Runaway Actress (30 page)

Connie silently cursed herself for having believed Hamish as Alastair ran his hands through his hair and paced up and down the stage. They’d been rehearsing for over a week now and the honeymoon period was well and truly over.

‘Maggie, you’ve got just the right amount of coyness in this scene but, for goodness’ sake,
keep still
,’ Alastair told her. ‘Don’t keep roaming around the stage like a nervous animal. Olivia’s more in control of herself than that.’

‘Sorry, Alastair,’ Maggie said.

‘And Connie. You’re meant to be having fun with this scene. The “Make me a willow cabin at your gate” speech is light-hearted. This is Viola imagining herself in love and, when she cries out Olivia’s name, she really
is
crying out. Don’t just whisper it.
Shout
it!’ Alastair shouted.

Connie flinched. She wasn’t used to being shouted at and she hadn’t known that Alastair was a shouter either. Up until now, she’d only seen the sweet mountain-striding dog owner who took care of weeping women he found by the side of lochs but the Alastair she was witnessing now was a far cry from that incarnation.

She watched as he paced to the end of the hall, his teeth gridlocked as the rest of the cast looked on in astonishment.
Alastair’s shouted at Connie
, their faces seemed to say. This was better theatre than anything Shakespeare could have written.

‘Again!’ he bellowed from the back of the hall.

And Connie’s torture began all over again. And again. And again.

‘Right,’ Alastair said at last after the sixth attempt to get the scene right. ‘That’ll have to do for tonight. We’ll move on to scene three after a tea break,’ he announced and Connie watched in relief as he disappeared below the stage.

‘I have never
ever
met a ruder director,’ Connie told Maggie. ‘Well, I have, but I was being paid an obscene amount of money to work with him.’

‘I guess that would make a bit of a difference,’ Maggie said.

‘We’ve only had a few rehearsals and he expects us to be perfect.’

‘Aye,’ Maggie said. ‘He does.’

‘I thought he liked me,’ Connie said. ‘I thought—’ She stopped.

‘Thought what?’ Maggie said.

‘Oh, nothing!’

‘He
does
like you!’

‘Then why’s he treating me like this?’

‘Because he’s a sod,’ Maggie said. ‘Once a year, when he turns to his role as a director, Alastair McInnes becomes a sod.’ Maggie sighed. ‘But I’ve never seen him as bad as this before. I wonder what’s wrong with him.’

‘He’s not talking to you like he talks to me,’ Connie said. ‘And the looks he’s been giving me! I’m not going to take much more of this, Maggie. I’m warning you. And it’s freezing in here,’ she added with a theatrical shiver.

‘Alastair doesn’t allow us to put the heating on until the end of October but we really do need to take the chill off the place, don’t we?’ Maggie said. ‘And there is that little heater over there. Hamish!’

Hamish looked up from where he was sitting reading his copy of the play at the back of the hall. Maggie nodded towards an ancient heater and Hamish wheeled it out and plugged it in.

‘Is that thing safe?’ Connie asked as it was switched on. Two bars glowed a pernicious orange and there was a terrible smell of burning.

‘Probably not,’ Maggie said, stretching her hands out to try and defrost them. ‘Cheer up, Connie,’ she said. ‘It’s just been a tough day. It’ll get better.’ But Connie didn’t believe her. She sat down at the edge of the stage, her jean-clad legs dangling over. For a moment, she thought of the past week. Other than the rehearsals, it had been unnervingly quiet. There’d been nothing reported about her in the local paper although she was still worried about what the odious Colin Simpkins might be up too. Still, she’d felt safe enough to risk a trip to Strathcorrie with Maggie.

‘I’ll get the bus back,’ she’d announced as they’d come out of the bakery loaded with goodies.

‘The bus?’

‘I’m going to do a bit more shopping,’ Connie said.

‘I can wait for you,’ Maggie said.

‘It’s okay,’ Connie said. ‘I don’t know how long I’m going to be.’

Maggie hesitated but then shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ll see you later, then. You’re sure you’ll be okay on your own?’

Connie laughed. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She watched Maggie go and then gave a sigh. What was she doing? But she knew what. Ever since she’d first seen the castle with Maggie on their first outing together, she hadn’t been able to get it out of her mind. She crossed the road towards the estate agents, Forsyth and Son, and opened the door and walked inside. Old Mr Forsyth was on the telephone, explaining that one of the farms on his books had just been sold and that there really was no use in trying to persuade him to unsell it.

Connie glanced around and saw a young man sitting at a desk.

‘Mr Forsyth?’ she hazarded a guess. The young man looked up and his mouth promptly fell open as he proceeded to fall over himself to stand up. ‘M-m-miss Gordon?’

‘Yes,’ Connie said, wondering if she should have been wearing her disguise again.

‘I love you,’ the young Mr Forsyth said. ‘I – er – I mean, I love your films.’

‘Thank you,’ Connie said, watching as the young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.

‘Well, well,’ old Mr Forsyth said as he came off the phone. ‘And what can we do for you?’

‘Father, it’s Connie Gordon.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Gordon,’ old Mr Forsyth said.

His son stared at him. ‘Father,
Connie Gordon!
’

‘Aye?’ he said.

‘The actress!’

‘So you’re an actress,’ old Mr Forsyth said. ‘Not much call for work in these parts. You on holiday?’

‘Kind of,’ Connie said. ‘Maybe looking to buy.’

‘Then you’ve come to the right place. A small second home, is it? Quiet croft somewhere?’

‘Not exactly,’ Connie said. ‘I’m interested in Rossburn Castle.’

Old Mr Forsyth’s mouth dropped open. ‘Well, I never,’ he said. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know the amount of work that needs doing to it? It’s not the easiest option for a holiday home.’

‘But I might not want it as a holiday home,’ Connie said.

He nodded. ‘Well, if you’re interested, Miss Gordon, I’d be very happy to show you around.’ And they’d left to see it straight away in Mr Forsyth’s car, taking the winding road out of Strathcorrie, across the moors towards the rundown pile of ancient stones that had so piqued Connie’s interest.

‘Who’s the owner?’ Connie asked.

‘Oh, Fletcher Gordon. An ancestor of the original Gordons who built the castle centuries ago.’

‘A Gordon?’

‘Aye.’

‘Like me! I had no idea.’

‘Perhaps that’s why you’re attracted to it. It’s in your blood,’ Mr Forsyth said.

‘And where’s he moving to?’

‘California, I’m told.’

‘Really? And I left there to come here. How strange the world is.’

‘Aye,’ Mr Forsyth said. ‘I hope you’ve got a hat. It can be fair breezy up there.’

And so could Mr Forsyth’s car, Connie thought. It was old and rattly and had several draughts that had caught Connie by surprise. Perhaps she should put her hat on now, she thought. She also couldn’t help noticing the collection of sweet wrappers that lay on the floor and there was a pervading smell of mint.

‘Humbugs!’ Connie said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I can smell humbugs. My mother used to eat them all the time.’

‘Oh, aye – humbugs. That’ll be Forsyth mark two. A devil for the sweets. Leaves this car littered, he does. No use telling him. He doesn’t listen. Won’t listen till the day his teeth fall out.’

Connie grinned. ‘I’ve had mine filed and whitened and capped.’

‘Your teeth?’

She nodded, flashing him a very white smile.

‘Very nice,’ Mr Forsyth said.

‘And very painful and expensive. It’s just another way I’ve given in to it all.’

‘All what?’

‘The business of being a movie star.’

‘So it’s not all glamour and sparkle?’ Mr Forsyth said.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘And that’s why you’re here?’

Connie nodded. ‘I wanted to get as far away from it all as possible. I needed to learn how to breathe again. How to just live, you know?’

‘Oh, aye,’ Mr Forsyth said. ‘And Lochnabrae is the right place for you to do this living?’

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Connie said. ‘But it’s looking like a very strong candidate.’

They made a turn in the road and that’s when Connie saw Rossburn again with its sturdy walls and soaring turrets.

‘I can’t pretend that it won’t be a lot of work for whoever takes it on,’ Mr Forsyth said.

Connie nodded. ‘I realise that,’ she said.

‘And a lot of expense,’ he added.

Connie smiled. ‘I’ve been looking for something to spend my money on.’

In fact, the castle wasn’t half as bad as she’d been led to believe. Okay, so there were parts of the castle that were in ruins like the north tower and the old chapel. What else did you expect from a twelfth-century castle? But most of it had been habitable until fairly recently and, with the help of a few experts, Connie was sure it could be beautiful again.

‘You’ll have to spend three or four times the asking price on renovation,’ Mr Forsyth warned her. ‘All the electrics will need doing. You’ll need to think about doing the roof straightaway and the plumbing will need updating.’

‘I know. But it would be worth it, wouldn’t it? Just look at it.’

Mr Forsyth looked around at the towering walls. ‘I’ve always thought it was a mighty shame it’d been left to rot away.’

‘It could be beautiful, couldn’t it?’

Mr Forsyth nodded.

‘Just think – my very own castle! It’s every girl’s dream.’

‘Aye, well, as long as you’re not afraid of a bit of hard work. Else it’ll be a nightmare more than a dream. It’s not simply a case of picking out your wallpaper and paint.’

‘I know,’ Connie said but she didn’t really. She’d never even had to lift a finger when it came to the finer points of decorating in the past, but simply hired someone else to do it all, telling them what she liked and hoping for the best. It had usually worked out really well too. Although there had been one exception. After making the film,
The Pharaoh’s Favourite
, Connie had gone all Egyptian and her designer had gone quite mad with the hieroglyphs, which appeared everywhere – Connie had even found them on the rim of the toilet bowl, and the bidet shaped like an inverted pyramid really was the limit.

‘I’ll take it,’ Connie said at last, sounding as if she was buying a handbag rather than an ancient castle.

And that had been that. Mr Forsyth had dropped her off in Lochnabrae and had said he’d organise everything else.

Sitting on the edge of the stage now, Connie thought about the castle. What would everyone say when they found out, she wondered?

‘Here’s your coffee,’ Maggie said, handing Connie an ancient mug and joining her at the edge of the stage. ‘Better drink up fast. Alastair’s gathering the troops and wants to get going again.’

Connie groaned. Alastair wasn’t the only one who wanted to get going.

Alastair woke up on the sofa in the middle of the night sweating. Bounce, who was lying on the floor beside him looked up and whimpered and Alastair immediately knew that he’d been having nightmares.

‘Did I disturb you, my boy?’ he asked, swinging his legs out of bed and rubbing his eyes.

Bounce got up and stretched, nuzzling Alastair’s left knee with a glossy wet nose. Alastair patted the warm familiar head before getting up. He threw on his dressing gown and walked into the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of water before moving through to the living room and sitting back down on the sofa.

He rubbed his eyes again and sighed. He wasn’t happy. He hadn’t had a nightmare for weeks –
months
now. He hadn’t even so much as thought about it and yet it was still there – lurking and leering at him from some remote part of his brain. He knew what had caused it, of course – Sara’s arrival. When she’d first turned up in Lochnabrae, he’d been so shocked that he hadn’t known how to respond. He’d spent a sleepless night on the sofa trying to work out what to do and how he could send her on her way without seeming totally heartless.

They’d spent the next few days fighting, which wasn’t surprising as Sara had insisted on staying at Alastair’s. It had been like the bad old times all over again and Alastair wasn’t sure which way to turn but Sara seemed quite intent on staying.

They’d gone for a walk in the hills together. Alastair had been quite sure that would do the trick. Sara was a city girl and liked clean concrete under her pretty shoes and he’d taken her up a particularly muddy track that was slick and sticky from a night’s rain. It was mean of him but he’d thought she’d run back to the city in no time after that but she hadn’t.

‘It is beautiful here,’ she kept saying. ‘I can see why you left London.’

He didn’t say anything.

‘And I could get used to these hiking boot things.’

He looked down at the boots he’d lent her. They were far too big for her, of course, and were caked in mud but she was doing her best and his heart relented just a little bit.

Don’t let her back in
, he told himself.
If you let her see even the tiniest glimpse of kindness, she’ll grasp on to it and never let go.

For a while, they’d talked about inane things like the landscape and the sparse population, forever circling the real issue that hovered between them like a malevolent spirit. And then she’d said it.

‘We can work things out. It’s different now. I’ve changed.’

But he didn’t believe her and he told her so. More or less. It was hard to be totally honest with someone like Sara because the truth wounded her, but he had to speak his mind because he knew that they were no good for each other and they couldn’t risk being together again. He had to persuade her to leave and to get help. She needed help and he couldn’t give it to her and it was killing him.