Runaway Actress (20 page)

‘Don’t say it.’

‘Mrs Wallace.’

Maggie groaned. ‘You’re sure you haven’t got yours tucked away under a pile of
People’s Friend
?’

Isla stared at Maggie. ‘You’re just going to have to try Mrs Wallace.’

It was then that Connie’s head popped around the door. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes,’ Isla said.

‘No,’ Maggie said. ‘Isla hasn’t got a sewing machine any more. We’ll have to make the best of the clothes as they are,’ Maggie said.

‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Connie said.

‘Aye, she is,’ Isla said. ‘There’s a sewing machine right here in Lochnabrae.’

Connie looked confused. ‘Then let’s go and get it.’

‘It’s Mrs Wallace’s,’ Maggie said with a heavy sigh.

‘So?’

‘If we borrow it, we’ll be beholden to her for the rest of our natural born lives,’ Maggie said.

Connie grinned. ‘I know casting directors like that in Hollywood. They think they’re doing you a huge favour when they cast you in a role and expect you to fall over backwards for them forever more.’

‘But Mrs Wallace is the
worst
,’ Maggie said.

‘But she didn’t seem too bad the other night in the pub,’ Connie said. ‘Sure, she was a bit bossy—’

‘A
bit?
’ Maggie said.

‘You just have to know how to handle these people,’ Connie said. ‘You mustn’t let them get the better of you, that’s all. Now, come on.’

‘Where are we going?’ Maggie asked.

‘To butter up Mrs Wallace, of course.’

It was still raining when they left the B&B and the wind was hurtling down the main street and threatening to send anyone silly enough to be outside into the loch. Both Maggie and Connie had donned waterproof coats and hats and made their first stop at Maggie’s shop for wellies and briberies.

‘What’s her favourite tipple?’ Connie asked, picking up a bottle of whisky. ‘What about this?’

‘That’s a ten-year-old single cask!’ Maggie shrieked.

‘Does Mrs Wallace like it?’

‘
Everyone
likes that!’

‘Good. I’ll get it, then.’

Maggie groaned, feeling sure they could
buy
a sewing machine for the same price as the bottle of whisky.

Then, with the whisky placed in a heavy-duty carrier bag and their feet tucked safely in heavy-duty wellies, they left the shop and headed for Mrs Wallace’s.

Like most of the houses in Lochnabrae, Mrs Wallace’s was a two-storey white home with deep windowsills and thick walls that kept the cold out and the heat in. The door was of solid wood and painted yellow, which was completely at odds with its very unsunny resident.

Sheltering under its simple porch, Maggie knocked.

‘I don’t think she’ll be in,’ Maggie said.

But suddenly, the door opened and the enormous bosom of Mrs Wallace appeared followed by her stern face.

‘Mrs Wallace, you remember me?’ Connie said modestly.

‘Aye,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘You’ll be that film star from the pub. Of course I remember ye,’ she said, her face breaking into a rare smile.

‘Can we come in?’ Connie persisted. ‘We have a great favour to ask you.’

‘Oh, well,’ Mrs Wallace said, ‘best come in then.’

‘I’ve bought you a little something,’ Connie said, unwrapping the boxed bottle of whisky.

Mrs Wallace gasped. ‘Is that for me?’

Connie nodded. ‘It’s a sort of bribe,’ she said. ‘We believe you have a sewing machine at your disposal and we’d very much like to borrow it.’

‘A sewing machine?’

‘Yes. I have a bit of a project on the go and it would really help me out if I had a machine.’

‘I see,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘Well, I do have one, of course, and you’re welcome to it.’

‘Oh, Mrs Wallace, you’re an angel.’ Connie leant forward and dared to kiss the woman on one of her reddened cheeks.

The old matriarch looked quite shocked but pleasantly so.

‘Well, I never!’ she declared.

Maggie rolled her eyes. She could never have performed such a feat.

‘Well, let’s get this put away before Mr Wallace spies it and assumes it’s for him,’ Mrs Wallace said.

Maggie and Connie followed her through to the kitchen at the back of the house.

‘Mr Wallace is sleeping in the front room,’ Mrs Wallace explained. ‘You’ll not be wanting to hear him snore, I dare say. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

‘Oh, I’m afraid we haven’t got time, Mrs Wallace,’ Connie said sweetly. ‘Perhaps another time?’

‘Then you’ll be wanting the sewing machine straight away?’

‘If it’s no bother,’ Connie said.

‘Do you mind me asking what you’re doing?’

‘We’ve been in to Strathcorrie and bought some dresses and things but they’re not quite right.’

‘But weren’t you recognised?’ Mrs Wallace asked.

‘Och, no!’ Maggie said. ‘Connie hid her hair under a woolly hat and wore one of my old cardigans.’

‘I was incognito,’ Connie said. ‘It was such fun just shopping. I haven’t done anything like that for years –
can’t
do anything like that. Not in LA. I’d be mobbed by paparazzi. Although it really baffles me why anyone would want a photo of me shopping. That’s why it’s so wonderful here. I didn’t get bothered at all.’

‘But what if the press found out?’ Mrs Wallace asked.

‘Oh, but they won’t. Nobody knows I’m here. Only my PA,’ Connie said. ‘But nobody else knows.’

‘And nobody’s going to find out either,’ Maggie said. ‘Just imagine if that slimy Colin Simpkins found out.’

‘The local journalist?’ Connie asked.

Maggie nodded. ‘If he gets wind you’re here, he’d probably sell it to the nationals.’

‘Sell it?’ Mrs Wallace said.

‘Aye,’ Maggie said.

‘I’m afraid people are in the habit of selling stories about me. I’ve lost count of the number of so-called friends who’d rather make a buck or two out of me than remain loyal.’

‘But that’s why you’ve come here,’ Maggie said. ‘We’re your fan club. We’re as loyal as they come.’

Connie smiled. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Shall we take this sewing machine?’

Ten minutes later, the sewing machine was wrapped in two bin bags to protect it from the rain and handed over to Maggie.

‘Are you sure you can manage?’ Connie asked anxiously.

‘You should see the number of newspapers I can shift. My arms are like a weightlifter’s,’ Maggie said.

‘We won’t keep it any longer than we have to, Mrs Wallace,’ Connie said. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’ Again, she leant forward and kissed Mrs Wallace on the cheek.

‘Come on,’ Maggie said, ‘before I collapse.’

The two of them left the house, Connie closing the door behind them.

‘How could you be so
nice
to her?’ Maggie asked in disgust once they were in the street. ‘It was as if you were best friends or something. How did you do that?’

‘I’m a good actress, that’s how,’ Connie said and the two of them walked back towards the B&B, laughing in the rain.

Over the next few days, the little sewing machine whirred away on the dressing table of Connie’s bedroom. The whole place had turned into a workshop with lengths of material, coloured threads, sequins, ribbons, zips and buttons all jostling for space.

‘I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble,’ Maggie said.

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Connie assured her. ‘I love it!’

‘Really?’ Maggie said, watching Connie working as she sat on the bed, hands guiltily empty. ‘I always hated anything to do with needles and threads.’

‘It’s so soothing,’ Connie said. ‘I love the noise these old machines make and it’s so amazing to have something in your hands that you’ve made. Look!’ She held up the burgundy dress that she’d been working on. She’d cut away part of the front to make a sexy scooped neckline, had drawn in the waist and chopped a good six inches from the hem.

Maggie gasped. ‘It’s so beautiful.’ She stood up and held the dress against her.

‘Try it on,’ Connie said.

Maggie hurriedly got out of her jumper, T-shirt and jeans.

‘Oh, I’d forgotten,’ Connie said.

‘What is it?’ Maggie asked.

‘You need new underwear. You can’t wear beautiful dresses over ugly underwear. It’s a complete travesty!’

Maggie looked suitably shamefaced. ‘I don’t really need nice underwear,’ she explained. ‘Nobody gets to see it but me.’

Connie’s eyebrows rose. ‘That’s not the attitude to take! Let me tell you something: beautiful underwear makes you
feel
beautiful. It’s like a little secret between you and yourself.’

Maggie stepped into the dress and Connie zipped it up.

‘That colour’s just right on you. You look divine. Come and see,’ Connie said, steering Maggie towards the mirror.

Once in front of it, Maggie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I’ve never looked like this before.’

‘But we do have to get your underwear sorted. We can order some beautiful things online. You’ll love what I have in mind and, if Mikey gets to see it in the near future, he’ll love it too.’

Maggie blushed to the very roots of her hair.

It was shortly after the underwear conversation that Connie made a discovery at Maggie’s place – her mother’s amazing wardrobe.

‘These clothes are beautiful, Maggie! Why didn’t you tell me about them?’

‘I didn’t think to. I mean, I don’t look in here very often. I’ve worn one or two items – it’s like keeping them alive – but they’re too lovely to be worn in the shop.’

‘Maggie, you virtually spend your whole life in the shop and, if you’re not going to look gorgeous there, then where are you?’

Maggie acknowledged that Connie had a point and watched as she took out the assortment of velvet skirts, pretty jackets, dresses and scarves.

‘These don’t need altering at all,’ Connie said. ‘Not that I would – unless you wanted me to. Oh! Look at this one.’ She held up a beautiful jacket in a dusky pink colour. It was lined with candy stripes, had large buttons down the front and was made from the softest wool.

‘I remember her wearing this one,’ Maggie said. ‘It was one of her favourites.’

‘It would be one of my favourites too,’ Connie said. ‘It’s gorgeous. I’m so excited about all this.’ Connie buzzed around the room like a mad thing. ‘Let’s have a sort out.’

Without a moment to lose, Connie found Maggie’s wardrobe and began pulling out her clothes.

They soon got into their stride and developed a shorthand of funny faces to determine whether something was to be kept or discarded.

‘Get rid of it!’ Maggie would scream, wrinkling her nose in horror.

‘You’re not keeping
this!
’ Connie would say, her mouth a straight line of disgust.

It really was great fun stuffing bin bags and Maggie could only wonder why she hadn’t done it earlier.

‘How on earth did I wear all these things?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never seen so much grey in my life. I mean, there’s quite enough grey with the weather we have here.’

Connie smiled and nodded. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted. Now, what shall we do about your hair?’

At the other end of Lochnabrae, Alastair was walking towards the village hall, a big bunch of keys in his hand and Bounce capering by his side. It seemed an age since he’d been inside. It was mostly used by the youth club but that had dwindled to so few members now that the building was in danger of being abandoned completely. It was a shame but Alastair suspected if he’d grown up in Lochnabrae, he would have felt the same way and would have wanted to be somewhere more exciting.

Lochnabrae, he thought, was the sort of place one longed to get away from when young but longed to return to when older.

‘Come here, Bounce,’ Alastair said, trying to prevent his charge from leaving his calling card on the already rotting wooden steps that led up to the door. Slotting the great silver key in the lock, Alastair opened the door and stepped inside. The smell hit him at once. It was that old half-musky, half-damp smell that was quite usual for uncared for public buildings. Bounce seemed to like it, tipping his head back and taking in the air as if it were a delicacy. Alastair decided not to close the door behind him.

He made a slow survey of the space. The curtains were still as ugly and shabby as ever, made from some god-awful 1970s floral material. They were still waiting for a surplus from the Connie Gordon fan club to replace them. But there never was a surplus. There was only ever enough to pay for the lighting and heating. Everything else had to come out of their own pockets. Heaven only knew how much money Alastair had secretly thrown at the place over the years and it was still never enough.

He walked across the room towards the stage, noticing the cobwebs on the windowsills along the way. At least they were easily dealt with. He looked across at the stage and thought again how tiny it was.

‘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.