wind blowing his hair back in a dark comet’s tail. Maggie was always absolutely terrified for him and yet felt exhilarated by his passion too as she imagined him traversing the country on those two powerful wheels. She’d once climbed to the top of Ben Torran to watch him on the roads below. She’d sat down on a slab of granite, the wind turning her cheeks pink, watching the tiny motorbike and its rider below. She remembered feeling as if she were an angel peeping down from the heavens and – oh! – how she’d dreamed of flying down to land on the back of that bike, to wrap her arms around his thick leathered waist and press her face against his broad shoulders. But, even if she had, he wouldn’t have noticed. She was just Hamish’s little sister.

For Maggie, there had never been anyone else but Mikey. She’d had her share of boyfriends, of course, from Alexander Brodie – the biggest cheat in Strathcorrie – to handsome Craig MacDonald who’d camped by the shores of the loch one summer, made Maggie fall in love with him and then left without so much as a goodbye.

No, there wasn’t a man in the whole of the Highlands who could compare to Mikey. She’d been in love with him for as long as she could remember. It probably dated back to the time when she’d been seven years old. She’d followed Hamish and Mikey into Sandy Macdonald’s garden and had watched as the two boys had climbed the old apple tree. It was a favourite hiding place and Maggie had been determined to follow them up there but she’d only made it to the first branch before falling, scraping her knees and hands on the way down. Hamish had shouted at her, knowing that he was going to get the blame from their parents but Mikey had been so sweet and attentive, cleaning up her grazes and drying her tears.

‘Are you all right, our Maggie?’ he’d said to her, and it was a greeting that he still used to this day.