Page 3 of Healing Hearts on Thistledown Lane, Part #4

It was no good, Fraser thought as Sam’s number flashed up on the screen of his phone for the second time that morning. After weeks of hitting mute, he was going to have to speak to his agent.

‘Finally!’ Sam’s voice exploded from the speaker the moment the call connected. ‘I was beginning to think you’d lost both your hands in some terrible supernatural accident.’

Fraser perched on the edge of his sofa. ‘I’ve replied to your emails,’ he said defensively. ‘Some of your emails.’

‘Two,’ Sam said. ‘And that was months ago. Where have you been, Fraser? Under a tombstone?’

That caused the corners of Fraser’s mouth to twitch. ‘You know where I’ve been,’ he said after a moment. ‘In Edinburgh, running walking tours. I’m not acting anymore, remember?’

‘Of course I remember,’ Sam huffed. ‘But I have Marco Minelli’s people breathing down my neck. He wants you for his new blockbuster and he won’t take no for an answer.’

The name made Fraser pause. Marco Minelli was film industry royalty – everything he directed turned to box office gold and he was used to getting whatever, or whomever, he wanted.

No wonder Sam had been so desperate to get hold of him.

But the news raised more questions than it answered.

While Fraser had achieved some notable success throughout his acting career, he couldn’t imagine any of the roles he’d played catching the eye of someone like Minelli.

‘Are you sure it’s me he wants?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘There isn’t another Fraser Bell he’s confusing me with? ’

Sam’s tone was dry. ‘Credit me with some sense, Fraser. They linked to your IMDb profile – it’s definitely you he wants.

’ He paused. ‘To be honest, I was as surprised as you at first. But a director like Marco Minelli does not come calling every day. When he does, you don’t ask if he’s confused you with someone else. ’

Fraser couldn’t argue. There’d been a time when he would have crawled over hot coals to work with such a stellar director.

But that had been before he’d made the decision to change career.

‘Is this a wind-up, Sam? Something to suck me back in before you hit me with another fast food commercial audition?’

‘Would I do that?’ Sam said, now sounding wounded. ‘Look, I know you said you’re out of the game but seriously, Fraser, you don’t need me to tell you this could change your life. Marco. Minelli. You’d be an overnight superstar.’

Fraser’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘An overnight superstar who actually took twenty years to go supernova.’

‘Never mind that now,’ Sam dismissed. ‘He wants to talk to you – get the measure of you before he offers you the role.’

There was no doubt it was flattering, but Fraser had known his agent a long time.

He still wasn’t convinced Sam wasn’t making the whole thing up to reel him back in for the kind of smaller role he’d left acting to escape.

‘Even if I was interested, I’ve got commitments here in Edinburgh,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘I can’t just take off to London at a moment’s notice.

‘You don’t need to. He’s going to be in Glasgow. He’ll meet you there.’

Fraser laughed. The thought of Minelli hanging out in Glasgow was possibly the most unbelievable moment of the conversation so far. ‘Doesn’t he live in LA?’

‘Yes.’ Sam drew the word out with exaggerated patience. ‘But we have these things called aeroplanes; they move people from one place to another. Apparently, he needs to check out some locations so he’ll be in Glasgow next month.’

That was interesting, Fraser thought; his interest piqued in spite of himself. ‘So the film is set in Scotland?’

‘I don’t have all the details,’ Sam said. ‘But it was pitched to me as Trainspotting meets Ocean’s Eleven .’

Fraser considered what he knew of both films. It was hard to imagine two plots with less in common. ‘Right.’

Sam seemed to sense he was losing him. ‘Okay, I know it’s not exactly your thing but think of all the roles it would lead to. You could be the next Gerard Butler – the next Clooney.’ He hesitated, then went for broke. ‘The next Connery.’

Fraser laughed again. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any more preposterous. ‘Seriously? I thought Nick Borrowdale was all set to be the next Bond.’

‘Okay, you might have to wait a few years for that,’ Sam replied expansively. ‘But it definitely won’t happen if you don’t take a chance. All you have to do is meet Marco. What have you got to lose?’

When he put it like that, it was harder for Fraser to argue. ‘When?’

‘Obviously, I don’t have a date right now,’ Sam said. ‘I wasn’t sure you were still alive, for a start. But I’ll speak to Minelli’s assistant and get back to you. Watch this space.’

Fraser closed his eyes. It would be like the bad old days, when his life had revolved around last-minute dashes to auditions and inevitable disappointment when they came to nothing. ‘Sam—’

‘I know, I know,’ Sam said soothingly. ‘But it will all be worth it when he offers you the part.’

Would it? Fraser wondered, but he could already feel the pull of temptation.

He needed to remember all the times Sam had made similar proclamations, only for his hopes to be crushed.

It was a rollercoaster he hadn’t missed since moving to Edinburgh, that was for sure. ‘I’ll think about it. No promises.’

‘Good man,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more. You won’t regret this.’

‘I already do,’ Fraser said, before realising he was talking to himself. Sam had rung off.

He spent a moment or two staring out of the window, watching the clouds scud across the pale blue sky.

The world Marco Minelli inhabited was a million miles away from anything Fraser had experienced, even when he’d been doing well enough to attend glamorous London parties or pose on the red carpet, and the revelation that the director was inexplicably interested in Fraser was starting to feel like a dream.

Even so, he picked up his phone and tapped out a message to an old friend. It wouldn’t hurt to get the lie of the land, would it? And if anyone had their finger on the pulse of who was hot and who wasn’t in the film business, it was Nick Borrowdale.

‘I can’t believe you did this.’

Fraser stared across the table of Edinburgh’s most exclusive restaurant, taking in the grin of his old drama school friend.

Only a celebrity of Nick Borrowdale’s calibre could sail into Wallace’s without a reservation and be ushered to a prime lunch spot without a murmur, and Fraser was happy to travel in his wake.

Nick was one of the happy few whose career had taken off after he’d landed the lead in a BBC adaptation when he was in his mid-twenties, and it had shown no signs of slowing down since.

When Hollywood had come calling, he’d taken the elevation in his stride, while somehow managing to remember his roots and remain one of the nicest people in the business.

If he wasn’t his friend, Fraser would probably hate him.

‘I’m between jobs,’ Nick said, his trademark Irish brogue as undimmed as the day Fraser had first met him.

‘It only takes an hour or so to fly from London to Edinburgh and this felt like a conversation we needed to have in person. And since you never come south of the border these days, I had to come to you.’ He glanced around the restaurant, catching the eye of the starstruck waitress and flashing her a charming smile.

‘Besides, I love Edinburgh. I was glad of the excuse to hop on the plane.’

‘You’ve changed,’ Fraser said, with mock reproof. ‘I still remember when you had to scrape together the train fare to go from London to Elstree.’

‘Me too,’ Nick said cheerfully. ‘But luckily for you, I’ve got a bit more change down the back of the sofa these days.’ Sinking his fork into a buttery new potato, he fixed Fraser with a look. ‘So, the big time is knocking at your door, is it? I can’t say I’m surprised.’

Fraser chewed ruminatively on a mouthful of steak. ‘Is it, though? I’ve only got Sam’s word for it.’

Nick shrugged. ‘There’s definitely a script and Minelli is on board. Rumour has it the Oscars are being engraved already.’

That gave Fraser a moment’s pause. Hearing it from Nick gave things a solidity, and the mention of the Oscars sent a thrill chasing along his spine, even though he knew any awards would be for Minelli. ‘If it’s such a stellar role, why aren’t you up for it?’

‘A schedule clash,’ Nick said, lifting his glass of red. ‘There’s only one of me, sadly, and even I can’t be on two continents at the same time.’

Fraser raised his eyebrows. ‘Not even for an Oscar? What’s the other role?’

‘I’m sworn to secrecy,’ Nick replied, dropping an exaggerated wink. ‘But even if I was available, the truth is that I’m not right for the part – I can’t do a Scottish accent to save my life, for a start. It’s perfect for you, though. Are you sure you’re not tempted?’

‘We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I wasn’t tempted,’ Fraser pointed out. ‘But you know what acting is like – the audience can smell it a mile off when your heart isn’t in the role. And it’s been a long time since I felt the love for telling a story.’

It wasn’t strictly true – he loved doing the ghost tours, watching the audience fall under his spell and live every word of the tales he spun.

But that wasn’t what was on offer here. In the film industry, the audience reaction occurred long after the performance had been captured.

If they loved it, he’d only know by reading the critics’ reviews.

Nick eyed him closely. ‘You’d be working with the best. That can be powerful.’

Fraser tipped his head. ‘I know all about the Minelli magic, but that’s the other thing. From what Sam said, the concept sounds mad.’

His friend laughed. ‘I can’t argue with that.

But I got the impression that the script is still a work in progress so that might change.

And actually, it doesn’t matter too much because you’ve already put your finger on the salient point, which is that Marco is a maestro who can spin straw into gold.

Most actors would sell their own mothers to work with him. ’

That was certainly true, Fraser thought. ‘A few years ago, maybe,’ he admitted, and thought guiltily of his mum, who had always been his biggest fan and would probably volunteer to be sold if she thought it would help. ‘Not my mother, though. Maybe my dad.’

‘You don’t have to sell either,’ Nick said, pointing his fork at Fraser for emphasis. ‘You, my friend, have been chosen.’

‘But how?’ Fraser asked, repeating the question that had been bothering him ever since his conversation with Sam. ‘How does someone like Marco Minelli even know who I am? Surely I can’t have been in anything he could have seen.’

Nick fired a mischievous grin across the table. ‘Maybe he’s a fried chicken man.’

‘My point exactly,’ Fraser said, trying not to groan.

‘You could always ask him,’ Nick suggested. ‘You know, when you go to meet him.’ He gazed at Fraser thoughtfully. ‘Unless there’s something you’re not telling me. Something that’s worth more than the glittering opportunity you’ve dreamt about since drama school.’

For all Nick was his friend, Fraser wasn’t sure he could explain why he hadn’t immediately leapt at the chance to meet Minelli.

The quiet enjoyment he’d found doing the walking tours wasn’t anything like the extraordinary career Nick enjoyed.

It paid more than enough to meet Fraser’s needs, as well as supporting two other storytellers, but it wasn’t even close to the status offered by appearing on TV or in a successful movie.

It didn’t offer the plaudits or gravitas of performing night after night on stage, nor was it going to win him an Oscar or see him invited to A-list parties, but for Fraser, that didn’t matter.

His audience might be small but they left him having been thoroughly entertained, and that gave him no small amount of job satisfaction.

The challenge of finding new ways to grow Dead Famous into a thriving business drove him out of bed each morning and even Edinburgh’s notoriously capricious weather couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm.

Having been at the mercy of casting directors for so long, he liked knowing he was in charge of his own creative endeavours.

It was the sense that now, at last, he was enough.

How could he explain any of that to Nick, who had probably forgotten what it was like to be rejected?

‘I think I’m happy with what I have,’ Fraser said at length. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much, running tours and telling ghost stories every night, but it’s steady. Predictable. Enjoyable.’

‘The complete opposite of an acting career, in other words,’ Nick said dryly.

Fraser dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘I like having the audience so close,’ he went on.

‘Reading their reactions and judging when to ramp up the drama and when to tone it down so I have them in the palm of my hand the whole time. The stories might be the same but the performances change from night to night. I’m never bored. ’

His friend nodded. ‘I can see why you don’t want to give that up.’ He eyed Fraser meditatively. ‘Although when I heard you’d broken up with Naomi, I did wonder whether perhaps you’d fallen in love with more than just the city.’

There was no doubt what he was getting at and, unbidden, an image of Maura popped into Fraser’s head.

He couldn’t deny how important she’d become to him, but he wasn’t sure he could explain that to Nick either.

Apart from anything else, he strongly suspected his protestations that he and Maura were just good friends would be met with raised eyebrows and unbridled scepticism.

It was a conversation he’d rather not have.

‘The chance would be a fine thing,’ he said, falling back on the time-honoured response to questions of romance. ‘I don’t have the time.’

Eyeing him over his wine glass, Nick shook his head.

‘I think I need to see you perform the role that’s making you turn down Marco Minelli.

Any chance of a ticket?’ A fellow diner passed the table, goggling first at Nick and then eyeballing Fraser, as though checking whether he was equally famous.

Nick’s mouth twitched. ‘I could wear a cap, loiter at the back.’

It would take more than a hat to disguise Nick’s identity, Fraser felt, but he wasn’t about to say no – not when his friend had dropped everything to listen to his problems. ‘I think that can be arranged, although I don’t know if you’ll be able to get back to London afterwards.’

‘Who said anything about that?’ Nick asked, and winked. ‘How do you fancy a flatmate for the night?’