Scotlander, p.1
Scotlander, page 1
ALSO BY SHEILA McCLURE
The Break-Up Agency
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2023 by Sheila McClure
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662505324
eISBN: 9781662505317
Cover design by The Brewster Project
Cover image: © StudioThreeDots / Getty Images; © Cosmic_Design © Valentina Vectors © M_Videous © stas11 © arigato © smym © Millena © NGvozdeva / Shutterstock
To my own Scotlander: For the record?
I would walk five hundred miles.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
ORLA’S READY BY TEATIME MILLIONAIRE’S SHORTBREAD
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Follow the Author on Amazon
Chapter One
‘Here she is! LA’s very own Miss Reliable!’
Willa smiled at the ultra-petite publicist doing jazz hands, then glanced over her shoulder to see who had entered the Paramount Pictures’s hospitality suite behind her.
The doorway was empty.
Her shoulders slumped a fraction. Was it finally the time to give up hope that she’d ever be the fun one?
In fairness, she wasn’t exactly exuding Girl Who Sets a Room on Fire vibes.
She was wearing her least wrinkled dress and sporting hair in what could, by the longest of stretches, be called an up-do (read: neon pink scrunchie savagely wrapped around her bum-length hair to an entirely accidental messy bun effect). She wasn’t wearing make-up and had probably forgotten to sweep what little sleep she had from her eyes. She was also (Gasp! Shock! Horror!) flagrantly committing the cardinal sin of wearing open-toed sandals when she hadn’t had a mani-pedi since that bright, sunny day seven long weeks ago when she’d dressed up to the nines for her best friend’s funeral.
A pitter-pat of fingertips on a press packet pulled her attention back to the publicist. She looked young. Super young. Barely old enough to be trusted to babysit tiny humans let alone the roomful of entertainment reporters draped on the various couches and armchairs dappled around the corner suite as they awaited their five-to-ten minutes of sharing the spotlight with Hollywood’s greatest.
Just as Willa was about to ask her if this was Bring Your Daughter To Work Day, the publicist launched into what sounded like a prepared speech. ‘On behalf of the entire publicity team, we just wanted to say that, like, we’re so glad you could make it. As Fast As You Can is such an important film.’ She crossed both sets of fingers. ‘We’re hoping for Oscars! And after we heard about . . .’ She made a quick scan of the room as she hiss-whispered, ‘Aubrey’s accident . . . we were worried it wouldn’t get that initial punch of publicity that is so important to a film which, I’m not ashamed to admit it, made me cry all my waterproof mascara off. I mean, Ben’s performance alone delivers such a powerful emotive punch to the nation’s psyche, and don’t even get me started on Rachel!’
Ermm . . . This was a futuristic film about a beautiful vegetable gardener forced to rely on the kindness of a bereaved dot-com billionaire to plant the world’s remaining packet of heritage tomato seeds.
‘Yes.’ Willa dutifully nodded. ‘I’m so happy to be a part of the campaign.’
For a nano-second this caught Baby Publicist off guard. Willa knew what she was thinking. Oh, you’re not actually part of it. But we let you think you are. And then, as if the moment had been entirely a figment of Willa’s imagination, Baby Publicist brightly continued. ‘Can you even believe how insane traffic was this morning? We literally had to chopper the talent in from the hotel in Santa Monica.’ She cupped her cupid lips between her palms and whispered, ‘Rachel won’t stay here. Says they don’t use enough environmentally friendly products. Anyhoodle! Sharon’s running late but is promising to be here and to see everyone. You’re a genuine hero for getting here, Willa. Heroine,’ she deftly corrected. ‘It’s all about the lay-deeez in LA, am I right?’
No. She wasn’t. But the poor thing had shadows under her eyes and was clearly operating courtesy of a caffeine overload, so Willa made an umhmm noise that she hoped sounded companionable.
It worked.
Baby Publicist put out a fist to bump. ‘Us worker bees have to stick together, yeah?’
Coming from actual worker bee stock, Willa still found these moments awkward. Even though it was Sunday morning, and this was technically work, they were on the upper floors of one of LA’s lushest hotels, surrounded by chef-made delectables and being handed amazing swag bags with fleets of make-up artists hovering on standby as, at this very moment, film stars were being shuttled into their nearby suites (with fancier snacks and bigger swag bags and personal make-up artists).
There were discreet waitstaff to hand. Long-term employees who not only knew the names of all the on-air reporters, but those of the segment producers, like Willa, who did off-camera interviews when their ‘talent’ was indisposed after an ‘accident’. More importantly, the staff here at the Four Seasons knew what all of them liked to eat. If they were pescatarian, vegetarian, vegan, a carbovore. They knew who wanted their cafe lattes with hazelnut milk, who only drank sparkling water with a wedge of grapefruit in it, and who took their iced tea sweet like the southern belle she was rather than straight up, California style. If you had to run off and interview someone before you could finish any of the above, it would be magicked away so that when you returned, often minutes later, you could start afresh.
As Willa met Baby Publicist’s knuckles and forced her face into a what-can-you-do-about-Sunday-morning-traffic face, she was shocked to catch herself thinking . . . this is bullshit.
At her father’s auto repair shop, if you wanted coffee? You’d pour it yourself. Albeit reluctantly. That pot had burnt so many gallons of coffee in its time there was a crust. If you wanted a clean mug? You settled for ‘clean enough’ and used a bit of grease-free shirt sleeve to swipe the edge because the blue paper towel had run out earlier in the week. Bliss compared to the middle school where her mother, in between corralling underprivileged children into her Family and Consumer Sciences classes, taught the under-underprivileged kids some basic survival skills, like how to stay clean when Mom forgot to pay the utilities bill.
Her parents were the most practical and altruistic humans she knew. Which meant, of course, that they thought Willa’s entire career trajectory was not only foolish for its absence of do-goodery (all that time wasted watching television? No, thank you), but unsustainable (dreams are called dreams for a reason, Willy).
Baby Publicist pressed two tiny palms to her elfin A-cup chest, her eyes full of Disney sorrow as she stage-whispered, ‘Back to Aubrey? Is it, like, serious?’
Not if you used something other than Willa’s best friend dying of breast cancer at thirty-one and leaving a bereaved husband and two toddlers in her wake as a comparison.
But this was Hollywood. A place where people didn’t like actual pain, so she supposed Aubrey’s ‘accident’ ranked up there. She briefly considered explaining how the cherished anchor of Topline in Tinseltown (aka TiTs) drank half her size-zero body weight in vodka at a Friends Reunited Again after party only to have an epic marble-floor face plant as she showed off her pole dancing skills on her new film director boyfriend’s four-poster bed. Alas, before Willa could spill the beans, a woman from a Boston affiliate strode into the suite – ‘Oh my gawd! If it isn’t Miss Fun!’ – and Willa was rendered invisible.
Heigh-ho.
As she turned away from the desk, another publicist raced into the room, clipboard in hand. Priya Semple. Of all the publicists she’d worked with over the years, Priya was her favourite. If she hadn’t been happily ensconced at the Paramount lot for so long, she could have easily set up a positivity cult. She exuded sunbeams. Over the years, they’d organised countless interviews and set visits together, so it didn’t surprise her when Priya scurried up to the check-in desk then did a double take in Willa’s direction.
‘Babes! Hyieee! I barely recognised you.’
Again, Willa did a who me? glance over her shoulder. Instead of another reporter, she caught a glimpse of Ben Affleck being escorted by a team of purposeful vice-presidents of publicity to his suite. Their eyes caught and a glint of recognition stopped him in his tracks. ‘Hey, Canada!’ he called out with a wink and a double blast of finger pistols. ‘How’s tricks?’
She gave him a thumbs-up because she’d long ago given up explaining to the man she’d interviewed dozens of times over the past eight years that she was still, and always would be, from Oregon. Pendleton, if he was asking. Which, of course, he wasn’t because he was already gone.
Instinctively, she stuffed her hand in her tote to text Valentina. This kind of thing literally made her weep with laughter. As she wiped away her tears, she would also ask Willa for the thousandth time when she was going to get a job that brought her actual, bona fide joy.
The first thing Willa’s hand came into contact with was the embossed envelope from the lawyer’s office. She ran a finger along it only to receive a paper cut in return. A stinging reminder that the one person in LA who’d been genuinely interested in where she was from wasn’t here any more.
As she stuck her finger in her mouth to suck away the blood, she saw that Priya was giving her a knowing grin. ‘You and Ben, huh? Buds forever?’
In lieu of waiting for an answer, Priya gave Willa a proper once over, sucked in a double lungful of air, then heaved it all out with a weighted, ‘God, you’re looking good. Stick thin, you lucky thing! That dress is hanging super sweet. Who is it? Vera? Rosa?’ She scrunched her features into an adorable dare-I-say-it-out-loud face. ‘It isn’t from Goop, is it?’
Willa looked down at the dress she’d bought at Target three years ago. A basic, flowery midi she’d definitely strained the seams of a few months back. She was generally a size ten in a size-zero town, so this should feel like a compliment. For some reason it jarred.
Priya did a happy, wiggly dance. ‘Seriously gorge. Look at your collarbones. They’re popping.’ She leant in and asked, sotto voce, ‘Have you been on the mushroom smoothies?’ then did a double take at Willa’s bewildered expression. ‘Oh god. Sorry. You’re not . . . sick . . . are you?’
There were a number of things she could say here.
No.
That her heart was broken and she had no idea how to put it back together again.
Or, perhaps the most relevant: now that Valentina was gone, she was beginning to wonder if her life here in Tinseltown was as soulless and unfulfilling as the rest of her family made it out to be.
All of the above were true. But the only words threatening to tumble out of her mouth were, I’m so sad. So unbelievably, bone-achingly sad.
She didn’t give in to the urge. Being honest meant she’d start to cry, never stop, cause a scene and get fired. With everything she’d lost recently, she at least had the wherewithal to know her job couldn’t be next, so instead she put on her best you’ll-never-believe-it face and said, ‘Mushroom smoothies are so amazing.’
‘Really?’ Priya stepped in a bit closer, her voice turning confessional. ‘I was tempted, but I always thought they sounded kind of gross.’
Oh thank god.
Willa wiped some invisible sweat off her forehead, stupidly grateful for the rare moment of honesty. ‘I lied. Never had one. Never plan to.’
Then Priya looked at her. Really looked at her. ‘You know? I’ve seen you at, like, a million of these things and we never get to chat. Would you like to grab a smoothie sometime? A good one? And not to talk business, just to – you know – start an anti-mushroom smoothie campaign or something.’
The invitation landed like a salve she hadn’t known she’d needed. ‘Yeah. I’d really like that.’
‘You’ve got my numbers, right?’
Willa patted her pocket, the international sign for got them on my phone. ‘I’ll text you.’
And then, before either of them could find a way to extract themselves from something that felt very much like the beginnings of an actual conversation, another publicist flew to the door and called Willa’s name.
Chapter Two
‘Look at your shaggy little bedhead.’ Charlie Foster, a long-term producer from an ABC affiliate, plopped a plate piled high with bacon and two suspiciously vodka-scented celery sticks on to the table, then folded himself into one of his long-limbed origami poses on the chair next to Willa’s. ‘You’re so lucky you’re not on camera.’ He air-patted his own heavily done-up face, then washed the air in front of hers. ‘It must be so nice not having to worry about your looks.’
Willa smiled but they both knew it wasn’t a compliment. They’d started on the junket circuit about the same time, eight years ago. Despite his periodic on-air appearances when their own ‘talent’ was unavailable, Charlie had always had his eye on a job at TiTs. Specifically, Willa’s job. As such, their relationship was that type of saccharine sweet I’m-being-nice-but-underneath-you-know-that-I-know-you-stole-the-life-I-was-meant-to-be-living.
‘Sooooo . . . ?’ Charlie poked at his bacon with his index finger. He looked disturbingly close to an immaculately dressed, oversized kitten batting a ball of string. ‘How was Bennnnn?’
She flipped her hand in a so-so gesture then made a sad-clown face.
Ben had actually poured his guts out about his former marriage, his current marriage, lessons in humility he’d learnt as a parent and, more recently, as an advocate for Paralysed Veterans of America. Then, wiping actual tears from his eyes, told her she was like a maple-syrup-scented truth serum and invited her to help next time he hosted a soup kitchen for another one of his charities. But the interview was embargoed until tomorrow night so she couldn’t say anything.
Which was hard considering her opening question – Hey, Ben. Which side are your eggs flipped on today? – had elicited such an outpouring of emotion.
Not that this was the first time something like this had happened. It was known as The Willa Effect at TiTs. An ability to ask an entirely bland question only to have a celebrity respond like a person in desperate need of a confessional. Aubrey said it was because stars felt ‘deeply unintimidated’ by Willa’s ‘mid-Western presence’.
Geography was not Aubrey’s strongpoint. Nor was tact.
‘No, seriously,’ Charlie persisted. ‘What did he say?’
‘The usual.’
Charlie tsked her answer away. ‘Willa Jenkins! Do not withhold crucial pre-interview information from me. I heard he was hugging it out with some Canadian reporter when he was on the way to his room and my boss wants soundbites on . . .’ He held out a hand and started ticking off fingers. ‘. . . both of the Jens, the kids, the charity stuff, and something about mocktails at an after-party on a yacht fuelled by French fry grease. We’re doing a segment on Sober-Eco-Friendly Celebs.’ He shuddered at the last bit, then, giving his bacon a glance, curled his lips and said to the room, ‘Could someone get this away from me, please?’
Willa gave him her best side-eye.
‘Seriously, Willa.’ He leant in and spoke in a hushed tone. ‘Give me dirt. If TMZ gazumps me one more time this pretty face might not be hitting HD screens in an-y-bod-y’s home ever again.’
She looked at the bacon, the approaching waiter and then at Charlie.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she was ravenous. And angry. Did he not understand what an amazing job he had? Rocking up to five-star hotels, ‘kept waiting’ in a room filled to the brim with Michelin-level snacks so he could interview celebrities the so-called average person only dreamt of meeting?
She held out a hand and stopped the waiter. To Charlie she said, ‘Are you actually going to waste all of that bacon?’
‘It’s ick.’
‘It isn’t ick. It’s quality food.’
He snorted. ‘Willa, stop being weird. I like it when you’re nice.’ He stage-whispered, ‘Are you on right now?’
