The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

  Reunited with my shoe, I bid everyone goodnight. Out on the street, I can hear the blood in my eardrums. Barefoot, I head for The Glenfoyle via the beach, stopping for a moment to marvel at the full moon. I close my eyes, breathe in the cool, pure air, and listen to the gentle, rhythmic lapping of the waves. I dip my throbbing feet in the freezing water and gaze up at the stars.

  I find myself thinking of Francesco again, remembering that magical night when he took my hand and drew Orione and l’Orso in the star-filled sky.

  I’m trying so hard to live in the present, but I find myself wondering what will happen when he returns to Italy. Long-distance relationships are never a good idea, and with our work schedules …

  ‘Emily!’

  I spin round, startled. There’s Duncan, breathless, his auburn hair glinting in the silvery light.

  ‘You left this behind,’ he says, holding out my bag.

  ‘Oh my God, how stupid of me. Thank you,’ I say, quickly wiping a tear that has attached itself to the end of my nose.

  ‘I was thinking …’ he says. ‘It’s my night off tomorrow. There’s a wonderful wee fish restaurant along the coast here …’

  ‘That’s nice of you to ask, but I’ve no idea what time our filming will finish …’

  ‘Here’s my number,’ he says, whipping out a business card from his wallet. ‘Call me tomorrow if you’re back early and you fancy a wee change … Now, can I walk you home?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, really, but thanks for the offer,’ I say, taking the card from him, but all the while keeping a formal distance.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  * * *

  As I descend the creaky, tartan-carpeted stairs five hours later in time to the piped accordion muzak, I am met by the pungent smell of early morning kippers and am transported back to the aircraft galley and those crack-of-dawn breakfasts from hell: call bells ringing, queues for the loo, tired babies crying, recycled air, snoring, sick bags, nappy bags, smelly socks, and dog breath.

  Thank you, Nigel. If not for you I’d still be there.

  As I look in the mirror on set today, I’m proud of the middle-aged spinster looking back at me. The old me avoided mirrors because I was reminded of the passion, the drive, the self-respect, and the sense of humour I had lost somewhere along the way.

  When I’m not needed, I’ve found a spot with panoramic views out across the sea to a small, distant island. I lean over the balustrade, the crashing waves below spraying my face with salt water. I shut my eyes and inhale the sweet smell of seaweed, the sun’s rays filling me with warmth and positive energy.

  Jules touches me on the shoulder.

  ‘Hi, Emily,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Found you!’

  ‘Sorry, I …’

  ‘As the light is better today, Rob would like to film your dialogue with Elspeth from a close-up perspective.’

  ‘Right, I say,’ putting away my phone and earphones then straightening my skirt.

  This wasn’t on the schedule for today, but I’m learning that in screen acting, things can change at a moment’s notice, and you have to be prepared for the unknown and not panic.

  Elspeth is shooting another episode today, so the chap from continuity feeds me her lines off-camera, while I revert to the tennis-ball-on-a-stick acting principle.

  * * *

  In the car on the way back to The Glenfoyle early that evening, I remember to switch on my phone. It pings immediately.

 

  Arrangements made, I jump in the shower and find myself humming ‘Mairi’s Wedding’ – again. Hard as I try to delete it, this tune has been rolling around in my brain since the ceilidh.

  As I’m shampooing my hair, the music in my head stops abruptly when I’m struck by a flash of inspiration.

  I burst through the shower curtain and dash over to the waste paper bin. I rifle through the tissues and chocolate wrappers. Found it! I collect the torn pieces and set about reassembling the shredded business card.

  Duncan McDonald

  Tam O’Shanter Inn

  Tel: 01292 – 46751

  Mobile: 07801 – 6533254

  Okay, so it’s a mad idea. I don’t know the guy, if he’s good enough for her, or if he’ll like her, or she him. I don’t know if she’ll agree, or if he’s still free tonight, but knowing how much Céline wants to meet someone, what’s the harm in trying to play Cupid? This has got to be better than Tinder, or those other dating apps, surely?

  What’s the worst that can happen? We spend an awkward, embarrassing evening in the company of a strange guy. I mean, it’s not like it’s going to be broadcast to the nation, like on Dinner Date or The First Dates Restaurant. So what’s the harm?

  As I’m towel drying my hair, I hear the quietly thrumming motor of a taxi below. I look at the bedside clock. Pulling on my tights, I hop over to the window. It’s Céline. Uh-oh. She is destined to be subjected to a blow-by-blow account of Mrs M’s daily movements if I don’t scarper – and I do not refer to the latter’s busy schedule.

  I leap downstairs but she’s already in full flow …

  ‘I get this pain at night. The doctor says it’s trapped wind, but I’m no’ so sure. I should go back to see him, but they’re always sae busy. Still, I don’t complain. Och, Emily, there you are.’

  ‘Céline!’ I say, hugging her tight.

  ‘What a nightmare!’ she says, rolling her huge eyes. ‘Everyone complaining. I say to one passenger, “Alors, monsieur, you would prefer to fly with just three engines instead of four?” That bloody well shut him up.’

  ‘How I miss the darlings … not,’ I say, looking at my watch.

  ‘Is it normal for your stomach to swell up when you fly?’ pipes up Mrs M. ‘I only ask because …’

  ‘Lord, look at the time!’ I interject. ‘Come on, Céline, we’re going to be late,’ I say, pushing her out of the door. ‘See you at breakfast, Mrs M.’

  Linking arms, Céline and I walk along the shore road towards The Burns Hotel.

  ‘I have an idea, and if you think it’s silly, then you don’t have to agree,’ I say, pushing open the door of the hotel reception and ushering her into the lounge.

  * * *

  ‘Duncan? It’s Emily. Remember me? The clodhopper from the ceilidh?’

  ‘Aye, of course I remember you. Are you up for dinner tonight? I made a reservation just in case.’

  ‘My friend’s flight has been diverted, and she’s got an unscheduled night-stop, so she’s here with me …’

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to take you both out,’ he says.

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly expect you …’ I say, giving Céline the thumbs-up.

  ‘Or better still, I’ll give my pal Drew a call and we’ll make it a foursome.’

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure …’

  * * *

  Ladies, I have good news! The age of chivalry is NOT dead. I can report first-hand that this ancient practice is still being carried out on the Firth of Clyde.

  Pulling Out Of Chair ✓

  Buying Of Drinks ✓

  Listening skills ✓

  Helping On With Coat/Pashmina ✓

  Drew’s Land Rover whisks us away to Dunure, a small fishing village along the coast.

  As we turn off the main road, we are tossed around on the back seat like pinballs, until Drew eventually parks up on a remote, steep, grassy bank.

  ‘It’s a short walk from here,’ he says, pointing to a row of twinkling lights, high up on the cliff’s edge. They each open a door for us (✓), and we are led along a twisty, narrow pathway. Had I known a pre-dinner hike was on the menu, I would never have worn my new, kitten-heel boots with pointy toes. I stumble and stagger up the hill, battling to prevent my gypsy skirt from billowing up over my head.

  Céline, on the other hand, is dressed perfectly for the occasion, in a classically tailored trouser suit with flat pumps. She strides elegantly ahead, as if on the ca
twalk, flanked by our two hosts, her well-cut bob swishing back and forth.

  Duncan turns and waits for me to catch up. ‘Are you okay? Do you want to take my arm?’ he asks, like I’m some old granny trying to cross the road.

  ‘No, I’m fine, you go on ahead,’ I say brightly, my pashmina flying across my mouth and nose.

  I look up, and coming into view at last, is a stone-built, whitewashed cottage, with tiny, leaded windows. A wrought-iron sign bearing the name Maggie’s Fish Restaurant in weatherworn lettering swings back and forth, squeaking in the blustery wind.

  The heavy, wooden door creaks open and it’s like we’ve stepped back in time; there’s a fireplace big enough to sit in, a young lass, perched on a beer barrel, plays a reel on the fiddle, lobster pots hang from the beams, candles glow from wax-covered bottles, and the smell of fresh fish, mixed with smouldering, damp wood, hovers in the air.

  Duncan and Drew pull our chairs out for us to sit down (✓) and order a bottle of wine.

  ‘So, ladies, how did you two meet?’ asks Drew, while we wait for menus.

  ‘On our cabin crew training course,’ I say, nervously twiddling my napkin and glancing at Céline.

  ‘Did you ever experience any emergency situations?’ he asks eagerly.

  ‘’fraid not. But lots of hilarious ones, didn’t we, Céline?’

  ‘Well …?’ says Duncan, filling our glasses, his voice enthusiastic.

  ‘Don’t get us started, please, we could be here all night,’ I say.

  ‘Go on,’ they implore, sounding genuinely interested. Oh well, they did ask …

  We are in our element now, and our initial awkwardness gives way to uninhibited, frivolous banter.

  Before we know it, Maggie’s coming over with the dessert menu. I drag Céline off to the ladies’ for a nose-powdering expedition.

  ‘Well?’ I say to her excitedly, as I close the door.

  ‘You have a little piece of broccoli in between your teeth, chérie.’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ I say, glancing in the mirror, horrified at my Edward-Scissorhands hair. ‘So, what about Duncan?’

  ‘Duncan? No, I like his friend, Drew.’

  ‘Oh, okay …’

  Uh-oh. My attempt at playing Emma is not going the way I planned. I feel bad for Duncan now, but I guess there’s just no predicting chemistry.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, baring my teeth, checking in the mirror for any more bits of vegetation. ‘Our knickerbocker glories will be melting.’

  ‘Okay, guys, now it’s your turn to speak,’ I say, sinking my long spoon into gooey chocolate and whipped cream. ‘How did you two become friends?’

  ‘At school,’ Duncan replies, pouring the coffees. ‘More than thirty years ago now – I can hardly believe it. We used to go fishing and camping together in the holidays. We were inseparable.’

  ‘Aye,’ says Drew. ‘Then when I was in my twenties, I went out to South America to work for The Forestry Commission. Since coming back, I’ve been running the Laird’s estate out at Brig o’Muckhart. Whenever I’m in need of a dram and a blether, I call in on my old pal here,’ he says, draping his arm fondly over Duncan’s shoulder.

  Céline’s starry gaze falls to her watch. ‘Mon Dieu!’ she groans. ‘It is almost ten. The last train leaves at ten forty-four.’

  Duncan signals for the bill, and he and Drew fish out their wallets.

  ‘Shall we go Dutch?’ I ask, reaching under the table for my bag.

  ‘Och, away with you, it’s our pleasure,’ says Drew, putting his bank card on the table.

  ‘Absolutely! What kind of a man invites a lady to dinner, and then expects her to pay?’ snorts Duncan.

  Most of the men I’ve dated, I think.

  Generosity: check ✓

  * * *

  I am woken abruptly by the buzzing of my mobile on the bedside table.

  One eye focuses on the luminous numbers of the digital clock: 02:10.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Emily, c’est moi, Céline.’

  I sit bolt upright. ‘Oh, my God, Céline, what’s happened?’ I babble, my mind racing. I should have ordered her a cab instead of allowing her to disappear with a man we only met once. I can picture her at the other end of the line, battered and bruised, waiting at A&E for me to pick her up.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ she says, with breathless excitement. ‘I had a wonderful evening, and when I come back from Chicago, I’m going to Breeg … Breeg … merde! … to visit Drew on the estate!’

  ‘You call me in the middle of the night to tell me this?’ I tease, beaming at her down the phone.

  Like a pair of giggly teenagers, we dissect every bit of the evening, and by the time we say goodnight, the grandfather clock is clanging three, and I’ve demolished six shortbread fingers and a Bacardi Breezer from the mini bar. Wish I hadn’t ordered kippers for breakfast.

  * * *

  Vanity working on a weak head produces every sort of mischief.

  ~ Jane Austen, Emma

  Last day of filming today. More hanging around. More crowd scenes. More disapproving busybody acting.

  The sea glimmers like tinsel in the brilliant, afternoon sun. A wispy vapour trail sweeps across the cloudless, forget-me-not blue sky, while The Proclaimers belt out ‘Letter from America’ through my earphones. I pull out my notebook and pen and begin to write …

  Dear Duncan,

  Thank you for the delicious dinner – and for putting up with my very bad Scottish dancing. I hope you make a full recovery!

  Good luck and goodbye.

  Best wishes,

  Emily x

  My thoughts then turn to Céline, who must now be five hours into her flight – lunch service over, pushing the duty free trolley through the cabin, flogging Hermès scarves and giant Toblerone.

  A sparkle of excitement flashes through me as I imagine her and Drew together, in matching tweed, hand in hand, roaming the heather-filled hills of the estate, stopping to admire a proud stag running along a craggy ravine, Drew putting out his hand to touch her face, parting her fringe, and kissing her gently on the forehead.

  She so deserves to be happy. But then what if Drew turns out to be a no-good Celtic cad? Whatever happens now is not my responsibility. I may have given destiny a nudge, but I remind myself I can’t fix people or control situations. After the Mike misunderstanding, Céline and I have made a pact never to fall out over stupid men again.

  I deliver the note to The Tam O’Shanter pub en route to the airport and leave Scotland for London, having found my friend a braw Scotsman for a boyfriend (bet he looks good in a kilt) and having mastered both the Withering and the Firm Look.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lost in Chelsea

  September

  I study Francesco as he queues up for our coffees at Heathrow; when I’m far from him I want to be able to recall the way his thick, greying hair curls up at the ends as it brushes his collar, how he talks with his whole body: the shrug of his athletic shoulders, the vibrant gestures of his strong, long-fingered, olive-skinned hands.

  It’s barely three weeks since I returned from Scotland and now I’m on my way to Vienna for three months to play the role of Chelsea in On Golden Pond.

  I’m thrilled, of course I am. After all, this is what I’ve sacrificed so much both emotionally and financially to do. So what’s the problem? I hadn’t bargained for finding someone I truly connect with and for having to leave him again so soon. How long can our relationship survive at this rate?

  He turns around and I drag my gaze away from him, pretending to study my boarding card.

  ‘Allora, I have something for you,’ he says, putting down the tray and reaching into his bag. I blink at him several times, trying to keep my simmering emotions from boiling over. A package is slid across the table. My hands close around it and I give it a shake.

  ‘Aprirlo! Open!’ he says, throwing me one of his delicious, roguish grins. How I wish I could capture that now familia
r expression and put it safely away in my pocket, to sustain me over the next twelve, long weeks. ‘Aprirlo!’

  I open the small, red box carefully and take out an antique silver locket.

  ‘This belong to my mamma …’

  ‘Francesco, I can’t …’

  ‘Please. Look inside.’

  Inside there’s a tiny photo of us taken at The Witchery in Edinburgh.

  He fastens it around my neck, kisses my hand, and says, ‘Ti amo, amore mio.’

  Please don’t let me cry.

  ‘The final call for passengers travelling to Vienna with British Airways. Please make your way to gate three.’

  His eyes rest on mine.

  ‘Francesco?’

  ‘Sì?’

  ‘Kiss me.’

  ‘Would any remaining passengers travelling to Vienna …’

  ‘Vai! Go!’

  ‘Yes, yes … plane to catch … bye, I mean, arrivederci,’ I say in a silly, cod-Italian voice and stride off towards Departures.

  ‘Cara!’ he calls after me.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, turning around, heart quickening.

  ‘Your glassees,’ he says, hand outstretched, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  * * *

  Did the pilot take a wrong turning and land somewhere in darkest Siberia? This isn’t Vienna – the Strauss and coffee house Vienna of my dreams. The one with cobbled streets, horse-drawn carriages and Sachertorte.

  I give the rock-hard pillow a punch, wipe the condensation from my bedroom window with my pyjama sleeve, and peer out through the teeming rain at the redbrick industrial estate opposite.

  I know, I know, this student hostel is a temporary arrangement, and I know I’m ten miles out of the city centre, but I can’t help feeling a trifle let down. In fact, what the hell am I doing here? Given half a chance, I would gladly pack my belongings and be on the first plane back to London and to the man I love.

  * * *

  Two weeks later