The Runaway Actress. Victoria Connelly
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to the Connie Committee.
‘We could make a small charge,’ Hamish – Maggie’s brother – had said. ‘Just to cover costs, you understand.’
‘That’s not unreasonable, is it?’ Euan had said. ‘We can’t have you out of pocket, can we?’
Maggie waited to hear what everyone else thought. ‘Angus?’ she probed.
Angus hurrumped from his corner in the pub. ‘Waste of time. We should have a decent fan club. For westerns.’
Everyone groaned. They were all well aware of Angus’s obsession with the western. He was even wearing cowboy boots just then.
‘Westerns are the thing,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no time for anything else.’
‘Rubbish!’ Maggie said. ‘I saw those tears in your eyes when we went to see Connie in Waltz with Me.’
Angus shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘That was a fly,’ he said. ‘I had a fly in my eye that evening.’
‘Right,’ Maggie said with a grin. ‘Alastair? What do you think we should do?’ she asked, turning to Lochnabrae’s resident playwright for a sensible answer.
‘Well,’ Alastair said, his dark eyebrows hovering over eyes the colour of the loch in summer, ‘the village hall needs some money spent on it.’
‘Aye, that it does,’ Euan agreed.
Maggie frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with the signed photographs?’
‘If we charge for them, any profit could go to the upkeep of the village hall.’
‘But nobody would pay for that!’ Maggie protested.
‘They might if you call it the Theatre Charity. Make a small donation to our Theatre Charity and we will be happy to send you a signed photograph of Ms Gordon,’ Alastair said.
‘And where do I get all these signed photos from?’ Maggie asked.
‘There’s the newsagents in Strathcorrie. They have one of them big printers now, don’t they?’ Hamish said.
‘Okay,’ Maggie said. ‘But how do I get them signed?’
Everyone looked at Maggie.
‘Use your imagination, lass,’ Euan said.
And so Maggie had. She was really quite good at it too because, as a youngster, she used to daydream about what it would be like to be a film star or – at the very least – a character from a film like the ones Connie Gordon played. How wonderful it must be to be beautiful and adored like Connie Gordon and how very different from the little life that Maggie led working in the village shop in Lochnabrae. She would while away many a happy hour in the shop imagining that she was like a Connie Gordon heroine and that a happy ending of her own was just around the corner. For Maggie, running the fan club was like giving in to her inner film star for a few short hours a week and it didn’t seem like she was doing anything wrong.
During those early days of the fan club, Maggie had found a copy of a signed photo of Connie Gordon online and had printed it out, studying the feminine flourish and practising it over and over again until she felt that the very spirit of Connie Gordon was with her and she’d got it just right. Which was just as well because demand was high even with the charge that they made.
Sitting back down at her desk, Maggie woke up her computer and stared at the image on the screen.
‘Hello, Connie,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘How are you today?’
The beautiful face stared back at her. Soft white skin that was almost luminous, dark red hair like a silk curtain, bright hazel eyes and that gorgeous megawatt smile that regularly graced a million magazines.
‘You’ll be wearing that smile tonight, won’t you?’ Maggie said, checking the online Connie diary and noting that it was the ‘Cream of the Screen’ awards ceremony. Maggie gazed out of the window but, for once, she didn’t notice the view. She was imagining the gowns and the jewels and the wonderful new photos of Connie that she would soon have for the website.
‘How wonderful it would be to walk down that red carpet,’ she said with a wistful sigh. ‘Lucky, lucky Connie.’
Chapter Two
A big bright smile. That’s what everyone wanted so why was it so hard to give? Connie walked down the red carpet, trying desperately not to trip over in the silver sequinned dress, which kept wrapping itself around her legs. It was most uncomfortable even if it did make her look like a million dollars. It was the last time she’d be wearing one of Tierney Mueller’s designs, that was for sure. He’d practically submerged her with clothes for the last few months and she’d finally given in but she was regretting her decision now. She had to give an award tonight and that meant the long torturous walk out onto the stage with the whole of Hollywood watching.
It’ll be fine, she told herself. Or at least it couldn’t possibly be as bad as the time one of her spaghetti straps had fallen down, revealing far more of Connie Gordon than the press had ever seen.
‘CONNIE!’ they shouted now. ‘Over here.’
‘One more!’
‘This way!’
Connie smiled. She felt like such a fraud. It was her third red carpet event that week and she knew she must be the envy of every woman in the world and yet what she wanted more than anything was to be sitting at home in her favourite jumper and jeans, eating a large tub of ice cream in front of the movie channel. It really was absurd. After all, she’d worked extremely hard to get to this moment, hadn’t she? All the years of dance classes and auditions, drama classes and auditions, singing classes and auditions. This was what it was all about. This was the kind of event that said, Hey world, I’ve arrived. Aren’t you jealous? Don’t you wish you were me? Take that journalist over there, Connie thought, sidling over to a female reporter who was gesticulating at her so much her arms were in danger of spinning right off her body. What would the reporter give to change places with Connie – to wear the dress, to be photographed, to present the award? And what would Connie give to exchange places with her? The journalist would be going home in half an hour. For a moment, Connie imagined the scene. There’d be some cute guy cooking dinner for her and an adorable toddler would have just woken up to greet his mommy.
Connie sighed as she thought about the empty mansion that was waiting for her in Bel Air. She had a cook, a cleaner, a PA and a gardener. There was the boy who took care of the pool, the guy who took care of her cars. There was the hairdresser, the image consultant, the agent, the lawyer and the accountant. Then there was the orthodontist, the personal trainer … and on the list went. But there was nobody who’d be there to kiss her when she got home. Nobody to massage her feet and tell her she was gorgeous. Oh, she was told she was gorgeous often enough – by the fans, the journalists, the photographers. But they didn’t count. When she went home, she left the adulation behind and life felt very empty indeed.
‘Connie Gordon!’ the journalist yelled as Connie joined her at the barrier. ‘I have Connie Gordon with me,’ she said, turning to her cameraman. ‘Who are you wearing tonight, Connie?’
‘Oh, it’s a Tierney Mueller.’
‘And you look gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Thank you,’ Connie said graciously.
‘I hear you’ll be presenting an award tonight.’
‘Yes. Best supporting actor.’
‘And which of the nominees do you favour?’ the journalist asked.
‘I think they’re all incredibly talented. I couldn’t possibly choose,’ she said diplomatically. That was the game to play: be gracious, be diplomatic and keep bloody smiling.
The ‘Cream