Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [72]
But wishful thinking and her bedroom mirror, which was in a dark corner, had persuaded her that she looked sophisticated and much younger.
A platform had been set up in a conference room of the hotel along with seating for a hundred people. As the television cameras were going to film the event, all the seats were taken. There was a green room set aside for authors. Angela had hoped to meet Malvin there and get an idea of what questions he was going to ask but was told she would meet him for the first time on the platform.
She walked on to the platform to a spattering of applause. Malvin appeared from the other end of the platform to enthusiastic applause and sat down facing her. He was a small thickset man with a fake-bake tan and dyed black hair.
The master of ceremonies was the hotel manager, dressed in kilt and full regalia. He made a long speech, boasting about the beauty of the hotel and how the literary festival had been his inspiration. He had a high reedy voice and a thin body. A kilt is a very heavy item of dress and his began to slide south, showing a glimpse of white underpants decorated with naked ladies. The audience began to giggle and he hoisted the kilt up again and then decided to leave the stage after a hurried introduction of Malvin and Angela.
Malvin was in a bad mood. Why had he agreed to attend this hick festival? He had read Angela’s book and found it very sexy and had hopes of a fling with the author but his hopes had died the minute he set eyes on Angela.
He began with his first question. ‘Do you think you are writing literature?’
‘I just write what I can,’ said Angela.
‘I’ll just read out this scene from your book where the heroine is in bed with the local bobby.’ He made it sound salacious, and Angela squirmed.
‘Now, what we all want to know,’ said Malvin, leering at the audience, ‘is how you did your research.’
‘It is all a product of my imagination.’
‘But all fiction is autobiographical in some way.’
‘Not in this case,’ said Angela.
‘Let me read another extract.’
Angela cracked. She had seen her appearance in a mirror in the green room but it had been too late to do anything about it. She got to her feet.
‘It is my opinion that you are nothing more than a dirty old man,’ announced Angela, and she walked from the stage.
She ran out of the hotel to the car park and drove off. Never again, she thought, will I have anything to do with publicity. But on the road home her mobile rang. She stopped in a lay-by and answered it. Her husband’s frantic voice sounded down the line. ‘What have you been up to? The press are hammering at the door saying you called Malvin Clegg a dirty old man.’
‘I’ll hide out somewhere,’ said Angela.
‘What about me? And they won’t go away unless you give them something, even if it’s no comment.’
‘I’ll come home,’ said Angela wearily.
The aborted interview was shown on all the TV news stations. Malvin could not sue Angela because she had said that it was her opinion. In Edinburgh, her publisher rubbed his hands in glee and went off to order a large reprint.
Angela, with a scarf tied over her frizzy hair and her make-up scrubbed off, faced the press on her doorstep. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I have nothing to say.’
Hamish Macbeth cleared a path for her through the shouting reporters, and she thankfully escaped inside her house.
Afterwards, Hamish wished he had let her fight her own way into her house as his photo appeared in some newspapers along with descriptions of Angela’s heroine having an affair with the village policeman.
* * *
When Tam arrived that evening to pick up his belongings, Ailsa was there with Jock Kennedy and several other men from the village. He asked to speak to Milly but was told she was resting and to take his stuff and leave. As he drove away, Tam began to wonder if he’d not gone a little mad. He and Milly had enjoyed something special and he had ruined it. He wondered if he had subconsciously destroyed