VICTORIA CONNELLY
The Runaway Actress

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

Copyright © Victoria Connelly 2012

Victoria Connelly asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

Source ISBN: 9781847562760

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2012 ISBN: 9780007443222

Version: 2018-07-19

To my dear friends, Heather and Margaret. Here’s to our Scottish ancestry!

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Victoria’s Top Ten Escapes

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Maggie Hamill stared out of the window at the great green hills beyond the loch. The third bedroom really did have the best view from the house and she was glad she’d moved into it. There was only one problem: it was such a gorgeous distraction that it was sometimes hard to get on with her work and she had plenty to be getting on with. Only that morning, she’d received half a dozen letters – all with requests for signed photographs.

Dear Ms Gordon, the first one began. I’m a huge fan of your films and think you’re the most beautiful actress in the world. Would it be possible to send me a signed photograph of yourself ? I enclose a cheque for £10 for your Theatre Charity and look forward to hearing from you soon and, if you ever happen to be in Portsmouth, give me a call on the above number, won’t you? I know a fabulous restaurant where we can talk in private.

I bet you do, Maggie said to herself. Still, it was quite tame as fan letters went and she pulled out a ten by eight glossy photograph from the top drawer of her desk. It was one of her personal favourites – a close-up shot of Connie Gordon with her long red hair cascading over her shoulders. Maggie sighed as she flicked her own dark mane away from her face, wishing she had fine silky, well-behaved sort of hair rather than a sheep’s fleece straggling down her back.

Reaching for her silver pen, she paused, bit her lip and then signed across the bottom right-hand corner.

With love from Connie xx

‘There you are, Mr Forbes from Portsmouth. You’re going to love that!’

She was just about to stuff it into an envelope when the shop bell tinkled. Leaping to her feet, she left the room and ran down the stairs.

‘Ah, good morning, Mrs Wallace,’ Maggie said as Lochnabrae’s biggest gossip entered the shop. She was wearing the yellow raincoat she never left home without and her tight perm had been squashed under a headscarf. ‘You’re bright and early this morning.’

‘Not as early as Euan, though,’ Mrs Wallace said, her formidable bosom rising with pleasure at being able to impart such news. ‘I see he’s been in already.’

Maggie nodded at Mrs Wallace’s comprehensive knowledge of the goings on of Lochnabrae’s inhabitants.

‘Well now, I hope he’s left some tobacco for my Wallace.’

‘There’s plenty left,’ Maggie said, picking up a packet of what she knew to be Mr Wallace’s chosen brand and handing it over the counter.

‘And how’s the fan club going?’ Mrs Wallace asked. ‘Any sign of Connie Gordon yet?’ she asked with a little chuckle, knowing full well what the answer would be.

‘No, Mrs Wallace, I’m afraid not. I don’t think she’ll be gracing our community for a while.’

‘Och well, what would her sort do here, eh?’

Maggie shrugged. She’d often wondered herself. What, indeed, would a Hollywood movie star do in a place like Lochnabrae?

‘I’ve just written to her again,’ Maggie said.

‘Have you now?’

‘Aye.’ Maggie sighed, secretly wondering if Connie ever read the letters. She must have posted dozens over the years of running the fan club. Perhaps they were binned by some personal assistant who was put on stalker alert.

‘And she’s never written back?’

‘No,’ Maggie said. ‘Too busy, I expect. All those films and premieres and things.’

‘That’ll be it,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘No time for the likes of us,’ she said, nodding towards her usual newspaper.

‘Will that be all today?’ Maggie asked, itching to get back to her correspondence upstairs.

‘Aye. For the time being. Might be popping back this afternoon for some bits if we don’t make it to the proper shops in Strathcorrie.’

‘Right,’ Maggie said. Mrs Wallace was, as ever, the complete embodiment of tact.

‘Their prices are so much better,’ she added.

‘But they’re not on your doorstep, Mrs Wallace, are they?’

Mrs Wallace chose to ignore this last remark.

‘Bye, then,’ Maggie said and, as soon as the shop door was shut, took the stairs two at a time and returned to her other, slightly more glamorous job.

Maggie had been running the Connie Gordon Fan Club for five years now. Set up by Lochnabrae resident, Euan Kennedy, it was to honour the screen presence of one of Hollywood’s most beautiful actresses whose mother happened to be from their small Highland community. ‘Ah, yes,’ Maggie remembered Euan Kennedy telling everyone one evening in the pub, The Capercaillie Inn, ‘her mother was a great beauty. Vanessa Gordon.’ His eyes had lit up as he’d relived some long ago memory of Vanessa. ‘But she had her sights set on bigger and better things. Hollywood, no less! Aye, she was an ambitious one.’

Vanessa Gordon had never made her mark in Tinsel Town, Maggie remembered Euan saying, but had passed on all her beauty and ambition to her daughter, Connie. There wasn’t a resident in the whole of Lochnabrae who didn’t know of the ‘Connie connection’ and there was always great excitement when a new Connie film was released, with carloads of residents making the short journey to the old cinema in Strathcorrie. It didn’t matter if it was a thriller or a romantic comedy, a leading role or a voice-over in an animated movie, they were there to support their Connie.

‘We really should have our own cinema here,’ Euan had announced one evening.

‘Where?’ Maggie had asked, trying to imagine such a luxury in the main street of the village.

Euan shook his head. ‘I don’t know but we should do something – have some way of acknowledging our Hollywood lassie.’

And that’s when he’d come up with the idea for a fan club.

‘With websites and everything,’ he’d said, waving a great hand in the air as if he knew what he was talking about.

‘Oh, you have a computer now, do you?’ Maggie had asked wryly.

‘Well, no, but you do,’ he’d said.

Maggie had leapt at the chance to run the fan club. She’d always adored movies and this was her chance to be a small part of that magical world, and so she’d got to work, creating a website, updating the pages with new pictures of Connie and all the latest movie news.

Then the fan mail had started to flood in with people asking for signed photos of their beloved actress.

‘What shall I do?’ Maggie had asked Euan. ‘They all expect a reply!’

‘Then send them what they want.’

‘But surely we’ll be done for fraud!’

‘Och! Nobody will ever find out.’

‘But it’ll cost money if we start sending out signed photos and things,’ Maggie said, thinking of the meagre income she had from the shop.

‘Then charge them.’

Maggie had gasped and had taken the problem to the Connie Committee.

‘We could make a small charge,’ Hamish – Maggie’s brother – had said. ‘Just to cover costs, you understand.’

‘That’s not unreasonable, is it?’ Euan had said. ‘We can’t have you out of pocket, can we?’

Maggie waited to hear what everyone else thought. ‘Angus?’ she probed.

Angus hurrumped from his corner in the pub. ‘Waste of time. We should have a decent fan club. For westerns.’

Everyone groaned. They were all well aware of Angus’s obsession with the western. He was even wearing cowboy boots just then.

‘Westerns are the thing,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no time for anything else.’

‘Rubbish!’ Maggie said. ‘I saw those tears in your eyes when we went to see Connie in Waltz with Me.’

Angus shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘That was a fly,’ he said. ‘I had a fly in my eye that evening.’

‘Right,’ Maggie said with a grin. ‘Alastair? What do you think we should do?’ she asked, turning to Lochnabrae’s resident playwright for a sensible answer.

‘Well,’ Alastair said, his dark eyebrows hovering over eyes the colour of the loch in summer, ‘the village hall needs some money spent on it.’

‘Aye, that it does,’ Euan agreed.

Maggie frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with the signed photographs?’

‘If we charge for them, any profit could go to the upkeep of the village hall.’

‘But nobody would pay for that!’ Maggie protested.

‘They might if you call it the Theatre Charity. Make a small donation to our Theatre Charity and we will be happy to send you a signed photograph of Ms Gordon,’ Alastair said.

‘And where do I get all these signed photos from?’ Maggie asked.

‘There’s the newsagents in Strathcorrie. They have one of them big printers now, don’t they?’ Hamish said.

‘Okay,’ Maggie said. ‘But how do I get them signed?’

Everyone looked at Maggie.

‘Use your imagination, lass,’ Euan said.

And so Maggie had. She was really quite good at it too because, as a youngster, she used to daydream about what it would be like to be a film star or – at the very least – a character from a film like the ones Connie Gordon played. How wonderful it must be to be beautiful and adored like Connie Gordon and how very different from the little life that Maggie led working in the village shop in Lochnabrae. She would while away many a happy hour in the shop imagining that she was like a Connie Gordon heroine and that a happy ending of her own was just around the corner. For Maggie, running the fan club was like giving in to her inner film star for a few short hours a week and it didn’t seem like she was doing anything wrong.

During those early days of the fan club, Maggie had found a copy of a signed photo of Connie Gordon online and had printed it out, studying the feminine flourish and practising it over and over again until she felt that the very spirit of Connie Gordon was with her and she’d got it just right. Which was just as well because demand was high even with the charge that they made.

Sitting back down at her desk, Maggie woke up her computer and stared at the image on the screen.

‘Hello, Connie,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘How are you today?’

The beautiful face stared back at her. Soft white skin that was almost luminous, dark red hair like a silk curtain, bright hazel eyes and that gorgeous megawatt smile that regularly graced a million magazines.

‘You’ll be wearing that smile tonight, won’t you?’ Maggie said, checking the online Connie diary and noting that it was the ‘Cream of the Screen’ awards ceremony. Maggie gazed out of the window but, for once, she didn’t notice the view. She was imagining the gowns and the jewels and the wonderful new photos of Connie that she would soon have for the website.

‘How wonderful it would be to walk down that red carpet,’ she said with a wistful sigh. ‘Lucky, lucky Connie.’

Chapter Two

A big bright smile. That’s what everyone wanted so why was it so hard to give? Connie walked down the red carpet, trying desperately not to trip over in the silver sequinned dress, which kept wrapping itself around her legs. It was most uncomfortable even if it did make her look like a million dollars. It was the last time she’d be wearing one of Tierney Mueller’s designs, that was for sure. He’d practically submerged her with clothes for the last few months and she’d finally given in but she was regretting her decision now. She had to give an award tonight and that meant the long torturous walk out onto the stage with the whole of Hollywood watching.

It’ll be fine, she told herself. Or at least it couldn’t possibly be as bad as the time one of her spaghetti straps had fallen down, revealing far more of Connie Gordon than the press had ever seen.

‘CONNIE!’ they shouted now. ‘Over here.’

‘One more!’

‘This way!’

Connie smiled. She felt like such a fraud. It was her third red carpet event that week and she knew she must be the envy of every woman in the world and yet what she wanted more than anything was to be sitting at home in her favourite jumper and jeans, eating a large tub of ice cream in front of the movie channel. It really was absurd. After all, she’d worked extremely hard to get to this moment, hadn’t she? All the years of dance classes and auditions, drama classes and auditions, singing classes and auditions. This was what it was all about. This was the kind of event that said, Hey world, I’ve arrived. Aren’t you jealous? Don’t you wish you were me? Take that journalist over there, Connie thought, sidling over to a female reporter who was gesticulating at her so much her arms were in danger of spinning right off her body. What would the reporter give to change places with Connie – to wear the dress, to be photographed, to present the award? And what would Connie give to exchange places with her? The journalist would be going home in half an hour. For a moment, Connie imagined the scene. There’d be some cute guy cooking dinner for her and an adorable toddler would have just woken up to greet his mommy.

Connie sighed as she thought about the empty mansion that was waiting for her in Bel Air. She had a cook, a cleaner, a PA and a gardener. There was the boy who took care of the pool, the guy who took care of her cars. There was the hairdresser, the image consultant, the agent, the lawyer and the accountant. Then there was the orthodontist, the personal trainer … and on the list went. But there was nobody who’d be there to kiss her when she got home. Nobody to massage her feet and tell her she was gorgeous. Oh, she was told she was gorgeous often enough – by the fans, the journalists, the photographers. But they didn’t count. When she went home, she left the adulation behind and life felt very empty indeed.

‘Connie Gordon!’ the journalist yelled as Connie joined her at the barrier. ‘I have Connie Gordon with me,’ she said, turning to her cameraman. ‘Who are you wearing tonight, Connie?’

‘Oh, it’s a Tierney Mueller.’

‘And you look gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.’

‘Thank you,’ Connie said graciously.

‘I hear you’ll be presenting an award tonight.’

‘Yes. Best supporting actor.’

‘And which of the nominees do you favour?’ the journalist asked.

‘I think they’re all incredibly talented. I couldn’t possibly choose,’ she said diplomatically. That was the game to play: be gracious, be diplomatic and keep bloody smiling.

The ‘Cream of the Screen’ ceremony was fairly new as award ceremonies went. Not quite as glitzy as the Oscars nor as prestigious as the Golden Globes, they were still an opportunity for the stars to come out and shine. As Connie entered the Art Deco theatre where it was being held, she caught sight of a few of the famous faces there. She had to stop and pinch herself sometimes. At events like this, she still felt like such a newbie even though she’d been in the business since she was six.

‘Connie!’ a voice called. She turned around and came face to face with Carter Maddox, the infamous journalist, and he had a camera crew with him. ‘Over here, Connie!’

There was no getting away from him so Connie dug deep for her smile again and joined him.

‘And you are looking very glam tonight. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, Carter.’

‘Who are you wearing?’

‘Tierney Mueller,’ Connie said, sighing inwardly at the originality of his questions.

‘And who’s accompanying you tonight?’

Connie’s eyebrows rose. Now, that was a question she hadn’t been expecting.

‘Don’t tell me the gorgeous Connie Gordon is alone tonight?’

‘Yes, I am, Carter.’

‘Well, men of America, you should be ashamed of yourselves,’ Carter said, turning to the camera. ‘I really think you should’ve made more of an effort.’

‘No, really Carter – don’t—’

‘Isn’t there anyone out there who’d kill to have this lovely lady on their arm?’

Connie rolled her eyes, imagining the crank letters from the men of America she’d be receiving over the coming months.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a voice announced on the tannoy. ‘Please take your seats. The ceremony is about to begin.’

Connie sighed with relief and made a hasty departure from Carter Maddox.

She was just entering the auditorium when she felt a hand on her bottom. Spinning around, she came face to face with Jeff Kline.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he said.

If anyone else called her gorgeous tonight, she would scream.

‘What are you doing here, Jeff ?’

‘Nice to see you too! Not still sore, are you, honeybun?’

‘Don’t call me that. I’m not your honeybun! Not since you sold out to the Hollywood Recorder.’

‘But sweetcakes! What did you expect me to do?’

‘You’re a piece of slime, Kline,’ she said, rather liking the rhyme that made. ‘Go to hell.’

She made her way to her seat and hoped that she wouldn’t meet any more of her ex-boyfriends that evening.

But, alas, it wasn’t to be.

They were half an hour into the ceremony when Connie was escorted backstage and given a scarlet envelope and statuette for the award for best supporting actor. It was the moment she’d been dreading.

Just take it slowly, she told herself, hoping she wouldn’t trip over the ridiculously long dress. Nice and slowly.

Waiting for her cue backstage, she wondered how long it would be before she could sneak home. There was a party after the show – several parties – and she’d been invited to all of them but she could think of nothing worse.

‘You’re on!’ a girl backstage suddenly yelled at her.

‘Oh!’ Connie yelled back, venturing forth onto the stage where she was greeted by wave after wave of applause. The host had stepped to one side and the microphone was left for Connie. Walking up to it, she dared to look out into the audience, which was a great mistake because her heart rate doubled almost instantly. It was one of the reasons that the theatre had never tempted her. A live audience – there was nothing scarier.

She cleared her throat and began. ‘Being a supporting actor is no mean feat. It’s often as strenuous and time-consuming as being a lead and yet these vital roles are often overlooked. Not so tonight. We are here to acknowledge and celebrate five fabulous actors in supporting roles.’ She stepped to one side and looked to the screen, which had been set up on the stage to show clips from the five different films. As the lights dimmed, Connie sneaked a look out into the audience. There was Jeff, with a blonde to his right and a brunette to his left. In his element, as usual. And there was Harvey Andreas. She’d really fallen for him. What a mistake that had been, she thought, thinking of Harvey’s inability to commit to just one woman at a time.

As the clips continued, Connie realised, with awful certainty, that she had probably dated about five per cent of the audience there tonight. What a depressing thought. And not one single Prince Charming amongst them. Not one.

As the clips finished and the house lights came on, Connie stepped up to the microphone and opened the envelope and saw the name she had been dreading.

Out of all the nominations …

‘And the winner is—’ she said.

A one in five chance and he had to go and win it!

‘Forrest Greaves!’

There was a huge round of applause and she saw the dark-haired actor stand up from his seat and make his way to the stage. He was tall, fit and desperately handsome – your typical love rat – and he had double-timed Connie with some low-life extra on the set of her last film. She still couldn’t believe it. Whilst he’d been sending enormous bunches of flowers to her trailer, he’d been sleeping with Candy in his. The press had had a field day with it and Connie was still coping with the fallout because Candy was about to have his baby and hadn’t wasted any time parading her enormous naked body in front of the glossies.

And now the awards. It was unbearable.

‘Hey, gorgeous!’ Forrest said as he sidled up to her on the stage and leant forward for the obligatory kiss, his hand – unseen by the audience because they were standing behind the podium – copped a quick feel of her bottom.

She threw him a heated glare as he stepped back, thrusting the award at him and moving to one side as he gave his acceptance speech. She was not going to make it easy for the press to get a photo of the two of them together.

Once it was over, the two of them left the stage together and, as soon as they were away from the cameras, Connie felt Forrest’s hand on her bottom again.

‘HEY!’ she yelled. What was it with men and her ass? She couldn’t remember putting out an advert in the newspapers saying, Men – please grab my ass whenever you pass.

Forrest’s hands leapt in the air. ‘Only appreciating what was once mine.’

‘You gave up all rights to that when I caught you with that sleaze in your trailer,’ Connie said.

‘That was a misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I told you at the time. My zip was stuck. She was helping me fix it. I swear we weren’t a couple until after you broke up with me! I swear, Connie!’

‘God!’ Connie said. ‘Can you hear yourself ? You might’ve fooled the judges on the panel tonight but you’re the worst actor I’ve ever met.’

Connie didn’t bother returning to her seat. She’d had more than enough for one evening. She found a nice member of staff who called a cab for her and showed her out of a quiet exit where she could make an escape without the clamour of fans and photographers.

Once home, Connie struggled with the dress fastenings. It was more difficult than she’d imagined and it took several minutes of yoga-like twists before she was free and could wriggle out of the skintight fabric. She shook her head upside down, ruffling her hair as she often did when she was stressed.

What a night, she thought. It was the end of a long and taxing week but next week would be just as bad and the week after that wouldn’t prove any less demanding with parties, ceremonies, press junkets and rehearsals. She hadn’t had a break for months – years. Her agent just kept on putting her up for role after role. It was what she’d asked for in the beginning but she’d made ten films in the last four years and she was exhausted.

Kicking off her impossibly high heels, she sighed and pulled on a cool linen dressing gown before making her way to the kitchen. She needed wine: a nice big glass of something very expensive to take the edge off the evening.

Opening her fridge, she was greeted by a positive jungle. Everything was green. It was the usual problem: a fridge full of food but absolutely nothing to eat. Connie groaned at the sight of it. It was all part of the latest LA diet but, however healthy it was, Connie couldn’t help wishing she could just sit down with a hamburger and fries like a regular person. But hadn’t her agent told her to watch her weight?

‘You’re piling it on again, Connie,’ he’d told her last week. ‘This industry doesn’t tolerate fat.’

Fat! FAT? Connie had never been more than nine stone in her whole life and, at five foot eight, that was positively skeletal. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to live a normal life. To get up and not have to worry about what the papers were saying about you, to choose your food because it was what you wanted to eat, and not to be constantly told what you were going to be doing for the next year – the next decade.

Grabbing the bottle of wine, Connie padded through to her living room, her feet sinking into the luxurious white carpet she’d chosen for the whole house. It was an enormous room that overlooked the vast swimming pool and gardens, and Connie had filled it with beautiful antiques, from the Regency mahogany sideboard to the satinwood table. A nineteenth-century chandelier hung from the centre of the room. It would have looked more at home in an English Georgian manor house rather than in her very modern Hollywood home but Connie had fallen in love with its sparkling teardrop crystals and insisted on having it.

Her bedroom was the same. Reached by a Gone with the Wind staircase, the room was stuffed with the very finest money could buy because what else did she have to spend it on? There was a vast French rococo bed in antique gold, an enormous gilt mirror that bounced the light back from the balcony doors and an exquisite brass-inlaid secretaire in that she locked away all her personal documents.

Finishing her wine and heading upstairs to her bedroom, she removed her dressing gown and realised that she was still wearing her diamond choker. She unfastened it and returned it to its blue velvet box. She’d bought it as a special gift to herself after she’d heard she’d been nominated for an Oscar. Most actresses hired their jewellery for Oscar night but Connie had wanted to wear something that was hers – something that she could keep. She remembered the gentlemen from the jewellers who had turned up at her house with a selection of necklaces for her to choose from. There had been an amazing egg-sized sapphire pendant, which had reminded Connie of the colour of the ocean. There was a square-cut emerald necklace, which had looked dazzlingly bright when she’d tried it on against her pale skin. Then there’d been the rubies – twelve blood-red stones nestling in a lace of sparkling diamonds. But, in the end, Connie had chosen the diamond choker. It was breathtaking in its simplicity and could be worn with so many of her gowns.

Brushing her fingers over the stones, she closed the box and took it to the vault in the corner of the room. There, it joined a family of jewels from Connie’s favourite garnet earrings to platinum watches and rings set with every stone imaginable. There was even a diamond tiara in there. Connie had worn it just once.

Taking a quick shower and smearing her face with the latest skin-tightening cream that promised to keep her looking like a nineteen-year-old, Connie slipped between the silky sheets of her bed, her head crashing onto the pale pillows. She felt as if she could sleep for a fortnight. Or for ever.

Closing her eyes, she thought about her beautiful home filled with beautiful things. She had more than any young woman had a right to and she knew how lucky she was, she really did.

‘So why am I not happy?’ she whispered into the dark night.

Chapter Three

Connie woke up with a start. There was somebody in her house and that somebody was shouting. Really, really loudly. She groaned and turned over, hiding her head under her duvet. Why oh why had she given her personal trainer a key to her house?

‘Up, up, up!’ he cried as he took the stairs two at a time. ‘Sleepyheads don’t get fit!’

‘I don’t want to get fit. Not this morning,’ she said to herself. ‘I want to sleeeeeeep!’

‘WAKE UP!’ he shouted as he entered the room – all six foot five of him.

‘I’m awake!’ Connie said.

‘I want twenty stomach crunches right now!’

Connie muttered something under her breath.

‘What was that, sweetie? You want to do fifty?’ he said with a naughty grin.

‘Go away, Danny!’ Connie said, sitting up in bed, her red hair tousled and tangled.

‘You don’t pay me to go away. You pay me to get your ass moving! Come on,’ he said, clapping a pair of enormous hands together.

Connie sighed. She loved Danny dearly. He was loyal and sweet and always made her laugh, but there were certain mornings when she wished he didn’t exist.

Ten minutes later and they were in the basement gymnasium and Connie was being put through her paces. It was a rude awakening and she really should have been used to it by now because Danny had been turning up three times a week for the past four years.

‘Your body is your business,’ she would silently chant to herself whilst pounding on the running machine. ‘You have to keep in shape,’ she’d repeat with each stretch on the rowing machine.

But if only her body was her business. The trouble was, everyone seemed to have something to say about her body. Her trainer, her agent, her publicist – to say nothing of the press who regularly snapped her from all angles and then ran headlines such as ‘Podgy Connie Piles on the Pounds’. The unhappy truth was that acting was about more than her ability to inhabit a role and convince an audience that her emotions were real. It was about how she looked both on screen and off and that pressure could sometimes be unbearable.

After ten minutes on the exercise bike, Connie hung her head.

‘Can we go running, Danny? I want to get some fresh air.’ She looked up and caught Danny’s eye. He didn’t look happy with the suggestion.

‘You know what happened last time.’

‘I know.’

‘We weren’t so much running as running away!’

Connie nodded, remembering the hoard of paps that had torn after them with their intrusively long lenses.

‘I wish I could run away,’ Connie said.

‘Aw, don’t say that!’ Danny said, his face wrinkling in dismay.

‘But I do. I want to go somewhere where I can just be me for a while without a telephoto lens poking at me or some journalist tearing me apart.’

‘I don’t think such a place exists,’ Danny said.

‘No,’ Connie said. ‘You’re probably right. But can’t we at least try to pretend?’

‘You want to go to the park?’

Connie nodded.

‘We’ll have to go in my car, then. Everybody knows yours.’

Connie grinned and grabbed her towel.

Danny’s black RV was parked in the driveway. ‘Get in the back and duck down,’ he said.

Connie climbed in the back of his car, buckled up and then laid her head down on the seat. She’d given Danny her remote control to open the wrought iron gates and, as usual, there was a group of paparazzi camping outside.

‘Don’t they have homes to go to?’ Danny asked as he hit the gas.

‘Apparently not,’ Connie said. ‘I thought about inviting them in for dinner one evening. I’d just come back from a charity gala and felt a bit lonely. It’s always odd to be surrounded by hundreds of people one minute and then to come back here and be totally alone.’

‘But you didn’t invite them in, did you?’ Danny asked, eyebrows raised.

‘No, of course not!’

Danny breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Okay, it’s safe to surface.’

Connie got up from the back seat and it was then that she noticed the newspaper on the seat beside her. She picked it up.

‘Oh, don’t bother reading that,’ Danny said a little too quickly. ‘There’s nothing in it.’

‘Danny, you’re a terrible liar,’ she said, opening the paper and staring in horror at the headline that greeted her on page three.

Connie Alone!

Stunning actress, Connie Gordon, one of the world’s most famous movie stars, attended last night’s ‘Cream of the Screen’ awards ceremony on her own. The 29-year-old actress recently broke up with fellow actor, Forrest Greaves, and it would seem that she’s not been lucky in love since …

Accompanying the story was a photograph of Connie from the red carpet but, instead of printing one of the hundreds of pictures they must have taken of Connie’s famous megawatt smile, they’d published one of her frowning. It must have been the millisecond that she’d caught her heels on her dress. There was also a photograph of the heavily-pregnant Candy with the caption: ‘Expecting great things – the woman Forrest Greaves left Connie for’.

‘Goddamn it!’ she cursed and then her eye caught something else. It was a quote from her mother.

‘“Connie is devastated,” Vanessa Gordon told us. “She’d already started planning the wedding with Forrest”.’

‘They’ve interviewed my mother!’ she shouted.

‘I told you not to read it!’ Danny said from the front seat.

‘Why do they do that? Why?’

‘To sell more papers, that’s all.’

Connie sighed. ‘Take me home,’ she said.

‘What? You don’t want to go running?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t feel like it any more.’

‘But it might do you some good. You know, pound it out of your system.’ He looked at her through the rear-view mirror and noticed the tears sparkling in her eyes. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said.

Once Danny had dropped her off, Connie kicked off her trainers and wandered through to her office. Her personal assistant had left her diary open on the desk and there was a planner pinned to the wall too. Connie glanced at it. She was meant to be starting rehearsals next week for her next film – and the thought of it made her groan.

‘It’ll do your career no end of good,’ Bob Braskett, her agent, had told her. ‘This is a real up-and-coming director. Teenagers really go for him. You’ll gain a whole new audience here.’

There was also a magazine interview penned in, and two charity events. She sighed. If only she could get away from it all. If only she could escape!

The telephone rang and made Connie jump. She didn’t normally answer the phone but, as her PA wasn’t in until later, she picked it up herself.

‘Connie!’ a voice drawled. It was Forrest Greaves.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped.

‘Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart. You didn’t give me a chance to talk to you last night.’

‘Yeah? Well, I said all I wanted to say,’ Connie said.

‘Yeah, but I didn’t.’

She sighed. ‘What do you want, Forrest?’

‘I want to say that I miss you,’ he said, ‘and I think we should give it another go.’

‘What?’ Connie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

‘I miss you so much, honey.’

‘Don’t honey me! You’re about to have a child with that Candy woman, for heaven’s sake.’

‘That could be anybody’s child,’ he said. ‘Anyway, she means nothing to me. It’s you I want to be with.’

Connie felt a shiver of disgust creep up her spine. ‘Forrest—’

‘Listen,’ he interrupted. ‘I know I messed up but I swear that won’t happen again. You’re my one and only, Connie. You know we’re right for each other. I know you do.’

‘But I don’t want anything to do with you, Forrest. I—’

‘I mean – come on – I’m an award-winning actor now. I’m right up there with you, baby. Just think about it – what a couple we’ll make. We’ll send Hollywood dizzy. They won’t be able to get enough of us! “Forrest and Connie”, “Greaves and Gordon”! Just imagine the headlines!’

Connie slammed the phone down and let out a scream. How dare he propose getting back together with her when he’d treated her so badly and when he was about to become a father. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? He really was the limit.

She closed her eyes and took some deep breaths. She needed to calm down before she began hyperventilating.

‘Count to ten,’ she told herself as she breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth for a few steadying moments. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Don’t let him get to you.’

It was then that something caught her eye. Sitting in a neat stack on the desk was the latest fan mail left by her personal assistant. On the top was a curious pink and yellow checked envelope. Connie picked it up and looked at it. It was from overseas. Scotland!

‘It’s tartan!’ Connie laughed, slipping the letter out and unfolding it.

Dear Ms Gordon

It seems rather a long time since I last wrote to you and I’m so sorry! We’ve been very busy here in Lochnabrae. As you know, the fan club is going from strength to strength. We get lots of hits on the website and we even had a Connie Gordon season last month showing a film of yours each night at our village hall. We then voted on our favourite film – it was Milly in the Morning, by the way – and then Isla Stuart, who runs the bed and breakfast here, made a ‘Milly’ cake with pink and yellow icing. You’ll notice we’ve got pink and yellow stationery now too – my brother, Hamish, designed a Connie tartan based on Milly’s gorgeous dress in the film. I hope you like it.

Connie took another look at the envelope and laughed. It really was very pretty.

So, as you can see, we’ve been keeping busy. But that doesn’t excuse me forgetting to write to you and I just wanted to extend our invitation to you once again. You know you’ll always be made welcome here in Lochnabrae. It’s a beautiful part of the Highlands with mountains and rivers and our very own loch in which you can swim. (Well, about twice a year if it gets really hot!) We have a small bed and breakfast and Isla says you’d be made very welcome if you wanted to stay. She has radiators in all the rooms and hot water bottles aplenty if you come in winter. Or summer. And I’ve got a spare room too. That’s to say, most of the time – unless Hamish has too many at the pub and can’t make it home which isn’t often, thank goodness.

I know you’re probably very busy in Hollywood with your films and stuff and we must seem like another planet to you but we’re a very friendly planet and we’d love to see you.

All best wishes from

Maggie Hamill

(Administrator of the Connie Gordon Fan Club) xx

Connie read the letter through once more. Lochnabrae. She hadn’t thought about that place for years. It had been the birthplace of her mother and she remembered being fascinated by stories of it when she was young. Stories about icy swims in the loch, thick mists that clouded the houses and snowdrifts that would cut the village off for weeks. It was a magical, almost mystical place on the other side of the world – so far away from the dirt and dazzle of Hollywood.

Connie’s eyes widened as she thought about it. Hadn’t she just been praying for an escape? For peace? For a place where she could lose herself and leave all her troubles behind her including lying, cheating ex-boyfriends and mothers that couldn’t keep their mouths shut? And here was a letter from her fan club promising her all those things. It was fate. It was destiny. It was plain common sense.

Without losing a single moment, she picked up the phone and called her PA.

‘Samantha? It’s Connie. I’m sorry to ring you so early but I thought you should know that I’ll be leaving town today. I’m going away. No, Bob doesn’t know. Tell him it’s family business. I don’t know how long it’ll be for. Yes, he’ll have to deal with those film people himself, and the charity events too. Tell him I need a vacation. A really good vacation.’

Chapter Four

Maggie had got up extra early to search the web for photos of Connie at the ‘Cream of the Screen’ awards ceremony. It didn’t take long to find some.

‘Oh!’ she cried, her eyes feasting on the sparkling silver dress she was wearing. ‘That’s the most beautiful dress in the world!’ Maggie right-clicked on the image and saved it to her computer for use on the fan site. Copyright? Smopyright! This was fan business and fans needed up-to-date, drop-dead gorgeous photos of their idol.

She searched around some more and found two different angles, instantly recognising the diamond necklace Connie was wearing. Maggie could list the other three events her idol had worn it to and which dresses she’d been wearing it with. She prided herself on her knowledge; she was the keeper of all things Connie.

One of the photos she was now saving showed Connie in profile with her perfect nose. Maggie automatically wrinkled her own huge tuber of a nose, wondering if a lowly shopkeeper could justify plastic surgery. And then she found a photo of Connie handing the award to the actor, Forrest Greaves.

Maggie whistled. ‘Now that must’ve been interesting,’ she said to herself, knowing how he’d double-crossed Connie on the set of one of her films. Still, he was devilishly handsome. Perhaps it had been worth having her heart broken. She saved the picture with a quick click and then got to work updating the website blog.

There was always so much to do. Connie was always in the news and Maggie loved unearthing the stories on the internet although she didn’t publish everything because a lot of the stories were clearly fabricated. Like the time it had been reported that Connie had been abducted by aliens and given birth to ET’s lovechild. Maggie shook her head as she remembered. Poor Connie. It must be so frustrating to have such rubbish printed about you. The UK press was bad enough but the US really did take some beating.

Maggie had often dreamed about visiting America and going to see the homes of the stars in the Hollywood Hills but she didn’t suppose it was ever going to happen. People like her just didn’t travel. She’d once been to Edinburgh on a school trip. They’d seen the castle and heard the canon fire, and had visited the dark narrow streets of the Old Town and the wide Georgian splendour of the New Town but all Maggie could remember about the trip was how sick she’d felt on the coach. It had taken hours to reach their capital city and hours back to the Highlands and Maggie had been completely done in by it all. So how on earth would she fare on a trip to America? She’d never survive the ordeal, would she?

‘I’ll never leave Lochnabrae,’ she said to herself. But it wasn’t so bad as fates went. She really did love the little Highland community with its tiny white houses and stunning views, and most of its residents were happy with their lot too. She couldn’t think of anyone from the older gener-ation who’d ever been over the border into England let alone left the UK. Mrs Wallace and her husband holidayed in Mull every single year and Isla had once had a trip to Oban but hadn’t liked it. Sandy Macdonald had ventured further afield in his youth but he was a hearth and slippers type these days. He didn’t even like going into Strathcorrie on market days any more.

‘Too many damned people!’ he’d say. ‘You can’t walk in a straight line without bumping into somebody or other.’

What would Connie Gordon think of them all, Maggie wondered? She’d travelled the whole world, hadn’t she? The people of Lochnabrae would seem so very dull and unadventurous to her.

Maggie looked away from the computer screen, her eyes drifting to the view outside. What would Connie think of their little corner of the world, she wondered?

‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,’ she said to herself before returning her gaze to the computer in search of more images of her idol.

Chapter Five

Like most women, Connie had never been very good at travelling light and, as she waited for her luggage on the carousel along with everyone else at Glasgow Airport, she was beginning to wonder how she’d manage on her own. Of course, she could have travelled VIP and had everything done for her but she’d been determined that this trip would be different. She’d booked her own taxi to the airport and had even booked her own tickets, which was a new experience as she usually left such mundane jobs to her PA, but it had felt good doing something for herself for once in her life – even if she had got a bit lost walking into the airport and had nearly missed her flight when she couldn’t find her passport.

To avoid the press and the fuss that usually went hand in hand with luxury travel, Connie had decided to fly to Scotland incognito. She’d scraped her trademark red hair into a ponytail and flattened a baseball cap onto her head. A face free from make-up and the obligatory enormous sunglasses completed the disguise. It was rather like playing a part, she thought – the part of an ordinary girl going on holiday – and she’d been enjoying the experience until it came to hauling her own luggage off the carousel and struggling with it.

‘Can I help you?’ a gentleman’s voice suddenly asked with a soft Scottish accent.

Connie turned around. A tall athletic man in a nice suit stood looking at her. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said and watched as he found a trolley for her and placed her three suitcases onto it.

‘Are you wanting a taxi?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Allow me,’ he said, leading the way to the taxi rank outside the airport.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Connie said, removing her sunglasses and smiling. As soon as she did, she knew she’d made a mistake.

‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Aren’t you—’ the man cocked his head a little and looked at her quizzically. ‘Connie Gordon?’

‘Oh, lord, no!’ Connie laughed, exaggerating her English accent and pushing her sunglasses back on. For most of her childhood, Connie had had an English tutor which meant that she was often hired to play English roles in films and, although she occasionally had an American twang, she could easily get away with being English.

‘I could’ve sworn!’ the man said. ‘You look just like her. Remarkable! You could be in the movies.’

‘Well, I’m very flattered,’ she said, looking up and down for a taxi and hoping for a quick escape to avoid further questioning. ‘Ah! Here’s one,’ she said as the next available car pulled up and a man got out to load her suitcases. ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said to the suited gentleman.

‘My pleasure,’ he said, staring at her in wonder.

Connie hopped into the taxi and the driver was soon pulling out from the kerb.

Phew, she thought. She’d made it.

‘Where to, lass?’ the driver asked.

Connie leant forward in her seat. ‘Lochnabrae, please.’

‘Lochnabrae Road? Lochnabrae Street?’

‘Just Lochnabrae.’

‘In Glasgow?’

‘No.’

‘Outside Glasgow then?’

Connie nodded. ‘It’s near a town called Strathcorrie.’

‘Strathcorrie?’

‘You know it?’

‘Aye, I know it. That’s over a hundred miles. It won’t be a cheap fare, lass. You got the money to pay for it?’

‘Of course,’ Connie said. ‘I wouldn’t get in a taxi if I didn’t have the money for my ride.’

‘Just checking. I don’t want to be stranded in the back of beyond with a lass with no money.’

Connie held back a hollow laugh. Money was certainly no problem for her but that didn’t necessarily mean she was happy. If she could buy some sort of happiness, she wouldn’t be there now, tired and lonely.

The taxi left the airport and Connie felt her eyes closing. Transatlantic flights always took it out of her and she felt she’d been airborne for days rather than hours. A little sleep would do her the world of good.

When Connie woke up, she was surprised to see that the sky had darkened.

‘You won’t need them glasses now,’ the taxi driver said.

Connie took them off but kept her cap on in case she was recognised, but the driver didn’t seem to be interested in who she was.

‘Had a nice sleep, have you?’

‘Yes,’ Connie said. ‘Where are we?’

‘Just approaching Strathcorrie now.’

‘I must’ve been asleep for hours!’ Connie looked out of the window. The road was narrow and straight and there wasn’t a single house to be seen. The countryside had opened out into an elongated valley with a river silvering the land, and great mountains heaved up into the sky.

‘Welcome to the Highlands.’

Connie smiled. She was here at last – the place that her mother had once called home.

‘Can we stop?’ Connie suddenly asked. ‘Just for a moment?’

The taxi driver pulled up at a lay-by. ‘You feeling all right?’

‘Yes. Yes!’ Connie said excitedly, opening the door and getting out. She stood absolutely still, looking left, right, up and down, and then she smiled. It was three hundred and sixty degrees of loveliness and she was smack bang in the middle of it. The mountains soared majestically up into the sky and there was a bright waterfall in the distance that cascaded down to the valley below.

The taxi driver switched the engine off and joined her.

‘Not going to be sick, are you?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Connie said. ‘Although I think I might have been if I hadn’t left LA in time.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘American, are you? You sound English to me.’

‘It’s complicated,’ she said, pulling her cap a little lower over her face. She shouldn’t have said anything about LA; it was too much information. If he knew who she was, he’d most likely drag her off into the hills and demand a ransom for her.

‘It’s all so – so – big!’

‘Aye.’

‘Isn’t it amazing?’ she said, thinking how different it was from the manicured lawns and borders of hothouse flowers in Bel Air.

‘Well, it is that,’ he said.

Connie took a last look around before returning to the taxi. The light was almost violet now and the colours of the landscape were beginning to drain into the night and, for the first time in years, Connie felt a real sense of peace.

It was dark by the time they reached Lochnabrae and Connie peered out of the window. ‘Is this it?’

‘Aye,’ the taxi driver said. ‘That’s the B&B,’ he said, nodding towards a white house with a board swinging outside. Loch View. Connie gazed across the road. She couldn’t see any loch. ‘That is where you’re staying, isn’t it?’

Connie nodded. She’d managed to ring ahead before leaving LA and had booked a room for a week to begin with. ‘What do I owe you?’

The taxi driver told her the total and Connie dug through her designer wallet until she found enough to pay him. She wasn’t sure how much it came to in dollars – Connie hadn’t had time even to try and understand the conversion rate as she’d grabbed her cash from the LAX bureau de change and run to catch her flight. But, if it meant not having to worry about driving on the wrong side of the road and navigating her way along dark single-track lanes after a long-haul flight, it was definitely a bargain.

‘I’ll get your bags,’ he said, taking the wad of cash and stuffing it into his jeans pocket.

Connie got out of the car and breathed in deeply. It was good to have finally arrived. She promised herself no more planes or taxis for at least a week. She’d walk – walk everywhere, that’s what she’d do. Nobody ever walked in LA – it was too big – but she’d walk here: by lochs, by streams, through valleys and up hills.

The front door of Loch View suddenly opened, breaking into Connie’s thoughts.

‘Ms Gordon, is it?’ the elderly lady greeted her. ‘I’m Isla Stuart.’ She had a sweet face completely caked in white face powder and her cheeks were two perfect circles of scarlet. ‘I’ve been waiting up for you.’

‘Oh, I’m not too late, am I?’

‘Och, no! But I do tend to nod off in the evenings if there isn’t someone to take care of. Now, I expect you’ll be ready for a cup of hot chocolate and a wee slice of Dundee cake?’

‘Thank you,’ Connie smiled, wondering what Danny would say to that and wondering what on earth Dundee cake was anyway.

‘And your driver too?’

‘Not for me, thanks all the same,’ he said, struggling with the cases. ‘I’ve to get back and it’s a fair drive.’

A few minutes later, Connie’s cases were all lined up neatly in her room on the first floor at the front of the B&B.

Once back downstairs in the hallway, Connie gave her driver a big tip to thank him for all his patience.

‘You know,’ he said as she walked to the front door with him, ‘there’s something familiar about you.’

‘Really?’ Connie said, still wearing her baseball cap and exaggerating her English accent once again.

‘You’re not on the telly, are you?’ he asked.

Connie laughed nervously. ‘You know, I’m always being asked that. I guess I’ve just got one of those faces,’ she said.

He continued to stare thoughtfully at her a moment longer. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘best get back to the city. You have a nice time, lass.’

Connie watched as he left and then closed the door.

‘Now then,’ Isla said, ‘how about that hot chocolate and cake?’

She led Connie through to a room at the back of the guest house. ‘I don’t often get to invite people here,’ she said. Connie smiled as she saw that a fire had been lit and a small table set with cups and plates. ‘I do like a real fire,’ Isla said. ‘It cheers the place up, doesn’t it?’

‘Smells wonderful,’ Connie said, sitting down in an old armchair next to it. ‘Really homely, isn’t it? I’ve never had a real fire. Wouldn’t dare in my house.’

‘Why not?’

‘White carpets!’

‘Ah, well, that’s why we all have these patterned ones,’ Isla said. ‘It’s messy, a real fire, with ash and the like, but I can’t imagine living without one. It’s like a friend that keeps you company each evening.’

Connie watched as Isla bustled around cutting cake. She left the room briefly and came back with two cups of hot chocolate.

‘The best hand warmer in the world,’ Isla said, handing Connie a cup.

‘Thank you,’ Connie said, taking a sip.

‘Why don’t you take that cap off, eh?’ Isla said. ‘You’ll warm through in no time in here.’

Connie was instantly on her guard. She was exhausted and the last thing she wanted was to go through the whole, ‘Yes, I’m really Connie Gordon’ conversation. That would have to wait till the morning when she felt like herself again.

‘Go on, now.’

‘Oh, my hair’s a real mess,’ Connie said. ‘I’d better keep it on.’

Isla shrugged her shoulders. ‘Suit yourself.’

Connie ate her cake and took another sip of her chocolate, hoping she hadn’t offended her landlady. They both watched the fire for a few minutes and Connie soon found that her vision was blurring as the orange flames danced wildly. Her body began to slump and it was soon a real effort to keep her eyes open.

‘Why, you’re practically nodding off there,’ Isla said. ‘And you’re so pale too.’ She leant forward in her chair. ‘Och, and you’ve not been taking care of your skin. It’s as dry as an autumn leaf.’

Connie flinched, a hand flying up to her face. ‘Is it? But I’ve been using face cream every night.’

‘Some cheap, nasty stuff, no doubt. You should try Benet’s Balm. The monks make it. I swear by it, you know. I’ll let you have some of mine.’

‘Right,’ Connie said.

‘Now, get yourself to bed. A good night’s rest will do you the power of good. Come down for breakfast when you’re good and ready. We don’t have a strict timetable here and you’re my only guest so there’s no rush.’

‘Thank you,’ Connie said, feeling mightily relieved that there was no pressure on her.

As she made her way to her room, she thought about all the people she should call. She should tell her PA, Samantha, that she’d arrived safely, and it would be courteous of her to ring her agent too but, when she saw the bed and the deep soft pillows, she thought better of being courteous. It could wait. Everything could wait.

Chapter Six

It wasn’t until the next morning that Isla Stuart realised she had a movie star in her guest house. Connie had woken up just before eight o’clock and couldn’t get back to sleep again. But neither did she want to. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a free morning – a free day. If she wasn’t up for an early morning make-up call on set, she was usually rudely awoken by Danny who would force sit-ups, squats and all manner of muscle-crunching tortures upon her.

‘Not today,’ she said, flinging back her duvet and padding across the carpet to the window. She drew the floral curtains back and gasped – really gasped – at the view that greeted her. So that was the loch of Loch View. She looked out in awe at the huge stretch of silver water and, on the distant shore, the mountains rose up into the sky, perfectly mirrored by the waters beneath them. It was the kind of morning that inspired great thoughts and Connie couldn’t wait to rush out and be a part of it.

She flung herself under the hot shower in the tiny en suite, washed the travel-weary hours out of her hair, put on a dash of make-up and rooted around in one of her suitcases for jeans and a shirt. Was it cold outside? The sun was shining but Connie had a feeling that that was nothing to go by in Scotland. What was it her mother used to tell her? ‘If the midges aren’t biting you, Jack Frost is.’

Finally, she was ready to venture downstairs in search of breakfast.

‘Morning, Isla,’ Connie said cheerily.

‘Oh, my dear, you’re up already,’ Isla said, turning around from the breakfast table in the front room. ‘CONNIE GORDON!’ Isla exclaimed, dropping the slice of toast she’d been buttering as realisation dawned on her.

Connie froze.

‘Oh, my lordy! It’s Connie Gordon, isn’t it?’

Connie nodded, her face flushing with embarrassment.

‘I didn’t think. I mean, when you said you were Miss Gordon on the phone and last night – I didn’t twig! Oh, how silly of me! How rude you must’ve thought me.’

‘No, Isla! Not at all. You gave me such a warm welcome. I couldn’t have asked for a warmer one.’

‘But that’s not the same thing at all. I didn’t know who you were.’

Connie stepped forward and placed a hand on Isla’s arm.

‘Oh!’ Isla exclaimed.

‘You mustn’t treat me any differently from your other guests.’

‘What nonsense!’ Isla said.

‘I mean it,’ Connie said, taking a seat at the table. ‘It’s one of the reasons I came here.’

Isla looked confused. ‘How do you mean?’

‘To escape all that. All that sycophancy!’

‘I’m not sure I know what that means.’

Connie smiled. ‘It means endless flattery. I read it in a script once.’

Isla’s powdered forehead creased. ‘You wanted to escape endless flattery so you came to the headquarters of your fan club? I think you might’ve made a mistake there.’

‘You do?’ she said and then sighed. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘Oh, aye! Everyone loves you here. Well, apart from Angry Angus – so he says – but I have my suspicions. I was walking by his house just last week and happened to see him watching Just Jennifer. He had three cans of lager on his coffee table. He was in it for the long haul,’ Isla said with a smile and a nod.

Connie grinned. ‘I’m sure everyone will be fine,’ she said. ‘Once they realise I’m just a normal person.’

‘But you’re not a normal person. You’re a star – a famous movie star.’

Connie looked across the table at Isla. ‘But I don’t know if that’s really me, all the parties and red carpets. I don’t really know who I am and I’ve come here – away from it all – so I can find out.’

‘Oh, my poor gal! Well, I’m not sure if I can help you finding out who you are but there’s one thing I can do – and that’s make you a big slap-up breakfast fit for a movie star!’

‘Isla!’ Connie protested but it was too late. She’d disappeared into the kitchen at the back of the guest house.

Connie bit her lip. Maybe she had made a big mistake coming here. It had been easy enough to get on a plane and leave Hollywood but it was going to be a lot harder to leave the movie star image behind her.

Maggie was teetering on top of a stool, stacking boxes of porridge on a high shelf when the shop phone rang. She clambered down to answer it.

‘Maggie?’ a voice squealed at the other end.

‘Isla?’

‘She’s here,’ Isla whispered.

‘Who’s here?’

‘She! Her!’ Isla said, her voice high and excitable.

‘Isla, what are you talking about?’

‘Connie. Connie Gordon.’

‘What? On the telly? Am I missing something?’

‘No. Not on the telly. Here. In Lochnabrae. She’s in room number two right now.’

‘No!’ Maggie cried.

‘Yes. I say, yes!’

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I am calling you!’ Isla said, perplexed.

‘I mean, when she arrived?’

‘Well, I didn’t recognise her last night.’

‘What do you mean, you didn’t recognise her? She’s Connie Gordon – one of the world’s most famous actresses.’

‘But she was just a lass wanting a room for the night. And her hair was all scrunched up under a cap. Oh!’ Isla suddenly yelled.

‘What is it?’

‘I told her that her skin was dry. I gave her my pot of Benet’s Balm. She must think I’m so rude.’

‘And she’s with you now?’

‘Aye.’

‘And you’re sure it’s her? You’re sure it’s our Connie and not some lookalike pretending to be her?’

‘No! It’s her!’

‘Oh my God!’ Maggie exclaimed as the realisation dawned on her. ‘It was my letter, wasn’t it? She read my letter!’

‘Maggie – you’ve got to come over here.’

‘Yes,’ Maggie gasped. ‘I’ll come over. MY HAIR!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to wash my hair. Oh, why couldn’t you have rung me last night? My hair always goes frizzy when I wash it in the morning.’

‘But I didn’t know last night,’ Isla said.

‘Look, I’ll come over as soon as I can.’

‘Don’t be long,’ Isla said. ‘I don’t know what to say to her. Not after the Benet’s Balm incident. She must think I’m mad.’

Maggie hung up the phone and stood perfectly still for a moment and then she did something she hadn’t done since Jimmy Carstairs had dropped a house spider down the back of her blouse at primary school. She screamed.

There was a road that snaked its way out of Lochnabrae, winding up into the hills and affording anyone who walked that way the very best of views. The whole of the loch was visible from there and the cluster of houses along the main street looked like pearls on a string when viewed from above. In the autumn, the colours were spectacular, the rich reds and golds blazed like jewels, and the air was the purest in the Highlands. That’s why Alastair McInnes had chosen it as his home. He’d spent so much of his life in noisy, dirty rented flats in London but, as soon as he was able, he’d left the city behind him and returned to his roots in the Highlands. It was what writers did, wasn’t it? You found a quiet corner of the world to call your own and the words would flow out of you. Only they weren’t flowing at the moment.

It was only half past nine but Alastair’s eyes were already sore. Perhaps it had something to do with him glaring at his computer screen for half the night and not going to bed much before dawn. He looked at his computer in frustration. He just couldn’t get the heroine right. She wasn’t jumping off the page yet. She wasn’t real.

‘Come on, Bounce!’ he said, and the black Labrador puppy that was snoozing by his feet under his desk leapt up immediately. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

A good hike in the hills was the remedy for many things: a hangover, a decision to be made or a broken relationship but, today, he was hoping it would be a cure for his constipated writing.

Throwing on a tatty wax jacket and shoving on a pair of ancient boots, he opened the front door of the old crofter’s cottage. It was still a bit of a novelty to do such a thing. To open his front door and be able to see the hills and the sky – that was such a treat. For a moment, he remembered his last flat in London and the dark communal hallway that always smelt of rubbish and the litter-strewn street outside where it was impossible to park. No, this was the life for him, he thought. There was no going back and relief filled him at that realisation. Life in London had been difficult for him both professionally and personally and he didn’t want to repeat those experiences ever again.

Shaking thoughts of his past away, he watched as Bounce leapt over the little stream that ran alongside the cottage. Alastair did the same thing only he didn’t double back to drink from it like his dog. The grass was tussocky here and spongy after the rain in the night and made satisfying squelches as he walked.

‘This way, Bounce,’ Alastair called as he took the path down the hill. Bounce removed his head from a clump of bright bracken and then tore down the path, overtaking his master. Alastair laughed as he watched the sleek black streak of dog. That was another thing he’d always wanted but his previous landlords had always insisted on ‘no pets’. He’d had Bounce just a few weeks now but already he couldn’t imagine his life without him. It was good having a dog when you were a writer. They were silent companions. They didn’t interrupt you with speech when your head was already full of words but they were there if you needed to reach out and touch something warm and, of course, Bounce got him away from the dreaded computer at least twice a day. Although Alastair was a great walker anyway and sometimes threw a bit of climbing in for good measure, he had no doubt that his physique wouldn’t be quite as toned if it wasn’t for Bounce. Whole days could fly by when his writing was going well and the world outside his walls was often forgotten.

Yes, he thought, it was good to get out, breathe in some fresh spring air and try to forget about plots, characters and speeches that sounded neither natural nor interesting.

The track led through a wood and then sloped steeply down towards the loch. The rain the night before had made the path slippery but the smell was wonderful. Alastair inhaled deeply, wondering why nobody had invented an aftershave half as good as that. Not that he needed it. He only managed a shave every couple of weeks, preferring a stubbly, low-maintenance complexion. He ran his hands through his dark hair. That could do with some attention too but it was such a hassle driving all the way to Strathcorrie and it wasn’t as if there was a woman in his life to impress. His mother would go spare if she could see him but, luckily, she was in Edinburgh and he could sort himself out before his next visit. She liked the Alastair of a few years ago who’d had a nice wee office job in London with regular hours. The sort of job that required a suit, a tie, a briefcase and a nice neat haircut.

‘And unrelenting boredom,’ Alastair said, causing Bounce to look back at him.

No, his mother had not been impressed when he’d told her he was going to be a full-time writer, even though he’d had numerous plays published and even sold one to a film company.

‘But the money, Alastair! What are you going to live on?’

‘Fresh air and whisky,’ Alastair had joked.

His mother had gasped in horror.

‘I’ve bought a little crofter’s cottage in the Highlands. It’s as cheap as chips. Won’t cost much to run. It’s perfect.’

But it was no good. For his mother, there was no world outside of Edinburgh. The Highlands? That was a place for tourists. People didn’t really live there, did they?

‘Well, I do,’ Alastair said out loud as he walked. ‘I DO!’ he shouted, his voice echoing beautifully as he neared the loch. He loved that about this place. It made him want to run and shout and be foolish. In short, it made him feel young again. Not that he was exactly over the hill but it was a long time since he’d shouted just for the fun of it.

Connie was walking around the loch when she heard a man shouting.

‘I DO!’

She looked around, expecting to see someone, but there was nobody there. How strange, she thought. Was there some sort of wedding ceremony taking place? It would certainly be a stunning location for it but, as far as she could see, she was the only person there. There wasn’t a single soul around – not in the mountains, by the loch nor even across the other side of the water in Lochnabrae. The whole world felt as if it were sleeping.

Connie took a deep breath, luxuriating in air that didn’t smell of traffic. There was such a stillness here. LA was always in such a rush: people rushing to get to work, to lunch, to the gym, to the dentist’s. There hadn’t been any sign of rushing so far in Lochnabrae, Connie thought. It had been like stepping back in time, which was utterly delightful. Although she was slightly perturbed by the obvious lack of shops. There wasn’t a single coffee bar or deli counter. Probably a small price to pay, she thought to herself, for such blissful calm and not a single long lens in sight. She was sure she could get used to it here.

Trying to put aside all thoughts of what she was going to do when she started to crave a skinny latte, Connie found a group of boulders by the sandy shore of the loch and chose one to sit on. She hoped it was clean because she had put aside her jeans and was wearing very expensive pale blue Chanel trousers and a matching jacket in celebration of the sunshine. Perhaps not the best choice for a walk in the Highlands, she admitted. She’d just have to take care.

She was just looking out across the sheeny water when her mobile beeped. Service! She took it out of her pocket. There hadn’t been any service in the village but there seemed to be a signal at this side of the loch and it appeared that Connie had a heap of messages waiting for her. She sighed. She really should have left her mobile at home or at least in the B&B. For a moment, she deliberated throwing it in the loch but her curiosity got the better of her and she took it out of her jacket pocket. The first message was from her agent.

‘Connie! Where the hell are you? Samantha told me some crap about you taking a vacation? Are you out of your mind? You can’t do this to me. Don’t you realise you have commitments here? I need you to come back—’

Connie deleted the message before getting to the end of it. The next one was from Samantha.

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Connie, but Bob’s been on the phone constantly. I told him you were away but he won’t believe me. You’ve got to call him.’

Connie deleted it, and several more irate messages from Bob and anxious messages from Samantha.

The final message was from Forrest Greaves.

‘Babe! Where are you? I can’t stop thinking about you. You looked so hot in that dress at the awards. Give me a call. You know you want to.’

‘Oooo! What a slime ball!’ Connie said, switching her mobile off and stuffing it into her pocket. She still couldn’t believe that she’d fallen for his smarmy charm.

Why couldn’t everyone leave her alone? Couldn’t she just have some time and space to call her own? She got up from the boulder and dusted down the bottom of her pristine trousers. She deserved a break, didn’t she? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken one. She stormed across the beach towards a nearby wood, feeling her stress level soaring. Why did there have to go and be a mobile signal?

Get rid of it, a little voice inside her said. Go on!

‘Right,’ she said, doing an about-turn and heading back to the loch, reaching in her pocket for the intrusive instrument. Taking a deep breath, she stretched her arm back and then flung it as far as she could into the silvery depths of the loch.

It was then that she heard a strange sound. Turning around, she saw a black dog hurtling towards her, its legs and belly covered in thick brown mud.

‘WOOF! WOOF!’ it barked, its great paws eating up the ground as it hurtled full on into the water.

‘What the?’ Connie stared, watching it as it swam out into the loch.

‘BOUNCE!’ a voice called and Connie turned, seeing a dark-haired man emerging from the woods and striding across the sandy shore towards her. ‘Come here, Bounce!’

Connie watched, spellbound as the dog swam on towards the centre of the loch and, only after the man had called his name again, turned and headed back to the shore.

‘Here, Bounce!’ the man yelled but the dog didn’t seem to be listening to him and, as soon as it emerged from the water, it took a few leaps towards Connie and only then did it shake the loch water from its coat.

Connie screamed as the icy, muddy water cascaded over her, splattering her pale outfit.

‘Oh no!’ she cried. ‘No!’ But the dog didn’t seem to understand. In fact, her response only seemed to excite it more and it began leaping towards her, its puppy paws bouncing off the legs of her trousers until they were more black than blue.

Connie flailed her arms about as she tried to shoo the dog away. She’d only ever worked with well-trained animals on film sets and had no idea how to control such a furry ball of frantic energy.

‘BOUNCE!’ the man yelled, running towards the dog and pulling him away, making the dog sit at a safe distance. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

Connie looked up, her eyes full of embarrassed fury. Her cheeks were blazing with shock and humiliation. ‘What … Who … Look at the state of my clothes! I’m a mess! That dog is … is out of control!’

The man’s dark eyebrows drew together. ‘I said I was sorry. I couldn’t stop him in time. He’s just a puppy.’

‘He should be on a lead if you can’t take charge of him,’ Connie snapped.

‘You can’t keep a young dog on a lead.’

‘Well, you should’ve stopped him!’

‘He saw you throw something into the loch. He’s a Labrador. They like to retrieve things. He didn’t mean any harm. He was just doing what comes naturally to him.’

‘I’ve heard that line from men before,’ Connie said, ‘and it’s no excuse for bad behaviour! Just look at my trousers. They’re ruined.’

‘I’ll pay for them to be dry-cleaned,’ the man said.

‘They’re not just dirty. The material’s snagged. They’ve been tugged and clawed—’

‘Look!’ the man said, sounding impatient now, ‘I said I was sorry but if you’re going to wear unsuitable clothes when you go hiking, you’re asking for trouble.’

‘Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?’

‘I’m just saying, you should be wearing something a little more practical.’

‘And when did I ask for your advice?’ Connie asked, glaring at him and noticing a pair of blindingly blue eyes. She’d never been so embarrassed in her life and hated the thought of this stranger seeing her in such a state. ‘I’ve got to get back,’ she said. ‘Don’t let the dog come near me again!’

Connie pushed past the man and made her way – as dignified as was possible in the circumstances – towards the village in search of a pair of trousers with slightly fewer paw prints on them.

Chapter Seven

Alastair watched in amazement as the red-headed woman stomped off in the direction of Lochnabrae, her trouser legs splattered and stained.

‘What were you thinking of, Bounce?’ he asked, bending down and tickling him behind his sopping head. Bounce looked up at his master with big brown uncomprehending eyes. ‘That is no way to introduce me to a lady! No way at all.’ Bounce rolled onto his back presenting Alastair with a muddy wet belly. ‘I’m not tickling that, mate,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ As soon as Alastair stood back up to full height, Bounce sprang up too, running back into the shallows of the loch and splashing himself all over.

Alastair turned and watched the receding figure of the woman. There’d been something oddly familiar about her but he couldn’t think what. He was quite sure he’d never met her before; he would’ve remembered somebody that rude. But there was a quality about her that he felt sure he recognised. And then it clicked.

‘Connie Gordon!’ he said, causing Bounce to turn and leg it towards him. ‘That’s it! She looks just like Connie Gordon.’

Maggie buzzed around the house like a bluebottle. Connie Gordon. Here in Lochnabrae! Was it because of her letters? Why hadn’t she written to tell her she was coming?

She flung herself into the shower and washed as quickly as she could and then she started to attack her hair. It was far from ideal having to apply a hairdryer to her fleece-like hair but she couldn’t meet Connie Gordon with unwashed hair, could she? And what was she going to wear? She thought of the sorry pairs of jeans in her wardrobe and the tired jumpers full of holes. There was the dress she’d worn to her cousin’s wedding but wouldn’t it be a bit odd to show up wearing that on a mid-week morning in Lochnabrae?

‘It’ll just have to be the cleanest and least holey things I can find,’ she said to herself, hanging her head upside down in an attempt to dry it before Christmas.

It was half an hour later by the time she got to Isla’s.

‘Where is she?’ Maggie said, breathless with excitement.

‘She’s gone,’ Isla said.

‘Gone! What do you mean, gone?’ Maggie looked around in panic.

‘She went out – a walk around the village,’ she said.

Maggie’s eyes widened in horror. ‘And you let her go? You had Connie Gordon here and you let her go?’

‘Well, what was I meant to do?’

‘Keep her here!’ Maggie cried. ‘At least until I got here. Oh, my! She could be anywhere. She might’ve escaped!’

‘Och! You’re getting carried away. She just wanted a breath of fresh air. She wouldn’t just leave. All her stuff’s upstairs.’

‘Stuff ?’

‘Suitcases. Three large ones. Goodness only knows what’s in them.’

Maggie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Can I see?’

‘Well, it’s not usual for me to show people my guest’s rooms,’ Isla said.

‘But it’s not usual for you to have a Hollywood movie star staying here, is it?’

Isla and Maggie’s eyes locked in mutual understanding. ‘Oh, all right then. just keep this between us, for goodness’ sake,’ she said, and the two of them hurried up the stairs together. ‘Did I tell you she touched me?’ Isla said. ‘She actually touched me! I’ll never wash this jumper again.’

‘Come on,’ Maggie said, anxious to get a look at the room before Connie returned.

Just as a formality, Isla knocked on the door. ‘She’s defi-nitely out,’ she said, unlocking the door with her landlady’s key.

‘Let us in then!’ Maggie said excitedly and, once Isla unlocked the door, the two of them entered the room.

Maggie gazed in wonder at the sight that greeted her. The bed had been left unmade and the dressing table was cluttered with all sorts of things: two great bulging make-up bags spilled lipsticks, mascaras and tubes of pale foundation. There were hairbrushes and perfume bottles too. Maggie dared to pick one up. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The bottle was an elegant teardrop shape in ridged glass that felt fabulous under her fingertips. Gently, she removed the golden stopper and sniffed.

‘It’s like heaven!’ she said, spraying herself in a cloud of Wishes. ‘So this is what a movie star smells like,’ she said to herself, inhaling deeply.

‘Maggie! Put that down! You shouldn’t touch those things.’

But Maggie couldn’t help herself. This was as close as she’d ever been to her idol and she was enjoying every single minute of it.

‘Look at this mirror,’ she said, picking up a silver hand mirror that gleamed in the bright light of the bedroom. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ Maggie turned it over and saw a beautiful ‘C’ had been engraved on the back. ‘Oh!’

‘Maggie!’ Isla suddenly yelled. ‘Look at this!’

Isla had given into temptation and dared to peep inside one of the suitcases. Maggie gasped as she too saw the contents.

‘They’re evening dresses!’ Maggie said.

‘Where does she think she’s going to wear all these around here?’ Isla said, cooing as she touched the silky soft fabric of an ivory-white dress.

‘Would you look at that?’ Maggie said, pulling out a sapphire-blue gown trimmed with sparkling silver beads.

‘Don’t take it out,’ Isla all but screamed.

But Maggie couldn’t possibly leave it in the suitcase. It would be like showing a child a jar of sweets and telling it not to eat them.

The dark blue gown unravelled to the floor as Maggie held it up against her. ‘I LOVE it!’

Isla giggled and pulled out a velvet gown in a sumptuous amethyst. ‘Lordy lord!’ she said.

‘Oh, Isla!’ Maggie said, placing the sapphire-blue gown on the bed and reaching out for the velvet. ‘I remember her wearing this one. It was at a premiere for Keep Me Close. She looked so beautiful – like one of those Pre-Raphaelite women with her hair all loose and curly.’

Soon, the bed was strewn with gowns. Golds, silvers, greens and blues, satins, laces and velvets. Maggie was almost jumping up and down with excitement and both women lost themselves in the moment, surrounded by the kinds of couture they’d only ever glimpsed in magazines.

‘Do you think I could try one on?’ Maggie asked, fingering a lacy gown in emerald-green.

‘Well, I don’t think you should,’ Isla said, trying to be stern.

Maggie’s face fell. To be so close to so many beautiful dresses and not to be allowed to try them on …

‘Oh, go on then!’ Isla suddenly said. ‘Just one!’

Maggie squealed and began disrobing quickly.

She’d just got down to her thermal undies when the front door slammed.

‘She’s back!’ Isla gasped.

Maggie’s eyes doubled in size. ‘Quick!’ she said. ‘Put the dresses away!’

Isla began stuffing the gowns back in the suitcase as Maggie hurriedly put her clothes back on, falling onto the bed as she dragged her jeans up her legs and causing a zip-rip of static as she pulled on her jumper.

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ Isla whispered and the two of them legged it onto the landing.

‘Where is she?’ Maggie said, relieved that they hadn’t been caught.

‘She must still be downstairs,’ Isla said, locking Connie’s bedroom door as quietly as she could.

The two of them crept down the stairs and, there by the door, stood Connie Gordon, examining her trousers with a defeated look on her face.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, looking up.

Isla nodded. Maggie just stared.

‘Are you all right?’ Isla asked. ‘Did you have a nice walk?’

‘Yes,’ Connie said. ‘Well, apart from the complete madman I met by the loch.’

Maggie and Isla looked at each other.

‘Angus?’ Isla said.

‘I didn’t ask his name,’ Connie said. ‘And he didn’t volunteer it. But he had a dog with him. A black one.’

Maggie’s eyes widened. ‘Bounce?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The dog’s name,’ Maggie said. ‘That’d be Alastair’s. Alastair’s your madman. Well, he’s a writer actually but that’s the same thing as a madman, isn’t it?’

‘You look like a Dalmatian,’ Isla said, gazing at Connie’s trousers.

‘I’ve got to get out of them. They’re sticking to my legs,’ Connie said.

Isla and Maggie were still standing at the foot of the stairs.

‘Can I get by?’ Connie asked.

‘Oh!’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘Sorry.’ She moved out of the way.

‘I’ll be down again in a minute then we can meet properly,’ Connie said with a smile, disappearing up the stairs.

‘Oh my God!’ Maggie whispered. ‘It’s really her, isn’t it?’ she said to Isla.

‘Well, I told you it was,’ Isla said. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? I mean, apart from those trousers.’

‘Do you think she’ll get them clean or just throw them away? Some stars do that, don’t they? If they get a speck of dirt on something or a little snag, they put it in the bin. Can I have them if she does?’ Maggie asked. ‘I wouldn’t mind if the mud never came out.’

‘Completely ruined!’ Connie’s voice suddenly called down the stairs. ‘I’ll have to chuck them.’

Maggie’s eyes widened with joy as she immediately started planning what she could wear with them. However, looking at the svelte figure coming down the stairs, it dawned on her that she might actually be a couple of sizes out of the trousers’ league. She gazed at the fabulously skinny pair of jeans Connie was now wearing and immediately promised herself that cream cakes were a thing of the past.

‘At least I’m dry now,’ Connie said, joining Maggie and Isla in the hallway. ‘And now we can say hello properly.’

‘I’m Maggie,’ Maggie said, not wanting to wait a moment longer than she had to. ‘Maggie Hamill.’ She stepped forward, her right foot catching on the hallway rug, causing her to plummet towards Connie.

‘Careful!’ Connie gasped, getting a mouthful of dark hair.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Maggie said. ‘I’m Maggie.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. You write the letters, don’t you?’

Maggie nodded. ‘Astonishing!’ she said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You being here.’

‘But you did invite me.’

‘Yes! I just never thought you’d come,’ Maggie said. ‘I mean, I hoped you would.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring to tell you first. It was a kind of spur of the moment thing but that’s all right, isn’t it?’ Connie asked.

Maggie nodded, a huge smile plastered on her face.

Connie sniffed. ‘You’re wearing Wishes!’ she said.

Maggie gulped. ‘Yes.’

‘I wear that too!’

‘You do?’

‘It’s my favourite scent. I take it wherever I go.’

Maggie bit her lip, and quickly changed the subject. ‘I wish you’d told us you were coming. I feel awful not meeting you last night.’

‘Hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t need a welcoming committee,’ Connie said.

‘It’s funny you should use that word,’ Isla said.

‘What word?’ Connie asked.

‘Committee. We have a Connie Committee, don’t we, Maggie?’

‘Oh! Yes, we do. It’s really just the fan club organisers. You’ll have to meet them. They’d all love to meet you. They won’t believe you’re here.’

‘There’s no rush for that, is there?’ Connie said. ‘I was kinda hoping to find my feet first – get to know the area a bit and relax.’

‘Oh, right,’ Maggie said, feeling a little deflated. ‘But you’ll come and see the Connie HQ, won’t you?’

‘What’s that?’ Connie asked with a frown.

‘It’s where we take care of the website and answer letters and things.’

‘It’s Maggie’s bedroom,’ Isla said.

‘It’s not my bedroom. I moved the HQ into the spare room at the front of the house,’ Maggie said.

‘Well,’ Connie said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in seeing the HQ, is there?’

‘Great!’ Maggie said, clapping her hands together and only just stopping herself from jumping up and down on the spot in excitement. ‘Will we go now?’

‘Right now?’

Maggie nodded and grinned.

‘I guess I didn’t have any other pressing engagements,’ Connie said.

‘Brilliant! Oh, this is so much fun. You’re going to love it, I know you will.’

‘Will you be having lunch here, Ms Gordon?’ Isla asked.

‘It’s Connie. Please call me Connie.’

Isla smiled and nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘I hadn’t really thought about lunch. Or eating. I don’t suppose there’s a restaurant here?’

‘In Lochnabrae?’ Maggie laughed. ‘You must be joking. There’s The Capercaillie.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The local pub but they only do baskets of chips and pies.’

‘Right,’ Connie said, wrinkling her nose.

‘I don’t suppose you eat that kind of thing,’ Maggie said.

‘I – well – I could give it a go, couldn’t I? I mean, I’m on holiday, right?’

‘Right!’ Maggie said. ‘We could get the fan club together in the pub. That would be fun, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t be official or anything – just a gathering of friends, really.’

‘Och, Maggie – will you let the gal settle in before you go parading her before the whole of Lochnabrae?’

‘Oh,’ Maggie said, looking somewhat crestfallen.

‘I will meet them,’ Connie said. ‘I promise.’

‘Okay,’ Maggie said. ‘I mean, we don’t really need to rush. I can keep you all to myself for a while, can’t I?’

Connie swallowed.

‘Oh, dear,’ Maggie said, ‘that sounded a little bit like that film, Misery, didn’t it – where the fan kidnaps that writer and ties him up and everything?’

‘Well, just a little bit,’ Connie admitted.

‘But I’m nothing like that. Honestly. I promise I won’t lock you up or prevent you from leaving or anything. You’re free to come and go as you please,’ Maggie laughed. ‘As long as you tell me first.’

Connie looked at Maggie.

‘I’m joking!’

‘Right!’ Connie said, giving a nervous laugh.

‘Now, come and see the HQ,’ Maggie said, opening the door and leading Connie outside.

When they were both in the street, Maggie couldn’t help noticing that Connie was peering at her neckline.

‘What’s wrong?’ Maggie asked.

Connie frowned. ‘I think your jumper’s on back to front.’

Chapter Eight

Maggie Hamill had never felt more important in her life than right there and right then – walking down the main street of Lochnabrae with Connie Gordon by her side. She could hardly believe it and kept taking little sideway glances at her companion just to make sure she wasn’t imagining the whole thing.

They walked by a row of white cottages between the bed and breakfast and Maggie’s shop and she couldn’t help hoping that they wouldn’t bump into anyone. Please don’t make Mrs Wallace be twitching her curtains now, Maggie begged. Or old Mr Finlay. Not that he’d recognise Connie but that wouldn’t stop him waylaying them. If there was one thing old Mr Finlay appreciated, it was a pretty young girl. Maggie shook her head as she thought of the time he’d managed to trap her as she was turning around from the chilled cabinet.

‘My my,’ he’d said, ‘but you’re a bonny lass, Maggie Hamill.’

Maggie had tried to move away from him but that would have meant sitting on the pork pies.

No, she thought, she couldn’t subject Connie to old Mr Finlay.

Unfortunately, just as Maggie thought they were safe, she heard his front door open.

‘Hello there, Maggie!’ he called, shaking his walking stick in the air and making his way hastily down the path. He really could move at an alarming speed when he wanted to.

‘Hello, Mr Finlay,’ Maggie said, with a resolute smile on her face. ‘Don’t let him near you,’ she whispered to Connie.

‘What?’

But it was too late to explain because Mr Finlay was upon them.

‘Why now,’ he said, his thin face creasing into a slavering sort of smile, ‘here’s a bonny lass I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting.’ And, before Maggie could even introduce them properly, he’d taken one of Connie’s hands and had suckered his mouth to it.

‘Oh!’ Connie exclaimed, doing her best to pull it away but not succeeding. His grip was iron-fast.

‘What a soft hand you have and what a lovely wee face. And what might you be doing here in Lochnabrae?’

‘Connie’s having a holiday,’ Maggie explained, ‘and we were just about to go out so if you’ll excuse us, Mr Finlay.’ Maggie grabbed Connie’s other arm but Mr Finlay still had hold of her and, for a few seconds, there was a bit of a tug of war until Maggie won with one colossal tug.

‘I’ll see you again!’ Mr Finlay said ominously.

‘Quick!’ Maggie said. ‘Before he follows us into the shop. We’ll never get rid of him if he makes it over the threshold.’

Connie allowed Maggie to drag her to safety.

‘I’m so sorry about that!’ Maggie said once they were safely behind the locked door of the shop. ‘He means well but he can be a wee bit – er – intense at times.’

‘Is he always so attentive?’ Connie asked, wiping her hand on her jeans.

‘Yes. As long as you’re female.’

Connie nodded. ‘I wish I could say I’ve never met anyone like that before but the whole of LA is like that.’

Maggie grinned. ‘Well, I promise you we’re not all cut from the same cloth as Mr Finlay.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Connie said. ‘I don’t think I could survive many of those encounters,’ she said, rubbing her arms. ‘So, this is one of the shops in Lochnabrae?’ she said, looking around “Maggie’s”.

‘Er, no,’ Maggie said. ‘This is the only shop in Lochnabrae.’

‘No! Really?’ Connie said.

‘Yes, really!’

‘How on earth do you survive without – without other shops?’

‘What do you mean?’

Connie looked around. ‘I mean, how can you live somewhere without restaurants and coffee bars and – well, everything else?’

‘Because this is Lochnabrae not Los Angeles,’ Maggie said. ‘We have to make do.’

‘You must do a roaring trade, then.’

‘We do when the weather’s bad and people can’t get to Strathcorrie. Other than that, it’s a bit of a struggle. Folks love a bargain and local shops just can’t compete with prices.’

‘So, Strathcorrie has all the shops and restaurants?’

‘I wouldn’t say restaurants although the pub there does a nice Sunday lunch.’

‘God! Where do you all eat? And what do you all do here?’

Maggie laughed. ‘We mostly eat at home or in the pub. It’s a quiet life, I’ll give you that, but most of us are happy with it.’

‘And you get by – with your shop, I mean?’

‘Things could be worse,’ Maggie said. ‘Of course, they could be better. The shop was run by my parents and by their parents before that and I’d hate to think of it closing. It’s so important to the community – especially for the old folks who can’t get out much. We’ve already lost the post office and the school closed down years ago too. The shop’s all we’ve got now.’

‘And the pub?’

‘Aye!’ Maggie said. ‘The pub will be here for ever. As long as there’s men to do the drinking, the pub’ll be safe. You’ll get to see it later. It’s a sight to behold,’ Maggie said with a laugh.

‘Is it near the HQ? You were going to show it to me.’

‘Yes, yes!’ Maggie said, suddenly wondering what sort of a state the HQ was in. It was fine when it was just herself but was it really fit for the arrival of its queen? ‘Can I get you a cup of tea first?’ she asked, thinking she could possibly nip into the room first whilst Connie watched the kettle.

‘No, thank you,’ Connie said.

‘I might just make one for myself.’

Maggie led Connie through to the kitchen at the back of the house – a funny pokey room that was in a far worse state than the fan club HQ.

‘You’ll have to avert your eyes,’ Maggie said as she realised that she hadn’t done the dishes that morning. Or the ones from the night before. There’d been that really great movie on until late and she’d put off tidying up until the next day. Then there’d been the call from Isla. ‘I’m usually very tidy,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to explain,’ Connie said. ‘I live on my own too and it’s easy to be a little sloppy.’

‘Sloppy? You?’

‘Well, I would be if I got a chance. The trouble is, if I drop something or leave something unwashed, somebody comes along and picks it up or washes it before I’ve even noticed.’

‘Wow! It must be amazing having your own staff. Do you have a lot?’

‘I have staff coming out of my ears,’ Connie said. ‘Drives me crazy. Sometimes, I’d just like the house to myself, you know? It’s a bit like living in public at times.’

‘Gosh,’ Maggie said, trying to imagine what that must be like.

‘That’s one of the reasons why I’ve come here,’ Connie said. ‘I want to try and be – well – normal for a while. Find out who I really am without all the trappings of success, you know?’

‘No,’ Maggie said. ‘I mean, I can’t imagine what it must be like being you. And I have tried – many times! I read about you in all the papers and magazines and the online reports. I’ve always thought it must be wonderful. I can’t imagine wanting to escape from that sort of life and come to a place like this.’

‘Can’t you?’

Maggie shook her head. ‘It’s so – ordinary here. Nothing exciting ever happens. Not unless you count my brother Hamish streaking down the main street once a year on Burns’ Night after he’s had one too many.’

Connie smiled. ‘But you have something else here.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Peace,’ Connie said.

‘Och, I don’t know about that. You should hear the men coming out of The Capercaillie in the evenings. It’s not very peaceful then.’

‘No, not that kind of peace,’ Connie said. ‘I mean that sense of place. Of permanence, harmony, nature – that sort of thing. I felt it as soon as I arrived.’

‘Aye, we’ve plenty of nature. You can’t move around here for nature.’

‘And the lake – I mean loch,’ Connie said. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

Maggie nodded. ‘Now, there’s a place that’s peaceful,’ she said. ‘You can hear whole conversations people are having on the other side. The sound travels right across the water.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, aye,’ Maggie said. ‘There’s no privacy here. My father used to tell a story about a young couple who were dating. It was rumoured that the man was going to propose to his sweetheart one night by the loch so the whole village turned out, watching from the other side and, after he popped the question, a huge cheer went up!’

Connie laughed and then looked out of Maggie’s kitchen window. ‘Just look at that view. There’s something stunning wherever you turn.’

Maggie followed Connie’s gaze towards the fells. ‘It’s not so bad.’

‘Not so bad? It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.’

‘You should see the view from the HQ,’ Maggie said, completely forgetting her cup of tea and the mess she was going to try and tidy away before inviting Connie in. ‘It’s the best view in Lochnabrae. Apart from Alastair’s, that is.’

‘Alastair?’

‘The man whose dog wrecked your trousers.’

‘Oh, him.’

‘He lives up the hill just outside the village. You can see the whole of the loch from there and the village too and all the mountains. It’s amazing – especially when you get those great white clouds reflected in the loch. You’ll have to go up there.’

‘Will I?’

‘Oh, yes! Only make sure you’re wearing something dark and dog-proof.’

Maggie led the way upstairs and turned into a bedroom to the right of the landing. ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘The Connie Gordon Fan Club HQ.’

Connie stood looking dumbfounded and Maggie watched her eyes roving over everything from the magazine clippings on the noticeboard to the movie posters on the walls. There was a shelf filled with Connie’s films on DVD and there were framed postcards of the films too. Everywhere she looked, her own face smiled right back at her.

‘It must seem a bit strange,’ Maggie said. ‘It’s not all mine, though. The whole fan club collects little bits and pieces. Hamish – that’s my brother – he buys the posters from an online site. He just adores your films. He’d love to meet you.’

‘You’ve got an Oscar!’ Connie said.

Maggie giggled. ‘Well, it’s plastic,’ she said, picking it up and showing it to Connie. ‘We bought it when you were nominated for best actress for Just Jennifer. Which you should have won, by the way. You were completely robbed that evening.’

‘Completely,’ Connie agreed jokingly and then gave a little smile and handed back the plastic Oscar.

‘What would you have said?’ Maggie asked.

‘What?’

‘If you’d won the Oscar. What would your speech have been like?’

Connie took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m not sure.’

‘You mean you didn’t plan one? I thought everyone planned them in case they won and then forgot everything in the excitement of winning.’

Connie shook her head. ‘Not me. I really didn’t think I’d win so I just went along for an evening out.’

‘Oh,’ Maggie said, unable to hide her disappointment. ‘But, if you had – what would you have said?’

Connie looked thoughtful. ‘I’d probably have burst into tears like Gwyneth Paltrow and Halle Berry.’

‘No,’ Maggie said. ‘I think you would’ve given a beautiful speech. Go on,’ she added, handing her the plastic Oscar again, ‘give your speech.’

‘Maggie – I—’

‘Go on!’ Maggie said, a pleading look on her face.

Connie didn’t look too happy to be clutching the fake Oscar again and, for a moment, Maggie thought she was going to leg it out of the HQ altogether and never be seen again. Had she pushed things? Was it all a bit daunting for her to be trapped with a nutty fan and asked to give a speech? Maggie was just about to apologise when Connie suddenly started talking.

‘I’m determined not to cry tonight because I don’t have my waterproof mascara on but I would like to thank all the people who’ve helped me on my way. First, my mother, who has pushed and pulled me from the age of four, plastering my face with make-up and dragging me to endless classes and auditions even when I wasn’t well. Remember when I’d cracked a rib from falling off a horse doing that remake of Black Beauty? You thought I was fooling and made me go tap dancing. Luckily, the teacher could see I was in pain and got me to the hospital in time. If it hadn’t been for you, mother, I might’ve had a slightly more normal upbringing and not be suffering from exhaustion after working tirelessly for so many years. I might also have made a few real friends too. Perhaps even gotten married and had kids. I wasn’t really a person to you, was I? I was a commodity. Connie the commodity! To be sold to the highest bidder.

‘But it’s not just my mother I want to thank. I’d like to thank my agents past and present. The ones who have ripped me off, thinking I’m too thick or too busy to notice, and those who’ve put me forward for inferior jobs because they’ll bring in the big bucks. I’d also like to thank the men in my life – all the slimeballs and the cheats I’ve had the misfortune of dating. I can safely say that they’ve behaved even worse than some of my stalkers. At least stalkers usually adhere to their injunctions. And, finally, I’d like to thank my fans. Some of the letters I receive are truly mind-blowing and I’d just like to settle some matters here and now if that’s all right. No, I won’t drop everything and marry you, Mr Complete Stranger, nor will I send you photographs of myself naked. So, please stop asking me and leave me alone.’

Connie stopped, her face red and her eyes looking slightly glazed. She blinked, as if suddenly remembering where she was.

‘Right,’ Maggie said, her eyes wide in surprise. ‘Well, that was some speech.’

Connie handed back the Oscar. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure where all that came from.’

‘The very pit of your being, I imagine,’ Maggie said. ‘Would you like that cup of tea now?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a skinny latte?’

Maggie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. But I make a really good cup of tea.’

Connie nodded and slumped into the chair by the computer.

‘Coming right up,’ Maggie said, leaving the room and returning downstairs to the kitchen. Once there, she stood staring into space. What had just happened there? A famous Hollywood movie star had just let rip about the whole business, dispelling all the myth and magic. It had been the very last thing Maggie had been expecting. But then, what had she expected? She’d never really thought Connie Gordon would turn up in Lochnabrae at all and yet here she was.

‘Poor Connie,’ Maggie whispered, smiling at the irony of the words. She’d never thought those two words would ever be placed next to one another because not only was Connie one of the highest paid movie stars in Hollywood but she was incredibly lucky too. She was beautiful, intelligent, gifted, and she was happy, wasn’t she? All those things made a person happy – that’s what everyone believed. Yet there she was up in Connie HQ with a face as dark as December.

‘But I can do something about it,’ Maggie suddenly said, putting the kettle on and making two cups of tea. ‘She came to me. She needs my help.’

Maggie stared into space, thinking about the enormity of her situation. The most beautiful actress in the world was upstairs and needed her help! It was a huge respon-sibility. Was she up to the challenge? She nodded. Yes, of course she was.

Stirring an extra large spoonful of sugar into her tea and leaving Connie’s black and sugarless so she could add whatever she wanted, she returned to Connie HQ upstairs.

‘Here we go,’ Maggie said, entering the room. ‘Two teas.’

Connie was sitting at Maggie’s desk, her back to the door.

‘You all right?’ Maggie asked but Connie didn’t answer. Maggie put the two mugs down on the adjacent coffee table and it was then that she saw what Connie was looking at. She’d found the folder.

‘Maggie, what are you doing with all these photographs?’

‘Oh, they’re for the fans.’

‘My fans?’

‘Yes,’ Maggie said, nodding. ‘Well, I don’t get quite as much fan mail as you do.’

Connie didn’t laugh. ‘My fans write to you here?’

‘Yes. The address is on the website – look.’ Maggie woke the computer up and found the relevant page. ‘The fan site’s going from strength to strength. We get so many visitors now and I do my best to keep them coming back with the journal updates.’

Connie began reading the contact page of the website, her face slowly turning to a menacing paleness.

‘You charge for the photographs?’

‘Yes,’ Maggie said. ‘Ten pounds. They’re beautiful – real value for money – ten by eight glossies. Here,’ she said, opening the folder.

‘I’ve seen them.’ Connie said, looking at the screen again. ‘It says here that they’re signed.’

Maggie nodded, biting her lip. She had a feeling she knew what was coming.

Connie turned to face Maggie. ‘Would you mind telling me what’s going on here?’

‘It’s the fan club,’ Maggie said. ‘We send out signed photographs of you to those who ask for them.’

‘But who signs them?’

There was a pause before Maggie answered. ‘Me,’ she said.

Connie’s mouth dropped open. ‘You? You sign the photos – in my name?’

‘Yes,’ Maggie said. ‘I’m very good. Look,’ she said, pulling a piece of paper out from a drawer and signing across it with her big black pen before handing it to Connie, who studied it through narrowed eyes.

‘Good?’ Maggie asked.

Connie looked up. ‘You forge my signature?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t call it forge—’

‘And sell these photos – these copyrighted photos – for money?’

‘Oh, the money isn’t for me!’ Maggie said quickly. ‘It’s for the LADS.’

‘What lads?’

‘The Lochnabrae Amateur Dramatics Society. We have a hall – it’s really run-down – and the profits from the signed photographs go towards its upkeep.’

Connie slowly shook her head. ‘But this is all wrong, Maggie. You can’t go on doing this. People think these photos have been signed by me.’

‘Isn’t my signature good enough? I thought I’d got it about right now.’

‘But that isn’t the issue here!’ Connie said. ‘People are paying because they think I’m signing the photos.’

‘But you’re too busy. We didn’t want to bother you with them. And I’ve heard of movie stars’ secretaries signing things for them or awful photocopied signatures being sent out too.’

‘I’m not arguing with that. That happens a lot but – well – this just doesn’t seem right. You’ve got to see that!’

Maggie looked down at the carpet and shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Is your tea all right?’

‘Maggie!’

‘What?’ She looked up. Connie’s face had turned quite pink.

‘What else has been going on here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Have you been selling other things?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Buying knickers and selling them as having been worn by Connie Gordon?’

Maggie looked as if she’d just been punched. ‘No! I’d never do anything like that!’

‘Are you sure?’ Connie got up from the chair and started looking around the room. It was then that her eye caught something and her face instantly froze.

‘Mortimer!’

‘What?’ Maggie said.

‘What are you doing with Mortimer?’

Maggie turned and saw what Connie was looking at. ‘The teddy?’

‘Yes! What’s it doing here?’

‘I bought it online last year. The seller said you’d auctioned it for charity and they’d bought it.’

Connie’s face now changed from pink to a frightening shade of red. ‘That’s a lie!’ she said, crossing the room and grabbing the stuffed toy from the shelf. ‘I never sold this bear. It’s a childhood toy and it went missing two years ago along with other personal items. I was suspicious of my housemaid and fired her. Things stopped going missing after that.’

‘Oh, Connie! I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

‘Really?’

‘I’d never have bought it if I’d known. Or, rather, I’d have bought it to return to you.’

Connie nodded her head vigorously but she didn’t look as if she believed Maggie. ‘Sure you’re not going to sell it on yourself ?’

‘What? No!’

‘God almighty!’ Connie exclaimed. ‘I’ve flown all this way to try and escape this sort of thing.’

‘But I didn’t know he’d been stolen.’

Connie wasn’t listening. She’d made up her mind.

‘I can see now,’ she said, ‘that everyone’s the same. Everyone’s just out to get a piece of me.’

‘Connie!’ Maggie called in desperation as she left the room, teddy in hand, and thumped down the stairs. ‘Don’t go! Please!’

But it was too late. Connie left the shop, slamming the door behind her.

‘Oh, dear!’ Maggie said. ‘That didn’t go quite like I’d imagined it would.’

Chapter Nine

Connie marched back to the bed and breakfast, Mortimer clutched in her right hand. It had been the very last thing she’d expected to find in Lochnabrae – dear sweet Mortimer – the one remnant of a childhood that had lasted so brief a time.

For a moment, she thought about how lonely her childhood had been. She’d hardly ever met any other children because she’d been working most of the time. In fact, the only other children she’d met had been other child actors and, when they hadn’t been acting, they’d been spending time with their tutors on the set, desperately trying to cram in schoolwork between takes. It had been a sad and strange time and Mortimer the bear had had more than his fair share of tears showered upon him.

She looked down at the yellow face of the bear and sighed at the scuffed black eyes and the fraying ears. He wasn’t much of a bear, she thought, and she was bemused that anyone would seriously want to pay good money for him at an online auction but, then again, stranger things had happened. One of her actor friends had heard of a yoghurt pot that had been taken out of his trash can and sold. Fans were a bizarre breed.

Reaching the bed and breakfast, Connie did her best to pull herself together. The last thing she wanted was to attract the attention of Isla. She couldn’t face that now so she opened and shut the front door as quietly as she could and was just about to make her way to her bedroom when a heavily-powdered face peered around the kitchen door.

‘Is that you, Connie dear? Can I get you anything?’

‘No, thank you. I’m just going up to my room. I have a bit of a headache.’

‘Oh, dear! Let me get you—’

‘No! Really. I don’t need anything. I just need some space, okay?’ Connie said, racing up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door. So much for sneaking in and acting normal, she thought, berating herself for her hot temper.

Connie sat down on the end of the bed, her hands holding onto Mortimer as if her life depended on it. ‘What are we doing here, Morty? We don’t belong here, do we?’

The worn glass eyes looked back up at her questioningly. And then she realised that she’d just stolen the poor bear. Whatever way she looked at it, Maggie had paid for Mortimer – whether it had been innocent or calculating – and Connie supposed it was only fair that she reimbursed her.

‘What a mess!’ she said, placing Mortimer on the bed. She walked across to the window and gazed out at the loch. She’d come here to escape and she couldn’t help feeling frustrated and disappointed that things weren’t panning out as she’d imagined. She tried to think back to what she’d expected when leaving LA for Lochnabrae. Peace. Well, it was certainly peaceful here. Solitude. Not as long as Isla Stuart and Maggie Hamill were on the scene. Escape.

Connie thought about that word. Was it ever possible to truly escape? Maybe for some people. Perhaps just driving away from home without a mobile phone was enough for some people to escape; they could become who they wanted. They could leave their old identities behind them but it was different for Connie. No matter where she went, she’d always be Connie Gordon, movie star, and somebody would always expect something from her.

But you’ve come to your fan club! a little voice told her. You couldn’t expect them to treat you like a normal person.

For a moment, she thought of Maggie’s face when she’d first met her. Her eyes had had that peculiar dazed expression that Connie was quite used to seeing. She’d seen it on a thousand red carpets when fans jostled for attention.

‘What’s so special about me?’ Connie asked her reflection. ‘I’m not so different – not really. I want to be accepted for who I am, not the movies I make. That’s not me. Well, not all of me.’

But there was a little niggling doubt in her mind that told her there might not be anything else. Who was Connie Gordon really? Once you stripped away the movie star hair-do, make-up and wardrobe, once you took her off the red carpets and film sets – what was left? That was the question that had taken Connie from Hollywood to the Highlands.

‘But I’m so scared of what the answer might be.’

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a coat from the wardrobe and went downstairs.

‘You all right?’ Isla called from the front room.

‘I’m going out,’ Connie shouted back.

‘You know where you’re going, do you?’

‘There’s only one goddamn road here, right?’ she mumbled just out of earshot, slamming the front door and making a row of pottery Highland terriers jump on their little shelf.

Maggie couldn’t quite believe what had happened. She thought about following Connie after she’d left the shop but saw that it would probably do more damage than anything else. So she’d returned upstairs to the HQ.

‘I’ve blown it,’ Maggie said to herself. ‘And everyone’s going to hate me when they find out.’ Maggie had visions of Connie flying out on the first plane back to LA and then she’d have to explain to the fan club that they’d missed out on meeting their great idol because she’d screwed up big time. Unless …

Only she and Isla knew that Connie was in Lochnabrae. Oh, and old Mr Finlay. And Alastair. Maggie sighed. Mr Finlay hadn’t even recognised her and he wasn’t much of a gossip, and Alastair could be persuaded to keep quiet. He’d do anything for a quiet life. Isla too. Although she’d probably be tempted to rename the bed and breakfast, Connie’s Rest at first.

Sitting down at her desk, Maggie sighed in frustration. She should have tidied things up before Connie had set foot in the HQ. But it was all very well being wise after the event. She hadn’t known Connie would object so wholeheartedly to having those photographs signed in her name. It seemed an innocent enough thing to Maggie. She was proud of her ability to forge the signatures and they gave so much pleasure to the fans. Yet, in her heart of hearts, she knew it was wrong. She knew that she’d been more focussed on raising money for the Lochnabrae Amateur Dramatics Society than she had on any moral issues, and she’d also let her own vanity come before her better judgement. The truth was, she’d liked pretending to be Connie Gordon when she signed the pictures. It allowed the little film star that was buried deep inside plain old Maggie Hamill to have a life, and goodness only knew that she needed one even if it was fake.

It hadn’t been easy growing up in Lochnabrae. There were only a handful of people her own age and most of them had left now. Even her brother was spending less and less time there and who could blame him? It was the back of beyond – the middle of nowhere. It was Lochnabrae.

Lochnabrae – you’d be mad to stay.

That’s what she and Hamish used to chant as they’d plan their getaways as they’d been growing up.

‘I’m going to be a footballer for Rangers,’ Hamish would say.

‘I’m going to be a film star in Hollywood,’ Maggie would say.

But Hamish was working in the garage in Strathcorrie and Maggie had taken up the reins of the family store.

‘I’m officially mad,’ she said to herself, burying her head in her hands.

No, the Connie Fan Club was a bright beacon in her day-to-day existence. It was a beautiful escape from her world of tins and tobacco, it was a wondrous world away from her papers and postcards. Could anyone really blame her for being swept up in it all or looking forward to the latest news from Hollywood, for the buzz she got from discovering a new photograph of Connie on the internet, or the news that she had a new film in the pipeline? It was what got her through the daily grind. Life in the shop was bearable when she knew she could escape upstairs and bring out the glossy ten by eights of Connie. Mr Finlay’s amorous attentions could be forgotten and Mrs Wallace’s grumblings could be ignored.

It wasn’t that Maggie really harboured any plans to leave Lochnabrae – it was just that she couldn’t help wishing that some of the magic of the movies would find its way to her little village and make life a little bit more exciting.

When Maggie finally looked up, she saw Connie’s untouched cup of tea on her desk. It was the saddest thing she’d ever seen: untouched, unwanted, left to go cold. It just reminded Maggie that she was unworthy. Connie not only didn’t want to stay and get to know her but she hated her too. She’d never want to see her again, would she?

Maggie thought about the teddy bear.

‘What on earth must Connie think of me?’ she whispered. ‘She’ll probably have me arrested.’

Maggie could easily have spent the rest of the day moping in Connie HQ but the phone was ringing. Reluctantly, she got up to answer it. It was probably the police ringing with some kind of harassment charge.

‘Maggie, it’s Isla. What on earth did you do to Connie? She’s just stormed out without so much as a by your leave.’

‘I didn’t do anything!’ Maggie said.

‘Are you sure? You were the last person she saw.’

Maggie sighed. It was time to confess. ‘Well, she found out about the fan club – the photos I sign.’

‘Ah!’ Isla sighed down the phone. ‘And she wasn’t too pleased?’

‘You could say that,’ Maggie said. ‘Oh, what are we going to do?’

‘What do you mean? You think she might leave?’

‘She wasn’t happy – that’s for certain,’ Maggie said. ‘I can’t bear the thought of having upset her. I’d never do anything to hurt her and yet I managed to do just that within a few minutes of meeting her.’

‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making out,’ Isla said.

‘Are you? Are you really?’

‘Well, no,’ Isla said.

Maggie’s shoulders slumped. ‘She hates me. I know she does.’

‘But can’t you explain things to her?’

‘I tried. I told her about the LADS but she didn’t seem to want to listen.’

‘Perhaps she should meet them, then,’ Isla said.

‘Meet who?’

‘The LADS, of course! Get everyone together – down The Capercaillie – and I bet you anything she’ll love them. Who wouldn’t?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Maggie said. ‘I think I might have put her off fans for life.’

‘What have you got to lose? If she already hates you, what does it matter if she hates the rest of us too?’

Maggie frowned. She wasn’t sure she was following Isla’s logic.

‘I suppose it might be worth a go,’ Maggie said, ‘if she hasn’t left already, that is.’

‘She’s not left properly – just rushed off into the hills. All her stuff’s still here. Once she’s let off a bit of steam, I’m sure she’ll be ready to talk to you again.’

‘Really? You think so?’ There was a pause. ‘Isla?’

‘Well,’ Isla said, ‘you can give it a go, anyway.’

Maggie hung up. She didn’t feel reassured in the least.

Alastair was actually having a good morning. He’d written five pages of – well, something – and his fingers didn’t seem to want to stop. Okay, it wasn’t perfect and it definitely wasn’t a play and he knew he was going to have to go back and revise but, for the time being, he was happy with the way things were progressing and, whenever that rare moment dawned, it was almost always interrupted by the telephone.

‘Damn!’ Alastair yelled. He wished he was one of those writers who could ignore the demands of the world around him. He had a friend who could write through an earthquake but Alastair wasn’t like that.

‘Hello!’ he barked into the phone.

‘Alastair? It’s Maggie. Did I disturb you?’

‘Yes, Maggie. You did, as a matter of fact.’

‘Oh,’ she said, instantly making him feel guilty.

‘What is it?’ he said in a gentler voice. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Well, not everything. You haven’t seen Connie, have you?’

‘Connie?’

‘Connie Gordon’s here. Well, she was here but we’ve lost her.’

‘What?’

‘The actress. She’s here in Lochnabrae.’

‘The Hollywood actress?’

‘Yes. Look, I’ll explain later but I’m worried about her. She’s gone missing. Isla said she saw her heading up the hill towards your place.’

‘Why would she be coming up here?’

‘I don’t know – just out walking, I guess. Have you seen her?’

‘No. I’ve been inside working.’

‘Well, can you look out of your window?’

‘Wait a moment,’ Alastair said, annoyed that he’d been interrupted but intrigued by the possibility that there was a Hollywood actress roaming around. He opened the front door and walked to the end of his garden, peering down the track that led through the woods to the loch but there was nobody there.

He ran back indoors. ‘I can’t see anyone. Do you want me to take a proper look around?’

‘Oh, Alastair – would you? It would be a weight off my mind if I knew she was okay.’

‘What’s she doing here?’

‘Trying to get away from it all but I’m afraid I’ve not been helping her do that.’

‘Well, leave it with me and I’ll give you a call if I find her.’

‘Thanks, Alastair.’

Alastair put down the phone and sighed. Normally, he hated – hated – being interrupted when he was in full flow but he had to admit that this situation was a little out of the ordinary. After all, how often did a Hollywood star hang out at his croft?

And then it dawned on him. They’d already met. Of course! The girl by the loch he’d thought had looked like Connie Gordon had been Connie Gordon.

‘Oh my God!’ he said with a sigh, thinking of the appalling mess Bounce had made of her beautiful trousers – her beautiful movie star trousers. ‘Best not tempt fate again,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Bounce. We’ll have a walk later.’

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