“Good for you,” said Hamish. “You’ve got your independence at last.”
“How’s Angela Brodie?” asked Ailsa.
“Just fine,” said Hamish. “She had a taste o’ fame and didn’t like it one bit.”
But Angela at that moment had just arrived in Inverness for the Highland Literary Festival to be held in the Dancing Scotsman Hotel. She felt this was one opportunity she could not let go by because she was to be interviewed by Malvin Clegg, the literary critic of the BBC. She’d had her wispy hair permed, but it had turned out frizzy. Her new dress was bright red which, when she had tried it on, had seemed to drain colour from her face, so she had applied make-up with an inexpert hand.
But wishful thinking and her bedroom mirror, which was in a dark corner, had persuaded her that she looked sophisticated and much younger.
A platform had been set up in a conference room of the hotel along with seating for a hundred people. As the television cameras were going to film the event, all the seats were taken. There was a green room set aside for authors. Angela had hoped to meet Malvin there and get an idea of what questions he was going to ask but was told she would meet him for the first time on the platform.
She walked onto the platform to a spattering of applause. Malvin appeared from the other end of the platform to enthusiastic applause and sat down facing her. He was a small thickset man with a fake-bake tan and dyed black hair.
The master of ceremonies was the hotel manager, dressed in kilt and full regalia. He made a long speech, boasting about the beauty of the hotel and how the literary festival had been his inspiration. He had a high reedy voice and a thin body. A kilt is a very heavy item of dress and his began to slide south, showing a glimpse of white underpants decorated with naked ladies. The audience began to giggle and he hoisted the kilt up again and then decided to leave the stage after a hurried introduction of Malvin and Angela.
Malvin was in a bad mood. Why had he agreed to attend this hick festival? He had read Angela’s book and found it very sexy and had hopes of a fling with the author but his hopes had died the minute he set eyes on Angela.
He began with his first question. “Do you think you are writing literature?”
“I just write what I can,” said Angela.
“I’ll just read out this scene from your book where the heroine is in bed with the local bobby.” He made it sound salacious, and Angela squirmed.
“Now, what we all want to know,” said Malvin, leering at the audience, “is how you did your research.”
“It is all a product of my imagination.”
“But all fiction is autobiographical in some way.”
“Not in this case,” said Angela.
“Let me read another extract.”
Angela cracked. She had seen her appearance in a mirror in the green room but it had been too late to do anything about it. She got to her feet.
“It is my opinion that you are nothing more than a dirty old man,” announced Angela, and she walked from the stage.
She ran out of the hotel to the car park and drove off. Never again, she thought, will I have anything to do with publicity. But on the road home her mobile rang. She stopped in a lay-by and answered it. Her husband’s frantic voice sounded down the line. “What have you been up to? The press are hammering at the door saying you called Malvin Clegg a dirty old man.”
“I’ll hide out somewhere,” said Angela.
“What about me? And they won’t go away unless you give them something, even if it’s no comment.”
“I’ll come home,” said Angela wearily.
The aborted interview was shown on all the TV news stations. Malvin could not sue Angela because she had said that it was her opinion. In Edinburgh, her publisher rubbed his hands in glee and went off to order a large reprint.
Angela, with a scarf tied over her frizzy hair and her make-up scrubbed off, faced the press on her doorstep. “I am sorry,” she said. “I have nothing to say.”
Hamish Macbeth cleared a path for her through the shouting reporters, and she thankfully escaped inside her house.
Afterwards, Hamish wished he had let her fight her own way into her house as his photo appeared in some newspapers along with descriptions of Angela’s heroine having an affair with the village policeman.
When Tam arrived that evening to pick up his belongings, Ailsa was there with Jock Kennedy and several other men from the village. He asked to speak to Milly but was told she was resting and to take his stuff and leave. As he drove away, Tam began to wonder if he’d not gone a little mad. He and Milly had enjoyed something special and he had ruined it. He wondered if he had subconsciously destroyed it because he had always avoided commitment. And why had he started to drink so much when he took her out for an evening?
He shook his head sadly. At least there was always work to take his mind off her.
By dint of thieving passports, Sandra Prosser had made her way to Jensen Beach in Florida. She rented a small flat in a condominium full of old people. After a week, she was bored. The money would not last forever. She did not have the courage to try to open a bank account and get money transferred from the Cayman Islands and also because she had a shrewd suspicion that her husband would have cleared out that account. She hired a car and drove down into the pretty town of Stuart, looking at the shops, and wondering for the first time if it would not be easier to just give herself up.
She missed her husband. She had not cried when she had learned of his death, but now she remembered the good times they had enjoyed, the expensive trips abroad, and the generous allowance he had given her.
Sandra went into a bar, sat up on a bar stool, and ordered a vodka and tonic. “How much?” she asked the barman.
“The gentleman over there wishes to pay for it.”
Sandra swung round. A man dressed in expensively casual clothes raised his glass to her. Sandra picked up her own glass and went to join him.
“I’m Vic Faziola,” he said. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Visiting for a bit,” said Sandra. He was about her own age with thick brown hair greying at the temples. He had a sallow face and small black eyes. “What does one do around here?”
“People go swimming or surfing. I own this tavern so it keeps me busy. You English?”
“Yes.”
“What brings you to Florida?”
“Just a holiday. I thought some sun would be nice.”
“Why don’t you meet me here at eight this evening and I’ll take you for dinner. I like getting to know the visitors.”
Sandra went back to her flat, feeling happy. It was nice to know she still had pulling power. But the afternoon stretched out ahead. She decided to go swimming and then find a hairdresser.
She put her swimsuit on under a blouse and jeans, stuffed underwear into a bag, drove back to Stuart, and headed for the beach.
Great glassy waves curled onto the beach. The sun beat down. It was very hot. Sandra had left her wallet and the bag with the dwindling money in her flat.
She left her clothes on the beach and plunged into the water. She was a powerful swimmer. With steady strokes, she headed out to sea and then turned on her back and floated, dreaming that her new companion would turn out to be her escape from looming poverty.
A log floated past and scraped her arm. Sandra cursed and decided to head for shore. She turned on her front. As she raised her head, she saw the figure of a lifeguard shouting something through a loud-hailer, but the wind had risen and she could not hear what he was saying. Probably a storm coming. She raised her head again. Now he was running towards the water, pointing frantically.
Maybe a boat was coming up on her. She twisted her head around and that’s when she saw it—a dorsal fin cutting through the waves in her direction. Sandra began to swim as hard as she could. But she was too late.