Death of a Scriptwriter Read Online Free Page B

other.
    ‘What you need to do is take the framework of the plot, all those tides and things,’ said Fiona, ‘and then add some spice.’
    After a long harangue about the English in general and Patricia’s writing in particular, Jamie said, ‘But I could do it this way. You say we’ll get Penelope Gates? Right. You
want the sixties feel. Lots of sixties songs. In the books, Lady Harriet is middle-aged. I say, let’s make her young and hip. I know, runs a commune in that castle of hers. Bit of pot. Love
interest.’
    ‘In the book,’ said Sheila, ‘it’s Major Derwent.’
    ‘Let’s see,’ said Jamie, ignoring her, ‘we’ll have a Highland police inspector, real chauvinist pig. And our Harriet seduces him and gets information about the case
out of him. Lots of shagging in the heather.’
    ‘We won’t get the family slot on Sunday night,’ said Fiona cautiously.
    Jamie snorted. ‘We’ll get it, all right. Who the hell is going to object to pot smoking these days? No full frontal, either, just a flash of thigh and a bit of boob.’
    Sheila let her mind drift off. Poor Patricia up in the Highlands, dreaming of glory. What on earth would she think when she saw the result? The air about Sheila was blue with four-letter words,
but she had become accustomed to bleeping them out. Someone had once said that you could always tell what people were afraid of by the swear words they used.
    After six months Patricia began to become anxious. What if nothing happened? Pheasant Books had not phoned her, and she was too proud and, at the same time, too afraid of
rejection to phone them. She had not heard from her old publisher, either.
    The Highlands were in the grip of deep midwinter. There was hardly any daylight, and she seemed to be living in a long tunnel of perpetual night.
    She began to regret that she had not furthered her friendship with that policeman over in Lochdubh. It would have been someone to talk to. She had diligently tried to write again, but somehow
the words would not come.
    At last she phoned the police station in Lochdubh. When Hamish answered, she said, ‘This is Patricia Martyn-Broyd. Do you remember me?’
    ‘Oh, yes, you stood me up,’ said Hamish cheerfully.
    ‘I am sorry, but you see . . .’ She told Hamish all about the television deal, ending with a cautious, ‘Perhaps you might be free for dinner tomorrow night?’
    ‘Aye, that would be grand,’ said Hamish. ‘That Italian restaurant?’
    ‘I will see you there at eight,’ said Patricia.
    But on the following day, the outside world burst in on Patricia’s seclusion. Harry Frame phoned to tell her he had got funding for the series.
    ‘From the BBC?’ asked Patricia eagerly.
    ‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘BBC Scotland.’
    ‘Not national?’
    ‘Oh, it will go national all right,’ Harry gave his beefy laugh. ‘The fact that we’re going to dramatize your books has already been in some of the papers. Haven’t
you seen anything?’
    Patricia took The Times , but she only read the obituaries and did the crossword. She wondered, however, why no reporter had contacted her.
    ‘We’re sending you the contracts,’ said Harry. ‘You should get them tomorrow.’
    Then Pheasant Books phoned to say they would like to publish The Case of the Rising Tides to coincide with the start of the television series. They offered a dismal amount of money, but
Patricia was too happy to care. She took a deep breath and said she would travel down to London immediately to sign the contract.
    She packed quickly and drove down to Inverness to catch the London train.
    Hamish Macbeth sat alone in the restaurant that evening. Crazy old bat, he thought.
     
Chapter Two
    Oh! how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding-ring!
    – Colley Cibber
    Penelope Gates stood for a moment at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the flat she shared with her husband. She wondered for the umpteenth time why she had been stupid
enough to get married. No