Page 5 of Healing Hearts on Thistledown Lane, Part #4

Fraser had met any number of directors over the years, from those whose domain was a provincial theatre with a shoestring budget, to the ones casting global commercials or long-running, much-loved TV shows.

Drama school had taught him to view these gatekeepers with a mixture of terror and respect and, despite an innate confidence in his own ability, it had been a long time before he was able to deliver an audition piece without feeling as though he might vomit at their feet.

But he’d eventually learned to ride the adrenaline wave, to make himself heard over the thudding of his own heart and trust in the meticulous preparation he put into each performance.

He didn’t get every part but he got some, and the failures taught him just as much as the successes.

On the morning he was due to meet Marco Minelli, he had yet to throw up, but the queasiness in his stomach as he waited in the lobby of Glasgow’s Grand Gordon Hotel suggested it was a distinct possibility. It was not a sensation he had missed.

‘Fraser Bell?’

The question came from an immaculately dressed young woman of around twenty-five.

She was smiling at him, and the dazzling whiteness of her teeth would have told him she was an American even if her accent hadn’t.

Although dentists in other countries were catching on to the trend for perfect smiles, so it wasn’t as reliable an indicator as it had been.

‘That’s right,’ he said, standing up.

‘I’m Krystal, Mr Minelli’s assistant,’ she said, offering him her hand. ‘Would you like to follow me? We’re ready for you now.’

She led him across the black and white marbled lobby to a bank of lifts.

Fraser took the opportunity to check his reflection in the smoked glass mirror on the far wall as they waited; whatever came from the meeting, first impressions counted.

He’d gone for smart casual – a cashmere jumper beneath his charcoal suit, rather than a shirt and tie.

Thankfully, he saw nothing in the mirror to cause him any concern.

No suddenly materialising trail of toilet roll attached to his shoe, no stubborn lick of hair standing on end.

He suspected there was probably a large dose of rabbit-in-the-headlights around his eyes and forced himself to drop his shoulders.

However impressive his achievements, Marco Minelli was only human.

And he had asked to see Fraser, not the other way round.

He’d been in eye-wateringly expensive hotel suites before – usually when briefly visiting the paying guest, although he’d once been upgraded in Turin and hadn’t believed his luck – but he’d never been in one as luxurious as the one Marco Minelli was occupying.

It was on the sixth floor, accessed via a private lift that travelled from the floor below and was attended by a liveried concierge who nodded with old school deference as they entered.

There were only two doors lining the thickly carpeted corridor, one on each side.

Krystal waved a key card at the door on their right and Fraser tried hard not to react as she ushered him into the opulence that lay beyond.

A mirrored entrance hall opened into an airy sitting room, where floor to ceiling windows draped with gold brocade curtains framed the view over Glasgow’s rooftops.

Cream velvet sofas surrounded a marble-topped coffee table and an oversized gilt chandelier hung from the high ceiling.

A delicately embroidered Persian rug softened the practicality of the dark wood parquet flooring.

An aria soared from unseen speakers – Fraser recognised it as Puccini, although he couldn’t identify the soprano singing.

As he followed Krystal into the room, he saw corridors snaking to the right and left, lined with tall windows that offered the same spectacular view. He guessed the suite must cover one half of the entire top floor and didn’t want to think how much it cost per night.

Krystal waved a hand at the immaculate sofas.

‘Have a seat and I’ll let Mr Minelli know you’re here,’ she said.

‘Can I offer you a drink? We have a range of teas, freshly brewed coffee, or I’m sure our private chef can whip you up a juice or smoothie if you prefer.

And there’s a fully stocked bar if you’d like something stronger. ’

Fraser did his best to project an easy confidence, as though he found himself in command of a private chef every day. ‘Just coffee, thanks. Black, no sugar.’

She nodded. ‘Sure. Make yourself comfortable.’

Perching on the edge the sofa facing the fireplace, Fraser listened as the aria swelled to a dramatic climax, the soprano’s voice aching with sorrow as she delivered the final anguished notes, and then died away.

Now that he was alone, he allowed himself a discreet breath in and out to counter the sense of unreality that had come over him on entering the suite.

Everything about the situation felt like a scene from a movie, right down to his own ambivalence about meeting Marco Minelli at all; he couldn’t shake the feeling he was playing a role.

Perhaps that was the best way to get through the next hour, he thought, reaching out to lift the cover of a magazine on the coffee table.

He could play the part of an actor keen to land the role of a lifetime.

But he strongly suspected Minelli would see through that in an instant.

Better to just be himself and see how things played out, he decided.

The opening bars of another aria floated on the air but Fraser thought the volume was more muted, as though lowered to allow conversation.

Feeling a prickle of sweat break out on his back, he rose to peel off his suit jacket, wondering if there might be a hanger inside one of the hall cupboards.

The last thing he wanted was to be caught rummaging in places he shouldn’t be, however, so he laid it over the arm of the sofa, where it looked untidy.

Hesitating, he was about to put the jacket back on when the whisper of footsteps from one of the corridors made him sink down into the sofa, easing back against the meticulously placed cushions and hurriedly adopting an air of relaxed curiosity.

‘Fraser.’

Glancing around, he saw Marco Minelli striding towards him, looking exactly as he had on every glossy magazine cover and in every interview Fraser had ever seen him give. He wore a navy blue roll-neck jumper and jeans, and his hand was outstretched in greeting.

‘It’s good to meet you at last.’

‘You too,’ Fraser said. Up close, Minelli’s wavy black hair was threaded with grey and the skin around his eyes was criss-crossed with fine lines as he smiled.

His olive tan owed much to his Mediterranean roots, although Fraser knew he’d grown up in America.

The handshake was firm but not intimidatingly so.

He exuded presence, demanded attention, to the point where Fraser hadn’t even noticed Krystal following him into the room.

She skirted round the sofa to place two cups on the coffee table, before backtracking to scoop up Fraser’s jacket and disappearing into the hall.

She returned a moment later and took a seat at the far end of the sofa Marco Minelli had just settled into.

Fraser sat too. The coffee steamed invitingly but he didn’t dare reach for it in case his hands shook and caused the cup to rattle against the saucer, which would seriously undermine the chilled out professionalism he was trying to project.

Now that he was face to face with Minelli, the armour provided by decades of experience seemed to have fallen away – he might as well be in his first year of drama school for all the quaking anxiety rumbling through him.

It didn’t help that the director’s dark eyes were fixed upon him, his brows drawn together in an assessing frown as though he knew exactly how Fraser was shaking inside. It was hardly Leading Man energy.

‘Sam tells me you’re taking a break from acting,’ Minelli said, without preamble. ‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

It was a question Fraser had been expecting. ‘I lost the hunger for it,’ he said simply. ‘I still loved telling stories but the desire to fight a hundred other actors for each role disappeared. I realised I was just going through the motions, so I decided to try something new.’

‘Your ghost stories at the castle,’ Minelli said, nodding. ‘I read about that.’

A hot rush of embarrassment blossomed in the pit of Fraser’s stomach.

Coming from such an accomplished director, the job he’d abandoned acting for sounded ridiculously trivial.

He willed his cheeks not to redden. ‘It’s reignited my love of performing.

The immediacy of the audience reaction has reminded me why I got into acting in the first place. ’

The director studied him thoughtfully. ‘It’s a tough business, that’s for sure. Anything that reminds us why we do it is worth pursuing.’ He shifted on the sofa, leaning back to contemplate Fraser with an unwavering gaze. ‘How much do you know about my work?’

Fraser took a breath. He’d anticipated this question too, had spent several hours reading up on Minelli’s past projects and directorial style.

‘I know you’re a perfectionist,’ he began.

‘You demand the best from everyone you work with, whether that’s your actors, the sound engineers or the post-production colourist. You’re prepared to cut entire scenes if they don’t come up to scratch and you aren’t afraid to take risks.

You’re innovative, brilliant and uncompromising, which is why your work stands head and shoulders above the competition, and why you win awards. You do things differently.’