Part 5 (2/2)
Fiona moved quickly forward. ”It's only a film, Mr. Jessop,” she said placatingly.
The minister was red with anger. ”I will not have such goings-on in my parish.”
Then Hamish saw Patricia's car driving down the hill into Drim. More trouble, he thought.
Patricia got out of her car and edged her way to the front of the crowd, saying in her authoritative voice, ”I am the writer. Let me through.”
Then she stopped, aghast at the sight of the hippies and the nearly naked Penelope, and all the joy of getting yet another book back in print fled from her mind. ”What is this travesty?” she asked in a thin voice.
The minister swung round, sensing an ally. ”Just look at that woman,” he cried, pointing a shaking finger at Penelope.
Patricia looked and quickly averted her eyes.
”It's like this, Minister,” said Jamie Gallagher with a false smile and truculent eyes. ”Lady Harriet is head of this commune in the Highlands, and-”
”My Lady Harriet!” Patricia was now as white as she had been red a moment before. She had consoled herself on the road over with the thought that the naked Penelope Gates on the cover of her book had just been a publicity stunt. Had she not seen weird and wonderful covers on paperback editions of d.i.c.kens? But for this s.l.u.t to play Lady Harriet, n.o.ble, gallant, intelligent Lady Harriet, was past bearing.
”I forbid it,” she said. ”There is nothing in my book about any hippie commune.”
”There's nothing in your book that's filmable,” said Jamie. ”Och, calm down, woman. It's just a bit of poetic licence.”
”I shall have it stopped!”
”You can't do anything about it,” said Jamie. ”You signed the contract.”
Patricia stared at Fiona. ”Is this true?”
”Well, yes.”
”And who is this man?” demanded Patricia, who had forgotten what Jamie looked like.
”This is Jamie Gallagher, our scriptwriter.”
”You are a charlatan,” said Patricia to Jamie. ”Why say you are going to film my book and then change the whole thing?”
”I am making it suitable for television,” said Jamie. ”Can someone get this woman off the set and keep her off?”
”You are not filming p.o.r.nography in my parish,” howled the minister.
”I think we should all go to the castle and talk this through,” said Fiona.
”How are things going in there?” Hamish asked Major Neal.
”Stormy, I think. I'm sorry for Miss Martyn-Broyd. She seems to be in shock.”
”They seem quieter now,” said Hamish, c.o.c.king an ear in the direction of Fiona's office. ”I'm surprised to hear that BBC Scotland think so highly of Jamie. You wouldn't think he could write anything intelligent.”
”Oh, did you see Football Fever? Football Fever?”
”Who didn't?” replied Hamish. Football Fever Football Fever had been a television doc.u.mentary on the lives and pa.s.sions of Scottish football fans. It had been witty, clever and fascinating and had sold all over the world. had been a television doc.u.mentary on the lives and pa.s.sions of Scottish football fans. It had been witty, clever and fascinating and had sold all over the world.
”Well, that was Jamie's script.”
”You can't tell a book from its cover,” said Hamish sententiously.
”It'll probably look all slick and clever when we see the finished result.”
”You could be right,” said Hamish. ”Here they come.”
The minister emerged with Fiona, Giles Brown and the production manager, Hal Forsyth. They were all laughing and chatting.
”So that's all settled,” said Giles, clapping the minister on the back.
”Most generous of you,” said the minister.
Greased his palm, thought Hamish.
Then came Jamie, who strode past without a word. Where's Patricia? wondered Hamish.
When they had all left, he found her sitting alone in Fiona's office, clutching a script.
She looked up and saw Hamish. Her eyes were bleak. ”I'll kill him before I let him get away with this.”
”Who?”
”Jamie Gallagher. I told him right in front of all of them. 'I'll kill you.'” She began to cry.
Hamish sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. ”There now,” he said. ”Just think about your books.”
”I am thinking about them,” sobbed Patricia. ”Look, at this!”
She unfastened the clasp of her large handbag and took out one of the book jackets.
”Oh, my,” said Hamish. ”The things they do. But I saw a paperback of Jane Austen's Emma Emma and if you didn't know the work, you'd have thought it was p.o.r.n. Before I came up to the castle, I saw some press down by the waterfront. Why don't you go and say your piece to them? It pays to advertise.” and if you didn't know the work, you'd have thought it was p.o.r.n. Before I came up to the castle, I saw some press down by the waterfront. Why don't you go and say your piece to them? It pays to advertise.”
Patricia dried her eyes and blew her nose. ”It's all a nightmare. I just want to forget about the whole thing. It's the end of a dream.”
”You'll have a whole new readers.h.i.+p. It could be the start of the dream.”
”I don't want the sort of readers who will be attracted by that cover.” Patricia put the cover back in the handbag and closed it with a snap. ”What happened to the world?” she said, looking about her in a dazed way.
It moved on and left you behind, thought Hamish, but he did not say so.
After he had said goodbye to Patricia, he went back to the waterfront. ”How did you square it with the minister?” he asked Fiona.
”Contribution to the church-and that.” She pointed at Penelope.
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