M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

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.

“Him!” said Penelope when she could. “Have you ever seen such an ugly body? Jesus wept, he’s got breasts like a woman.”

Before anyone could say anything, the door of the room opened and Mr. Jessop, followed by Patricia, burst in.

“What is going on here?” shouted the minister.

“How dare you turn my work into pornography!” screamed Patricia.

Fiona saw disaster and moved quickly. “Come outside and I’ll explain things. We were just rehearsing until their costumes arrived.”

She shooed them out of the room and led them along to her office.

“It’s like this,” she lied. “Actors are used to seeing each other naked. No one thinks anything of it. They’ll be dressed in the actual scene. Penelope will be wearing a nightdress and Gervase pyjamas.”

“I do not believe you,” said Patricia.

“Wait a minute and I’ll arrange for them to show you the actual scene.”

Fiona sped back to the set and said to Giles, “Get them both into nightclothes, and you two, perform a decorous petting scene. Sheila, get a nightgown and pyjamas fast.”

She then went back to the office. “You can see the scene in a few moments.”

“This is a trick,” said Mr. Jessop. “There was some actor telling the locals last night how he was going to have intercourse with that actress.”

“Now, Mr. Jessop,” cooed Fiona, “do you think we would show such a scene? Gervase must have been a bit drunk, and he brags a lot. This is for family viewing. Nudity may be shocking to you, but we’re used to it. I mean, have you seen some of the beaches in Spain, or even Brighton? Nobody thinks anything these days about going naked.”

“You must think us very silly to be taken in by such a story,” said Patricia.

Fiona forced herself to smile calmly. All would be well just so long as this precious pair did not ask for any confirmation in writing.

“Television is a mad world.” She spread her hands ruefully. “But just think. Would we jeopardise our chances of getting the prime family slot on Sunday viewing by showing explicit sex scenes?”

Sheila put her head round the door. “Ready for you.”

“Come along,” said Fiona, “and you’ll see for yourselves.”

Penelope and Gervase, alarmed into good behaviour by the threat that the series might be sabotaged, were now dressed: Penelope in a long Laura Ashley cotton nightgown and Gervase in striped pyjamas rather like the minister’s own. Fiona thought the wretched pair were deliberately hamming it up to make it look and sound like a Victorian courting scene. Certainly they ended up in bed together, but they finished the scene with a chaste kiss.

“And we fade there,” said Fiona brightly.

But old·fashioned Patricia and Mr. Jessop had found it all very tasteful. They did not know that Penelope and Gervase had made up the lines as they went along.

“But they are not married and they are in bed together,” said Mr. Jessop cautiously.

Fiona seized a script and pretended to consult it. “A gamekeeper bursts in at that moment and says, “There’s a body on the beach.” They both hurry off to investigate. Nothing further happens between them.”

Relieved, Patricia and the minister accepted this explanation. They could not believe that these television people would go to such lengths to deceive them. Fiona took them back to the office, served them coffee and talked soothingly and flatteringly about the genius of Patricia’s writing.

Patricia left, feeling quite elated.

Having seen them off the premises and having instructed two men to guard the door of the set in future, Fiona went back into the ‘bedroom.’ Giles was sitting in a corner, clutching his head.

“What the fuck’s up now?” asked Fiona, her temper breaking.

“That bitch,” said Gervase, pointing a shaking finger at Penelope.

“She won’t stop laughing,” mourned Giles.

“You cannot expect me to seriously make love to a man with a body like that,” sneered Penelope.

“Look here,” said Fiona wrathfully, advancing on Penelope. “If you do not do what you are paid to do and keep making trouble, we’ll find someone else.”

“You can’t afford to,” said Penelope, looking at her with dislike. “I hate being pushed around by people. I’ve been pushed around all my life, and I’m not going to take any more of it. Get rid of me? It’d be cheaper to get rid of you . Harry Frame’ll be here later. Let’s see what he has to say about it.”

Fiona tried to laugh it all off. It certainly would be easier to get rid of her than Penelope. “Come on, Penelope,” she coaxed. “Let’s just get the scene done.”

“I’ve a headache now,” said Penelope mulishly. “Tell Harry to come and see me when he arrives.”