Death of a Scriptwriter

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“Get it yourself,” said Sheila. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’ve started to behave like a maniac.”

Penelope looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You have just got yourself out of a job, Sheila. I’ll speak to Harry Frame today.”

Sheila opened the door of the caravan and walked out. Then she shouted through the open door, “I hope you break your bloody neck!”

“Here, what’s all this about?” demanded the director, Giles Brown, coming up to her.

“It’s that bitch,” said Sheila. “I can’t take any more of her prima donna tantrums.”

“You’ll just have to put up with it,” said Giles. “We have to keep her in a good mood. We can’t get anyone else at this late date. We’ve already lost a lot of money over Jamie’s death. Think of all the publicity we’ve put out about Penelope. I know, I know, we’re all beginning to realise why her husband beat her. I’ll have a word with her.”

He went into the caravan. Penelope surveyed him with baleful blue eyes. “I want that bitch fired,” she said.

“I’ll see about it,” said Giles wearily. “Look, luv, it’s all been going well. Don’t we all run around and look after you?”

“Let me know when you’ve fired her,” said Penelope coldly. “You want this sex scene to work, don’t you? Well, just see that no one else upsets me and get me a decent cup of coffee.”

“Sure, Penelope. Anything you say.”

Penelope smiled to herself. She took out a packet of amphetamines and swallowed two. They would give her the necessary buzz she needed for the filming. It had been wonderful since Josh died. She had been bullied by her parents, bullied by schoolteachers and bullied by Josh. She hardly ever saw her parents now and Josh was dead and she was her own woman and free to take revenge on every bastard who tried to push her around. She had been feeling very exhausted since Josh’s death, what with the shock of it all, and a friend had introduced her to ‘uppers.’ Penelope felt strong and in command of every situation for the first time in her life.

¦

“No funny business now,” said Giles Brown to Gervase Hart, the leading man, or rather the anti-leading man, in that he was playing the part of the brutish chief inspector. “You’re only playing a sex scene, not performing it. I’m having trouble enough with Penelope as it is. I don’t want her screaming rape.”

“I couldn’t get it up for that nasty creature who thinks she’s God’s gift,” sneered Gervase.

“You won’t be shot too explicitly,” said Giles. “Bit like Four Weddings and a Funeral. Bits of flesh and a shoulder strap sort of thing.”

Gervase was a heavyset man whose once good-looking face had become a trifle spongy with drink, the features blurred as if someone had passed a sponge over them. Despite his bouts of drinking, he was a competent actor and never late on the set.

“What happened to Penelope?” he asked. “I mean, when we started up here, she was a delight to work with. Now she bitches and complains about everything.”

“I think her husband’s murder shook her more than we can know,” said Giles, ever placating.

“Maybe she did it.”

“No, he choked to death on his own vomit. No doubt about that.”

“Look, Giles, take her out to dinner and have a long talk with her. Soothe her down. We’re all getting on so well. She’s been all right, but her bad behaviour seems to have accelerated in the last few days.”

“I’ll try,” sighed Giles. “You didn’t let slip to any of the villagers about this sex scene?”

“Close as a clam, that’s me,” said Gervase shiftily, because he could not quite remember anything he had said the evening before.

¦

On her way to Drim, Patricia stopped her car in Lochdubh and went into Patel’s general store to buy some groceries. Patel had a better selection than the shop in Cnothan. There were various other customers, and Patricia was, as usual, a bit disappointed that no one came up and asked for her autograph or said, “I saw you on television.” The fact was that most of Lochdubh had seen her being interviewed on television and had not liked what they had seen at all and were damned if they were going to give her any recognition.

Patricia was, however, particularly gracious to Mr. Patel because he was an Indian. Patricia, who still mourned the loss of the British Empire, thought that all those poor Indians had been thrown into a sort of outer darkness by getting their independence and it was no wonder that Mr. Patel had fled to Scotland.

She meant to be gracious but came across as patronising, and Mr. Patel was quite curt.

She went out into the hazy sunlight. She looked up at the sky. Long streamers of clouds were trailing across the blue, heralding a change of weather. The midges, those irritating Scottish mosquitoes, had reappeared, and she fished a stick of repellent out of her capacious handbag and rubbed her face.

“Mrs. Martyn-Broyd?” A large tweedy woman was hailing her, hand outstretched.

“I am Mrs. Wellington, wife of the minister here,” she said.

Patricia murmured something and held out her own hand and found it being pumped energetically.

“We have not been introduced,” said Mrs. Wellington, “but I had to speak to you. I am surprised that you should condone such behaviour.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Patricia, stepping back because Mrs. Wellington had a way of thrusting her bosom forward to the person she was addressing and standing very close up.

“This television thing is based on your books, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot understand why a lady like yourself can condone sexual intercourse appearing on television.”

“What?”

“Sexual intercourse.” Several fishermen stopped their promenade along the waterfront to listen in amusement to the minister’s wife.

Two spots of colour burned on Patricia’s white cheeks. “Explain yourself,” she snapped.

“Some actor was drinking in the hotel bar last night and he was heard to say, “I’ll be screwing Penelope Gates tomorrow.” He was asked about it, and he said he and Penelope were to be filmed in bed together in a set in Drim Castle and without a stitch on.”

“This shall be stopped,” panted Patricia. “I won’t allow it.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Wellington approvingly. “I myself will phone the minister in Drim.”

Patricia strode off to her car, her brain in a turmoil of rage and anxiety.

¦

“Where are you going?” barked Mr. Jessop as Eileen was heading out the door, her camcorder in one hand.

Eileen stopped and blinked at him myopically. “I am going to see one of those TV cameramen. He said he could give me a few pointers.”

“You are to go nowhere near any of them.”

“Why?”

“Do as you’re told, woman. I’m off to the castle to deal with something.”

¦

“Now, Gervase,” Giles Brown was saying, “you come into the bedroom, you see her naked on the bed, smiling at you, and you start to tear off your uniform. Your eyes gleam with lust.”

“Sure,” said Gervase in a bored voice.

“Let’s just run through it first,” said Giles.

Penelope appeared from behind a screen. She was stark naked.

Definitely a 38D cup, thought Fiona. What a figure!

Penelope lay down on the bed. She raised herself on one elbow and smiled seductively at Gervase, who began to tear off his clothes. When he was naked, he approached the bed.

Penelope rolled on her back and laughed uproariously.

“What’s up?” asked Fiona crossly.