‘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 TheGlenfoyle 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 shampooingmy 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 spendan 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 onDinner DateorThe 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 destinedto 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 usheringher 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 …’
