Nine Ten Begin Again: A Grasshopper Lawns affair Page 2

  Betty grinned, fully restored to good humour. ‘Noted. I’ll take Stuart with me for protection.’

  ‘I dinnae like dogs!’ Stuart shook his head vigorously and Kirsty smiled at him as she picked up the first of the folders stacked on her desk.

  ‘You love sci-fi, though. That big bloke in the photograph is William Robertson, if you read sci-fi you must know his stuff, he’s really well known. That’s Vivian Oliver with him. The one that—um—that the Chronicle was calling our very own Susan Boyle earlier this year.’ She glanced slyly at Betty. ‘She’s not exactly an old dear either.’

  Kirsty had very nearly said that Vivian was indirectly the reason she was on her current exciting assignment, but caught herself in time and Betty hadn’t noticed her momentary hesitation. To avoid any more slips that might threaten the restored entente cordiale, she focused her full attention on the file she’d picked up. It was, as it happened, a murder case, but the Onderness police were only being kept updated because the lad’s father lived in the town. James Kirby had died in seedy circumstances in Glasgow and had, it seemed, been an accident waiting to happen all his short life. She knew his father Hamish, who was the usual bursar at the Lawns, and scanned the few details with a practiced eye, knowing her aunt would be asking for them. Nothing there for the amateur sleuths. She picked up the next folder and stifled the faintest of sighs. Racist graffiti in the Forth-side town might be a far cry from her involvement on a multi-corpse forensic investigation, but eventually the assignment would end and she would be back full-time in Onderness—which, in fairness, definitely had its own moments of high excitement, and the last one not that long ago. She picked up her tea and immersed herself in the report.

  On the train

  ‘That was an incredibly sexy kiss,' Edge said admiringly on the train back to Linlithgow, and Donald nodded in acknowledgement, his eyes creasing.

  ‘Art kisses, we called them in my acting days. The trick is to move your jaws but keep your lips still, so it looks as though we’re playing tonsil hockey but in fact I’m not even smearing your lipstick. Did it work?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she was completely impressed. Said she’d had a different mental image of me, expected me to arrive in a woolly jumper, my knitting in my bag. And I’m going to ask for a copy of the photographs. I hope he got that sexy little throat stroke.’

  ‘And that blush about your breakfast faux pas. I couldn’t have scripted it better. As long as you don’t look too surprised in the photographs, but you caught on quickly.’

  ‘Well, you winked. But how did you know?’

  He laughed. ‘You remember my makeup friend, Gillie Campbell? She was working there today, doing some corpse makeups, and heard them saying Shona was being a bit rough with you, treating you like a pensioner looking for work. She let me know, then hung about until you left with Shona and sent me a text, and I slipped out of my meeting to intercept. Shona seemed okay, I thought.’

  ‘Yes, we’d already had a little spat and she likes my moxie. Did you know I had moxie? And then she liked my sexy lover. Thank you, Donald.’

  ‘It was fun,’ he said absently. ‘I wasn’t having anyone that I had dressed being called a pensioner. It’s enough of a struggle getting you to wear the clothes I pick out, without some teenage production manager disparaging them.’

  Edge looked down at her well-cut suit and grinned. ‘I didn’t fight you on this. I really like it.’

  ‘You did fight me on not wearing a prim little shirt under it. And I was right.’

  She chuckled. ‘Her assistant Jason actually tried to see down my front. A bit shy-making. I felt a bit mutton dressed as lamb.’

  ‘You don’t look it. You can add your little scarves and distracting collars to your timeless classics when you turn into mutton, and dinna fash, I will tell you when it’s time. Right now, make the most of it, look like a scriptwriter with her finger firmly on the public pulse. How did you leave things?’

  ‘They’re small, but I’ve worked with several of the team before and we got on well when we did. Shona wants to cut the script to four, and it isn’t only slashing salaries—she’s put real thought into it. It could be done.’

  ‘Cut Jim and Megan?’

  ‘Yes!’ She looked at him, surprised. ‘Did you also think so? You never said.’

  ‘I think it works better with them, but they would be the easiest to lose. Nice interaction, though, and you’d have to lose some good dialogue. No way of giving it to the other characters. They bring something to the series it would be a shame to lose.’

  ‘I think so too. Anyway, Shona showed me her casting suggestions after lunch and I liked them, but it’s still the lowest offer I’ve had. They just don’t have the budget. Sarah sent me along because they’re the only ones at this point who are up for me staying involved on the scripts.’

  ‘And you want to stay involved?’ He was listening closely and she nodded.

  ‘I think so. I still don’t know if I could work with Shona. I don’t like people who play games, and she’s very dogmatic, and very opinionated. If she doesn’t get the script the way I do, we’ll be arguing all the time. If I do go for it, I’ll probably invest in the show, rather than have them cutting financial corners. Sarah hasn’t told them that’s an option yet, not unless I decide in their favour. I’ve got a fairly firm offer from the States, which they’ve pushed up a tad because Sarah wouldn’t give them an answer, and another network showing definite interest. But they’re both only interested in the concept: they’d change the whole format to fit their formula. I’ve never felt possessive about a treatment before, but I do think this one has potential and I’d like to run with it.’

  ‘You don’t really need the money, so don’t let that be the consideration. If what you could put into the production financially would save the two characters, and you get even one good season out of it, you might find the American networks would be more open to keeping the format, and then they’d want your input. I’ll ask around, see what I can pick up on what Shona’s like to work with, but a small team does give you more say. Would they film in Edinburgh?’

  ‘No, they film mainly in Devon, better weather.’ She looked at the rain lashing against the darkened windows of the train as it rushed through the gloomy afternoon and grimaced. ‘They have a point. She suggested I go down for a couple of weeks into December. The whole team is there and we could fit some work around their schedule, even use the actors on location for some read-throughs to see how the dialogue works. It sounded tempting. So, what were you in town for?’

  ‘Investment meeting, I’d forgotten it was today. A show I backed for its first year. We made a good return on it so they’re hoping the initial investors will invest in the film version.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘I’ll sleep on it and tell you at breakfast. We’re nearly there. Have you got your car with you, or do you want a lift back to the Lawns?’

  ‘I’ve got my car, thanks.’ She slid along the seat as the train slowed. ‘Do you have your show script? I’d love to have a read.’

  ‘Even better, I’ve got their own recording of the show, I wanted to watch it again. Come watch it with me, I’d be interested in your opinion. I could pick up takeaways on the way, if you want to eat first. Or, if you prefer, I’m no cook but I do a reasonable omelette.’

  ‘That sounds cordon bleu standard to me. My omelettes inevitably turn into scrambled egg, but I do like them.’

  ‘I’ve heard about your cooking,’ he said drily and she sighed.

  ‘I’m fine when I stick to a recipe but I’m always tempted to experiment. Sometimes it works. More often it doesn’t. Vivian dines out on my culinary disasters. She says it’s the only dining that’s safe.’

  He smiled and led the way off the train, putting up his umbrella to cover them both as she stepped out to join him. She clicked the button on her own to expand it as the rain drummed relentlessly on the fabric, and shivered. ‘The joys of November.’

&nbs
p; ‘Oh aye. Give me time to change and walk the dog, come by around six.’

  ~~~

  The road was slick with rain and well scattered with branches and twigs, roadside trees thrashing in the gale-force wind were caught in her headlights and as quickly lost into the dark, and she was relieved to reach the Lawns and run her small car into its covered parking, Donald’s BMW swishing by seconds later on his way to his garage. The hungry wind promptly turned her umbrella inside out and the dash across the little service road to the extended walkway outside the laundry soaked her instantly. She dabbed water from her face as she walked swiftly to her apartment, suddenly chilled.

  She flicked on lights, scooped up her cat to rub his head against her cheek, and flipped on the kettle, then lit the fire and turned the flames to their highest before drawing the curtains with relief, shutting out the wild afternoon. The automatic central heating should have been on since the start of November but the apartment was chilly and she went back to the fire, rubbing her hands together to warm them. For a moment she was almost sorry she’d agreed to go out that night, but being able to talk about her work to someone who grasped all the implications so quickly had been fun, and watching a stage show, and trying to assess its film potential, would be fascinating. Not to mention Donald lived two doors away so she’d neither have to dress up or take the car back out. She changed into a fleece-lined tracksuit, smiling to herself—he would hate it—and took the pins out of her hair to let it fall in heavy kinked waves to her shoulders before taking her coffee over to the fireplace to curl up in her favourite chair.

  Her telephone message light was flashing and she realized guiltily she’d not taken her mobile phone off silent after the meeting. Three messages—first Patrick’s charming Irish voice saying he was sorry to miss her as he was going out, but inviting himself to lunch tomorrow at the Lawns which he hoped was okay. She smiled at the phone. Patrick was her accountant but also an old and valued friend, and now that she was single again they were slipping back into their old pattern of occasional dates.

  The next message was from her niece, regretfully cancelling their Tuesday afternoon plans yet again. Kirsty’s career in Police Scotland, especially now that she was involved in the high-level investigation that had dumped Edge’s stepdaughter Fiona in a room full of corpses, was playing havoc with their regular Tuesday afternoons together. However, a day to catch up with her writing worked out very well, especially as the third call was from her agent Sarah to say Shona Black had already been in touch wanting to know how Black-Brown-Black could sweeten their offer, as they really wanted to work with her.

  ‘Let me know,’ Sarah ordered in her distinctive American accent, ‘and for Gahd’s sake, Edge, keep your cellphone with you! Shona’s offering some artistic control, and it’s beginning to look quite tempting. Call me first thing tomorrow!’

  Edge leaned thoughtfully back in her chair, her feet tucked under her. It was looking tempting, and Donald had made a good point about producing an actual series rather than trying to sell a concept. UK shows sold overseas all the time, and even if this one never got off the ground through lack of finance, she would learn a lot from the discussion stages. Mortimer sprang lightly onto her lap and pressed with his paws, purring, while she stroked him absently.

  ‘Want to come with me tonight, Mort?’

  Her phone gave its internal ring and her friend Clarissa’s Devonshire accent spilled into the room on the speaker-phone.

  ‘Edge, what an evil evening. Would you like to nip on over, or are you all wrapped up and warm?’

  ‘I’m all wrapped up and warm, but I’m already going to Donald’s. I’ve got to get unwrapped and unwarm in about ten minutes. Are you okay?’

  ‘Donald’s?’ Clarissa’s voice sharpened with interest. Edge had a sudden vivid image of her eyebrows jumping, and smothered a giggle. ‘Excellent! What are you wearing?’

  ‘Baggy comfy tracksuit, and I still have to brush my hair. It’s only Donald.’

  ‘Oh, Edge!’ Clarissa wailed. ‘You’ve been looking so smart lately, put something nice on. And plenty of scent. Is it only going to be the two of you?’

  ‘I think so. We’re watching a video, and I’m probably taking the cat as a chaperone. Honestly, Clarissa, if jumping to conclusions was an Olympic sport, Scotland would be set for gold with you around.’

  ‘I give up on you, I really do. Leave your hair down, at least. Men like that.’

  ‘Yes, Clarissa,’ Edge let the smile creep into her voice, ‘but please don’t be disappointed in me. I guarantee I’ll be shuffling back in about two hours in my slippers, with my cat, and not a hair on my head ruffled. Would you like me to come over then?’

  ‘No. My stupid dog’s still a bit iffy with cats, she may try to eat yours. And anyway I don’t want to give you any reason to leave early. Will you at least kiss him when you arrive, and see if that has any effect?’

  ‘I absolutely will not. Anyway, he gave me the sexiest kiss in the world today, for a photographer’s benefit, so I doubt a peck on the cheek will suddenly whip him into a mad frenzy. I’m going to ask for a copy of the photograph, it was pure theatre.’

  ‘That’s my boy. Oh well, if you won’t, you won’t, but enjoy yourself. In your tracksuit and slippers. I’ll phone you tomorrow to find out how you went.’

  Edge disconnected, brushed her hair out thoroughly and clipped it back into a loose knot on top of her head. She was searching for a scarf when the phone rang again. This time it was her best friend Vivian, sounding amused.

  ‘Clarissa says you’ve got a hot date.’

  ‘Clarissa should be a town crier. I have to leave on my date in a couple of minutes but I’m glad you phoned. Patrick’s invited himself over to lunch in the house tomorrow, can you come too?’

  ‘I haven’t been in to lunch in a little while, but yes, okay, I like Patrick. So does William, so I’ll see if he wants to join us. How did the meeting go with Black-Brown-Black?’

  ‘Very sticky to start, but actually quite good. I really have to go, Vivian, but we’ve got exercise class tomorrow morning, long blether afterwards? I’ll bring you up to date.’

  ‘Enjoy your evening—and behave yourself.’

  Edge snorted instead of replying, put Mortimer into his harness and let herself out of the small apartment, the reluctant cat leaning into the wall against the gusting wind. The advantage of living in a retirement village was that you knew all your neighbours and it was very sociable, but the disadvantage was that your neighbours knew you and were interested in your life. Well, perhaps that was not exactly a disadvantage but occasionally inconvenient. She’d found that out fairly recently after starting an affair with another resident, and the secrecy had definitely added a fillip to what hadn’t been, after all, a very good idea. She wasn’t, and never had been, a passionate woman, and at this stage of her life would pick a friendship over an affair without a second thought—especially the friendship with Donald, which was infinitely more fun than her affair had been. Clarissa’s conviction notwithstanding, he would never be more. She smiled at the thought as she knocked on his door.

  Chapter 2 – Tuesday November 5th

  Lunch with Patrick

  ‘Earth to Beulah Cameron?’ Patrick’s cultured Irish accent finally broke through Edge’s abstraction and she blinked and smiled at him. He smiled back, a heavily-built man in his early sixties with a very neat white beard and laughing eyes under slightly less neat eyebrows. ‘You were a million miles away for a minute or two, pet.’ He turned his attention back to his lunch. ‘Penny for them?’

  ‘For a penny, I’ll keep them to myself,’ she teased and William nodded approvingly.

  ‘Quite right. A shameful offer from a successful wealthy accountant.’ He ignored Patrick’s murmur of ‘semi-retired’ and spoke over it to Edge. ‘But that was quite a senior moment you had there. What was so fascinating about the buffet? Worth a quid?’ William, larger even than Patrick in height and breadth, and with a more imp
ressive bay window, twisted round to look, then gave up the effort.

  ‘Oh, well, for a quid, yes. I noticed Major Horace going up for seconds, and being turned away. And then I realized that I didn’t recognize the server, and that distracted me completely. I was wondering whether I should go up for seconds myself and see what happened.’

  ‘That’s part of why I’m here.’ Patrick lowered his fork. ‘Apart from the pleasure of having lunch with my favourite Scottish widow, naturally; I’m following up on a string of recent complaints. I thought I would combine pleasure with business and have lunch first with you guys.’

  ‘Of course, you’ve just been appointed one of the Trustees. I’d forgotten.’ Vivian also looked at the buffet. ‘I never have seconds, but I’ve never heard of anyone being turned away. And you’re right, she is a stranger. How odd.’

  ‘You’ve never needed a reason to have lunch with me before,’ Edge shot Patrick a reproving look. ‘And you called me Beulah, even though you know perfectly well I’m only ever called that when I’m in trouble. Or offending potential producers.’

  ‘It was respect. I’m not quite sure what the difference is, but you definitely look different. And I like the way you’re doing your hair. Still casual, but as though you thought about it. You look a bit like a film star playing a normal person. Actually, both of you look—I’m not going to say smarter, I’ll get myself in trouble—unfamiliar. Very nice.’

  Vivian chuckled. ‘It’s Donald, he’s taken us both over. He is the dictator of our public images now. Mainly Edge, because of the potential TV series. Sylvia is slowly turning green with envy.’