Page 1 of Scotlander

Chapter One

‘Here she is! LA’s very own Miss Reliable!’

Willa smiled at the ultra-petite publicist doing jazz hands, then glanced over her shoulder to see who had entered the Paramount Pictures’s hospitality suite behind her.

The doorway was empty.

Her shoulders slumped a fraction. Was it finally the time to give up hope that she’d ever be the fun one?

In fairness, she wasn’t exactly exuding Girl Who Sets a Room on Fire vibes.

She was wearing her least wrinkled dress and sporting hair in what could, by the longest of stretches, be called an up-do (read: neon pink scrunchie savagely wrapped around her bum-length hair to an entirely accidental messy bun effect). She wasn’t wearing make-up and had probably forgotten to sweep what little sleep she had from her eyes. She was also (Gasp! Shock! Horror!) flagrantly committing the cardinal sin of wearing open-toed sandals when she hadn’t had a mani-pedi since that bright, sunny day seven long weeks ago when she’d dressed up to the nines for her best friend’s funeral.

A pitter-pat of fingertips on a press packet pulled her attention back to the publicist. She looked young. Super young. Barely old enough to be trusted to babysit tiny humans let alone the roomful of entertainment reporters draped on the various couches and armchairs dappled around the corner suite as they awaited their five-to-ten minutes of sharing the spotlight with Hollywood’s greatest.

Just as Willa was about to ask her if this was Bring Your Daughter To Work Day, the publicist launched into what sounded like a prepared speech. ‘On behalf of the entire publicity team, we just wanted to say that, like, we’re so glad you could make it. As Fast As You Can is such an important film.’ She crossed both sets of fingers. ‘We’re hoping for Oscars! And after we heard about . . .’ She made a quick scan of the room as she hiss-whispered, ‘Aubrey’s accident . . . we were worried it wouldn’t get that initial punch of publicity that is so important to a film which, I’m not ashamed to admit it, made me cry all my waterproof mascara off. I mean, Ben’s performance alone delivers such a powerful emotive punch to the nation’s psyche, and don’t even get me started on Rachel!’

Ermm . . . This was a futuristic film about a beautiful vegetable gardener forced to rely on the kindness of a bereaved dot-com billionaire to plant the world’s remaining packet of heritage tomato seeds.

‘Yes.’ Willa dutifully nodded. ‘I’m so happy to be a part of the campaign.’

For a nano-second this caught Baby Publicist off guard. Willa knew what she was thinking. Oh, you’re not actually part of it. But we let you think you are. And then, as if the moment had been entirely a figment of Willa’s imagination, Baby Publicist brightly continued. ‘Can you even believe how insane traffic was this morning? We literally had to chopper the talent in from the hotel in Santa Monica.’ She cupped her cupid lips between her palms and whispered, ‘Rachel won’t stay here. Says they don’t use enough environmentally friendly products. Anyhoodle! Sharon’s running late but is promising to be here and to see everyone. You’re a genuine hero for getting here, Willa. Heroine,’ she deftly corrected. ‘It’s all about the lay-deeez in LA, am I right?’

No. She wasn’t. But the poor thing had shadows under her eyes and was clearly operating courtesy of a caffeine overload, so Willa made an umhmm noise that she hoped sounded companionable.

It worked.

Baby Publicist put out a fist to bump. ‘Us worker bees have to stick together, yeah?’

Coming from actual worker bee stock, Willa still found these moments awkward. Even though it was Sunday morning, and this was technically work, they were on the upper floors of one of LA’s lushest hotels, surrounded by chef-made delectables and being handed amazing swag bags with fleets of make-up artists hovering on standby as, at this very moment, film stars were being shuttled into their nearby suites (with fancier snacks and bigger swag bags and personal make-up artists).

There were discreet waitstaff to hand. Long-term employees who not only knew the names of all the on-air reporters, but those of the segment producers, like Willa, who did off-camera interviews when their ‘talent’ was indisposed after an ‘accident’. More importantly, the staff here at the Four Seasons knew what all of them liked to eat. If they were pescatarian, vegetarian, vegan, a carbovore. They knew who wanted their cafe lattes with hazelnut milk, who only drank sparkling water with a wedge of grapefruit in it, and who took their iced tea sweet like the southern belle she was rather than straight up, California style. If you had to run off and interview someone before you could finish any of the above, it would be magicked away so that when you returned, often minutes later, you could start afresh.

As Willa met Baby Publicist’s knuckles and forced her face into a what-can-you-do-about-Sunday-morning-traffic face, she was shocked to catch herself thinking . . . this is bullshit.

At her father’s auto repair shop, if you wanted coffee? You’d pour it yourself. Albeit reluctantly. That pot had burnt so many gallons of coffee in its time there was a crust. If you wanted a clean mug? You settled for ‘clean enough’ and used a bit of grease-free shirt sleeve to swipe the edge because the blue paper towel had run out earlier in the week. Bliss compared to the middle school where her mother, in between corralling underprivileged children into her Family and Consumer Sciences classes, taught the under-underprivileged kids some basic survival skills, like how to stay clean when Mom forgot to pay the utilities bill.

Her parents were the most practical and altruistic humans she knew. Which meant, of course, that they thought Willa’s entire career trajectory was not only foolish for its absence of do-goodery (all that time wasted watching television? No, thank you), but unsustainable (dreams are called dreams for a reason, Willy).

Baby Publicist pressed two tiny palms to her elfin A-cup chest, her eyes full of Disney sorrow as she stage-whispered, ‘Back to Aubrey? Is it, like, serious?’

Not if you used something other than Willa’s best friend dying of breast cancer at thirty-one and leaving a bereaved husband and two toddlers in her wake as a comparison.

But this was Hollywood. A place where people didn’t like actual pain, so she supposed Aubrey’s ‘accident’ ranked up there. She briefly considered explaining how the cherished anchor of Topline in Tinseltown (aka TiTs) drank half her size-zero body weight in vodka at a Friends Reunited Again after party only to have an epic marble-floor face plant as she showed off her pole dancing skills on her new film director boyfriend’s four-poster bed. Alas, before Willa could spill the beans, a woman from a Boston affiliate strode into the suite – ‘Oh my gawd! If it isn’t Miss Fun!’ – and Willa was rendered invisible.

Heigh-ho.

As she turned away from the desk, another publicist raced into the room, clipboard in hand. Priya Semple. Of all the publicists she’d worked with over the years, Priya was her favourite. If she hadn’t been happily ensconced at the Paramount lot for so long, she could have easily set up a positivity cult. She exuded sunbeams. Over the years, they’d organised countless interviews and set visits together, so it didn’t surprise her when Priya scurried up to the check-in desk then did a double take in Willa’s direction.

‘Babes! Hyieee! I barely recognised you.’

Again, Willa did a who me? glance over her shoulder. Instead of another reporter, she caught a glimpse of Ben Affleck being escorted by a team of purposeful vice-presidents of publicity to his suite. Their eyes caught and a glint of recognition stopped him in his tracks. ‘Hey, Canada!’ he called out with a wink and a double blast of finger pistols. ‘How’s tricks?’

She gave him a thumbs-up because she’d long ago given up explaining to the man she’d interviewed dozens of times over the past eight years that she was still, and always would be, from Oregon. Pendleton, if he was asking. Which, of course, he wasn’t because he was already gone.

Instinctively, she stuffed her hand in her tote to text Valentina. This kind of thing literally made her weep with laughter. As she wiped away her tears, she would also ask Willa for the thousandth time when she was going to get a job that brought her actual, bona fide joy.

The first thing Willa’s hand came into contact with was the embossed envelope from the lawyer’s office. She ran a finger along it only to receive a paper cut in return. A stinging reminder that the one person in LA who’d been genuinely interested in where she was from wasn’t here any more.