bottles, paper, cardboard boxes and, once, even a broken picnic hamper that someone hadn’t bothered to take home to throw away.
‘I can’t bear to see it lying around – it spoils things for others.’
‘Let someone else do it,’ Carrie would say, impatiently.
Marta was always undeterred. ‘If everyone said that, it would still be here.’
Just after they left school, they all went on holiday together, Carrie thrilled to be driving her mother’s convertible. Somewhere along the road to Kyle of Lochalsh they came across a lamb, clearly distressed and looking for its mother. ‘Stop!’ Marta demanded. Carrie stopped.
‘We’ve got to help it.’
‘Wrong,’ Jane said, ‘We’ve got a ferry to catch.’
‘And it’s the last one to Skye tonight,’ Carrie pointed out.
‘But it’s lost. It’s got out of some field somewhere and it could be knocked down.’
‘Yum,’ Carrie said, heartlessly.
‘Mint sauce,’ Jane grinned. It was the wrong response. Marta, fired with righteous indignation, dug her heels in, spent the next half hour wandering along the road in both directions until she found a loudly baa-ing sheep, reunited mother and lamb, before finally climbing back into the car.
They missed the ferry and had to spend a night in a cramped and none too clean bed and breakfast on the wrong side of the water, much to the disgust of Carrie and Jane. It was an incident they liked to remind her about whenever she tried to do a good turn.
‘Baa,’ Carrie would say. Jane rendered it as ‘Me-eh.’ Either way, it was a coded message designed to deter her.
Now, however, ignoring the animal noises in her head, Marta felt justified in launching into good-deed mode, because something was telling her loud and clear that getting Tom Vallely out of the house was not only necessary but urgent.
‘Ann Playfair, hello.’
The voice was deep, for a woman, and had a husky, nicotine edge. Years ago, at school, Marta had been in awe of Miss Playfair, the English teacher with a background in theatre and a voice that could carry the length of Princes Street. By the sixth year, however, she, Carrie and Jane had been accepted into the teacher’s inner circle – not favourites (‘I don’t do favourites’) – but an exclusive group who gave their spare time to help her run the drama group. When she’d left the school for a career in scriptwriting, they’d kept in touch.
‘Hello Miss Playfair, it’s Marta Davidson.’ She still found it hard to use Miss Playfair’s first name.
‘Marta! How lovely to hear from you. Are you in Glasgow?’
‘No, sorry. Not today.’
‘I thought maybe you were up for a drink.’
God, a glass of wine would slip down well right now. ‘I would be, but sorry, I’m still chained to my desk here in the east.’
‘Pity. What can I do for you then, Marta?’
‘Are you still one of the scriptwriters on Emergency Admissions by any chance?’
‘I do write the odd episode for them. Why?’
Marta explained about Tom. ‘He’s pretty well known. Fantastic looking. Wanting something a bit more regular and better paid than the theatre work he’s been doing recently and when I mentioned—’
‘Yes, yes. I know. Say the word “scriptwriter” and suddenly a key new role could appear.’
Marta laughed, embarrassed. ‘Something like that. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s human nature. Well, the nature of all actors, at any rate. Tom Vallely – remind me. What’s he been in?’
Marta ran through some of Tom’s credits.
‘Got him now. Well, as it happens, I do know they’re about to audition for a new role and your Tom sounds like he could be in the zone. Get his agent to call the producer, the timing might be lucky.’
‘Brilliant. Tom will be ecstatic.’
‘It’s just an audition, Marta.’
‘Of course. Even so. Thanks so much.’
‘Let’s have that drink sometime, eh?’
‘Soon. I’d love to.’
‘Life treating you well?’
Marta thought about Jake, his
‘I can’t bear to see it lying around – it spoils things for others.’
‘Let someone else do it,’ Carrie would say, impatiently.
Marta was always undeterred. ‘If everyone said that, it would still be here.’
Just after they left school, they all went on holiday together, Carrie thrilled to be driving her mother’s convertible. Somewhere along the road to Kyle of Lochalsh they came across a lamb, clearly distressed and looking for its mother. ‘Stop!’ Marta demanded. Carrie stopped.
‘We’ve got to help it.’
‘Wrong,’ Jane said, ‘We’ve got a ferry to catch.’
‘And it’s the last one to Skye tonight,’ Carrie pointed out.
‘But it’s lost. It’s got out of some field somewhere and it could be knocked down.’
‘Yum,’ Carrie said, heartlessly.
‘Mint sauce,’ Jane grinned. It was the wrong response. Marta, fired with righteous indignation, dug her heels in, spent the next half hour wandering along the road in both directions until she found a loudly baa-ing sheep, reunited mother and lamb, before finally climbing back into the car.
They missed the ferry and had to spend a night in a cramped and none too clean bed and breakfast on the wrong side of the water, much to the disgust of Carrie and Jane. It was an incident they liked to remind her about whenever she tried to do a good turn.
‘Baa,’ Carrie would say. Jane rendered it as ‘Me-eh.’ Either way, it was a coded message designed to deter her.
Now, however, ignoring the animal noises in her head, Marta felt justified in launching into good-deed mode, because something was telling her loud and clear that getting Tom Vallely out of the house was not only necessary but urgent.
‘Ann Playfair, hello.’
The voice was deep, for a woman, and had a husky, nicotine edge. Years ago, at school, Marta had been in awe of Miss Playfair, the English teacher with a background in theatre and a voice that could carry the length of Princes Street. By the sixth year, however, she, Carrie and Jane had been accepted into the teacher’s inner circle – not favourites (‘I don’t do favourites’) – but an exclusive group who gave their spare time to help her run the drama group. When she’d left the school for a career in scriptwriting, they’d kept in touch.
‘Hello Miss Playfair, it’s Marta Davidson.’ She still found it hard to use Miss Playfair’s first name.
‘Marta! How lovely to hear from you. Are you in Glasgow?’
‘No, sorry. Not today.’
‘I thought maybe you were up for a drink.’
God, a glass of wine would slip down well right now. ‘I would be, but sorry, I’m still chained to my desk here in the east.’
‘Pity. What can I do for you then, Marta?’
‘Are you still one of the scriptwriters on Emergency Admissions by any chance?’
‘I do write the odd episode for them. Why?’
Marta explained about Tom. ‘He’s pretty well known. Fantastic looking. Wanting something a bit more regular and better paid than the theatre work he’s been doing recently and when I mentioned—’
‘Yes, yes. I know. Say the word “scriptwriter” and suddenly a key new role could appear.’
Marta laughed, embarrassed. ‘Something like that. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s human nature. Well, the nature of all actors, at any rate. Tom Vallely – remind me. What’s he been in?’
Marta ran through some of Tom’s credits.
‘Got him now. Well, as it happens, I do know they’re about to audition for a new role and your Tom sounds like he could be in the zone. Get his agent to call the producer, the timing might be lucky.’
‘Brilliant. Tom will be ecstatic.’
‘It’s just an audition, Marta.’
‘Of course. Even so. Thanks so much.’
‘Let’s have that drink sometime, eh?’
‘Soon. I’d love to.’
‘Life treating you well?’
Marta thought about Jake, his