Page 86 of The Start of Something Wonderful

I swivel round on my barstool.

‘Oh, everyone, this is Duncan, my bro’,’ says Senga breezily.

‘Please take your partners for The Gay Gordons!’ announces the caller.

Duncan holds out his hand to meand says, ‘May I have the pleasure?’

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ I pant in a silly, Scarlett-O’Hara tone of voice. Where the hell did that come from?

Though not as manic as the last reel, there’s a twirly bit in the Gay Gordons, and by the end, I’m starting to feel dizzy and sick.

‘Are you okay? Would you like to sit down?’

‘I’m fine,’ I wheeze, flicking a rogue strand of hair from mysticky forehead.

Why don’t I just tell him the truth?Well, no, actually, I’ve got an excruciating pain in my chest, I’m seeing stars, and may well collapse in a heap at any moment.But no, I opt instead to be relentlessly pushed and pulled and flung hither and thither until I am rendered a gibbering wreck. I have no control over my legs and am minus one shoe, and yet weirdly, the music makesyou want to ceilidh all night.

The Duke of Perth, Strip the Willow, The Dashing White Sergeant, Drops of Brandy all merge into one, and suddenly it’s 12.30 and we’re all joining hands in a swirling, stamping circle. ‘“O ye’ll tak the high road and I’ll tak the low road …”’

Reunited with my shoe, I bid everyone goodnight. Out on the street, I can hear the blood in my eardrums. Barefoot,I head for The Glenfoyle via the beach, stopping for a moment to marvel at the full moon. I close my eyes, breathe in the cool, pure air, and listen to the gentle, rhythmic lapping of the waves. I dip my throbbing feet in the freezing water and gaze up at the stars.

I find myself thinking of Francesco again, remembering that magical night when he took my hand and drewOrioneandl’Orsointhe star-filled sky.

I’m trying so hard to live in the present, but I find myself wondering what will happen when he returns to Italy. Long-distance relationships are never a good idea, and with our work schedules …

‘Emily!’

I spin round, startled. There’s Duncan, breathless, his auburn hair glinting in the silvery light.

‘You left this behind,’ he says, holding out my bag.

‘Oh my God, how stupid of me. Thank you,’ I say, quickly wiping a tear that has attached itself to the end of my nose.

‘I was thinking …’ he says. ‘It’s my night off tomorrow. There’s a wonderful wee fish restaurant along the coast here …’

‘That’s nice of you to ask, but I’ve no idea what time our filming will finish …’

‘Here’s my number,’ he says, whipping out a business card fromhis wallet. ‘Call me tomorrow if you’re back early and you fancy a wee change … Now, can I walk you home?’

‘No, I’m fine, really, but thanks for the offer,’ I say, taking the card from him, but all the while keeping a formal distance.

‘Goodnight.’

* * *

As I descend the creaky, tartan-carpeted stairs five hours later in time to the piped accordion muzak, I am met by the pungentsmell of early morning kippers and am transported back to the aircraft galley and those crack-of-dawn breakfasts from hell: call bells ringing, queues for the loo, tired babies crying, recycled air, snoring, sick bags, nappy bags, smelly socks, and dog breath.

Thank you, Nigel. If not for you I’d still be there.

As I look in the mirror on set today, I’m proud of the middle-aged spinsterlooking back at me. The old me avoided mirrors because I was reminded of the passion, the drive, the self-respect, and the sense of humour I had lost somewhere along the way.

When I’m not needed, I’ve found a spot with panoramic views out across the sea to a small, distant island. I lean over the balustrade, the crashing waves below spraying my face with salt water. I shut my eyes and inhalethe sweet smell of seaweed, the sun’s rays filling me with warmth and positive energy.

Jules touches me on the shoulder.

‘Hi, Emily,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Found you!’

‘Sorry, I …’

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