Page 9 of Healing Hearts on Thistledown Lane, Part #4

It wasn’t that Fraser disliked having to spend more time in London.

The city was as bright and bustling as ever, its brash charm beguiling and energising now that he had a concrete reason to be there.

And he couldn’t complain about the way he’d been looked after.

On the day he was due to meet the producers, he’d been picked up from his hotel by a chauffeured car and whisked to an expensive restaurant, where Minelli and Sam were already waiting.

The meeting had gone better than he could have dreamed, although he suspected he had Minelli’s influence to thank for that, and Sam had been full of praise when they’d caught up the next morning.

‘You wowed them,’ he said over breakfast. ‘It’s the start of something big, I can feel it. ’

Even so, Fraser had been glad to get back to Edinburgh. No smartly dressed chauffeur had held up a sign bearing his name when he’d made his way through the arrivals gate at the airport, and he’d taken the bus into the city centre before hopping onto the tram to Leith.

There’d been a cluster of photographers outside the restaurant, shouting Minelli’s name as their cameras whirred and flashed – Fraser hadn’t enjoyed that.

A day or two later, one of the tabloids had leaked the news that he’d been cast in Minelli’s new blockbuster.

But in Edinburgh, no one had the faintest idea who he was, and no one cared.

It was a blessed relief after the whirlwind of London.

He’d been glad to slip back into the routine of the walking tours too.

Thankfully, it seemed the gossip columnists had yet to find out what Fraser did when he wasn’t being wined and dined by Hollywood executives, but he had a sinking feeling it was only a matter of time.

In the meantime, he was determined to savour the comfortable familiarity of the stories he’d been telling for more than a year while he still could.

Maura’s silence was another thing that had been troubling him.

Now that he’d handed over responsibility for the day-to-day ghost production to Tom, he’d missed seeing his phone light up with her name.

He suspected she was focused on work; he’d managed to squeeze in a visit to the exhibition at the castle and had been blown away by the talent and skill she’d poured into it.

Every piece was unique, but she had somehow managed to create a sense of symbiosis between them all, plunging her audience into the majesty of both the city and its castle.

His heart swelled with pride as he listened to the awed comments of those stood near him in the barracks.

Several pieces had stickers denoting they had been reserved – he thought the centrepiece must have been snapped up by the same buyer – and he was certain more would be sold before the exhibition closed.

He had hoped to see her, that they might share a bottle of champagne to toast each other’s success, but she’d replied to his suggestion with an apology that she was up to her elbows in unfinished pots.

While he had no doubt that was true, he also had the sense that she was pulling back.

The realisation left a leaden feeling in his stomach.

After the night she had asked him to stay, he’d relived the moment more than once and each time he had been certain he’d done the right thing.

But he was beginning to appreciate that it had come at a cost, one that his own change in fortunes had only increased.

His instinct then had been to protect Maura and the friendship they shared, but he couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that he’d accidentally pushed her away.

His phone vibrated and he saw a message pop up on the screen. After the customary stab of disappointment that it wasn’t from Maura, he opened it and began to read.

Hey Fraser, thought I’d give you a heads up that I took a call just now from someone asking if the Fraser Bell who runs the walking tour is the same person as Fraser Bell, the actor.

I said I had no idea what they were going on about but I got the feeling it might have been a reporter. Thought you’d want to know.

Tom

And so it begins , Fraser thought wearily, closing the message.

He’d known this would happen, or course, but he’d hoped he might be able to fly under the radar for a little while longer.

It was time to speed up his plan to bring another storyteller on board and step back from Dead Famous as soon as he could.

It took three days for the first journalist to turn up at Fraser’s ghost walk.

Over the past year, he’d become an expert at spotting those who’d purchased tickets for a tour, even when they were hesitant to approach him. He found it saved time to be proactive, greeting them with a cheerful, ‘Hullo. Are you here for the Dead Famous tour?’

It also paid to ensure they had booked onto his tour, rather than one of the others that ran from various places along the Royal Mile.

And there were always those cheeky few who hadn’t paid but who hovered nearby to listen for free; he’d learned how to politely move them along too, suggesting they book on the next evening’s tour if they wanted to hear the city’s dark stories.

The man watching Fraser from a few metres away didn’t look like he was interested in ghost hunting. He looked as though he had other prey in mind.

Fraser focused on checking everyone in, wondering whether he was imagining the fixed stare.

When he raised his lantern and greeted his audience, running through the usual pre-tour practicalities, the man stepped nearer.

The movement caught Fraser’s eye and he saw that he had a companion.

A shorter man stood at his shoulder, carrying an expensive-looking camera.

Heart sinking, Fraser finished his introduction and broke off to address them. ‘Can I help you with something, gents?’

The taller of the two men shrugged. ‘We’re here for the tour.’

Fraser offered a professional smile. ‘I’m afraid it’s fully booked. I can recommend a few others that run nearby, if you’d like? You might catch one if you hurry.’

‘It’s yours we’re interested in,’ the man said. ‘You are Fraser Bell, right?’

‘That’s right,’ Fraser confirmed. ‘But as I said, this tour is full. If you check the Dead Famous website, you’ll be able to see availability for the next few weeks. Sorry to disappoint you.’

Turning his attention back to his audience, he gathered himself together and began again.

‘Be warned that this walking tour is not for the faint-hearted. We will visit some of the city’s darkest wynds and traverse her deadliest stairways.

Stay close and do not be tempted to stray if an unknown voice whispers your name.

Our safety is in numbers. Follow my lantern and do not fall behind. ’

At the back of the group, the shorter man raised his camera.

It was just after seven-thirty, nowhere near dusk but even so, a series of flashes went off, causing several members of the audience to turn sharply round.

The photographer peered down at the camera screen, then lifted it to his face again and clicked.

Blinking the brightness away, Fraser fought to keep his tone level. ‘No flash photography, thank you.’ He surveyed the group before him, determined to ignore further intrusions. ‘But enough talk. It’s time to hear our first terrible tale, in the blood drenched alley of Fleshmarket Close.’

The photographer had at least switched the flash off, but Fraser was aware of his continued clicking as he turned to lead the tour attendees down the Royal Mile.

His companion hurried to catch up with Fraser.

‘I’m sure you know the drill, Fraser. Just a few questions, then we’ll be out of your hair. ’

His words removed any lingering doubt Fraser had about who he was. ‘You’re a journalist.’

The man nodded, seemingly unperturbed by the flatness of Fraser’s tone. ‘Charlie Fleming, Daily News . Congratulations on the new film role. You must be delighted.’

A few of the audience members were listening in. Once again, Fraser fought to keep any trace of irritation from showing. ‘There’ll be a press conference in due course. You can save any questions you have for that.’

Charlie pulled a face. ‘Thing is, my questions aren’t strictly to do with the film. They’re about your relationship with Naomi Dean.’ Fraser’s head whipped round to stare at him. ‘More specifically, the way you cheated on her with your business partner, Maura McKenzie.’

And now Fraser stopped dead, causing squeaks of alarm behind him. A couple of people weren’t able to stop themselves from clattering into him but he barely noticed. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Don’t get angry. I’m only repeating what my source told me,’ Charlie said, smirking. ‘They allege that you persuaded Naomi to start a new life in Edinburgh, only to break her heart by falling into bed with your old flame, Maura. Is that how it happened, Fraser?’

Whispers broke out among the cluster of tour attendees behind them. Out of the corner of his eye, Fraser was aware of the photographer clicking away.

Battling for composure, he eyed the journalist coldly. ‘That’s a lie.’

Charlie cocked his head. ‘That’s not what my source says. Word is, you and this Maura couldn’t keep away from each other, in spite of the fact that you were both in long-term relationships.’

Fraser couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘That’s not what happened,’ he ground out, even as he wondered where such rubbish could have come from. ‘And if you print one word of it, you’ll find yourself on the receiving end of a libel suit before the ink is dry. Understand?’

Charlie held his hands up, although the expression on his face was anything but conciliatory. ‘I’m only doing my job, mate. You’re not the first actor to be a love rat and you won’t be the last, but the public have a right to know the truth.’