CHAPTER TWELVE
Doon Place
‘RIGHT, THAT’S YOU DONE,’ says Senga from hair and make-up, snapping the can of hairspray shut and removing the towel from around my shoulders. ‘Now pop along next door and see Bruce in wardrobe.’
My bloodshot peepers blink several times under the harsh glare of the high-watt bulbs. No girl should ever have to subject her face to foundation and blusher beforesunup. Not that I’m complaining – quite the opposite. Call it positive thinking, cosmic ordering, heaven-sent or just bloody good timing; four days’ all-expenses paid filming at the historic Arbermorie Castle is the perfect distraction to keep my mind off Francesco and the future.
Bruce runs his stubby finger down the call sheet and ticks off my name.
‘Now, er … Emily, I see Miss MacFarlaneas your typical, nineteen forties’ village spinster – disappointed by love, bitter, repressed, dowdy, frumpy …’
Yep, okay, Bruce, we get the picture. Loud and clear.
‘She’s definitely a tweeds and brogues sort of wee woman,’ he continues, whipping the tape measure from his neck, and swiftly wrapping it around me. He bustles over to a rail of rather drab-looking garments and flicks throughthem, eventually pulling out a muddy-brown, herringbone-tweed suit.
‘Try this on for size,’ he says, pulling back the dressing room curtain.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. It’s scary. I look like the sort of woman who lectures at the WI and knits toilet roll covers in her spare time. Bruce’s arm bursts through, brandishing a suspender belt, a pair of seamed stockings, and clompy,vintage shoes.
‘Sorry, dear, we’ve no size sevens – you’ll have to try and squeeze into these, I’m afraid.’
I yank the curtain open.
‘Give us a twirl,’ he says, hands on hips, giving me the once-over with his beady eyes. He plonks a battered felt hat firmly on my head. ‘There we go! Frumpy spinster personified. The bus will meet you outside,’ he says, resuming his ironing.
I amON LOCATION! I have always wanted to say that. It sounds so glamorous and exciting, doesn’t it?
I wipe the condensation from the minibus window with my moth-eaten glove, revealing a rather dreich car park, teeming with hordes of people, huddled round a mobile caff, sipping steaming liquid from polystyrene cups.
A figure in a bright orange kagoul taps on the door and a hooded face peersround.
‘Hi, I’m Jules, the third assistant,’ she says breathlessly. ‘We’re running a bit behind schedule because of the rain, but we’ll try not to keep you waiting too long. Help yourself to breakfast.’
‘Round up the extras for the bicycle scene,’ crackles her walkie-talkie, and she disappears.
My nervous nausea of earlier has now turned into pangs of hunger, so I make a beeline forthe breakfast queue.
Mmm. My taste buds tingle as the succulent bacon rashers sizzle in the pan. The chef thickly butters the soft, floury bap and slaps the bacon inside, adding a squirt of tomato ketchup, before pressing the top down with his palm. I reach up, like a kid in a sweet shop, and take it from him with both hands. I bite into it, and some of the melted butter, mixed with baconfat, oozes down my chin. I am in paradise.
‘Emily, come with me,’ says Jules, suddenly reappearing at my side. ‘I’d like you to meet Oona, who plays Elspeth. You’re doing your scene with her, yeah?’
‘Fine,’ I say, spitting crumbs everywhere. Jules strides off towards a huge trailer, and I teeter after her in my size five-and-a-halfs, cramming in the rest of my bacon roll as I strive toavoid the puddles.
We climb the steps and Jules knocks on the door.
‘Come away in, dear,’ comes a familiar voice from inside.
‘Oona, this is Emily, who’s playing Miss MacFarlane,’ says Jules.
‘It’s an honour,’ I say, wiping my greasy fingers on my skirt and dropping a little curtsey. Aargh. Why in God’s name did I just do that? She’s not the Queen. But then Oona is a legend inScotland; she’s been inDoon Placesince it began in the Seventies, and is the only original member of the cast.
Her character has been through two husbands, has four children, seven grandchildren, and survived a war and a chip pan fire.
‘You look frozen, dearie,’ she says warmly. ‘Let’s have a wee cuppa and run our lines until they’re ready for us.’
Jules’s radio bursts into lifeagain.
‘I’ll pop back when we’ve finished setting up,’ she says.
