M. C. Beaton - Death of a Celebrity

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

William Shakespeare

Hamish Macbeth did not like change, although this was something he would not even admit to himself, preferring to think of himself as a go-ahead, modern man.

But the time-warp that was the village of Lochdubh in northwest Scotland suited him very well. As the village policeman, he knew everyone. He enjoyed strolling through the village or driving around the heathery hills, dropping in here and there for a chat and a cup of tea.

The access to Lochdubh was by a single, twisting, one-track road. It nestled at the foot of two huge mountains and faced a long sea loch down which Atlantic winds brought mercurial changes of weather. Apart from a few tourists in the summer months, strangers were few and far between. The days went on much as they had done for the past century, although sheep prices had dropped like a stone and the small farmers and crofters were feeling the pinch. From faraway Glasgow and Edinburgh, authoritative voices suggested the crofters diversify, but the land was hard and stony, and fit only for raising sheep.

So Hamish felt the intrusion into his world of a newspaper office was unsettling. The ownereditor, Sam Wills, had taken over an old Victorian boarding house on the waterfront and, with the help of a grant from the Highlands and Islands Commission, had started a weekly newspaper called Highland Times. It was an almost immediate success, rising to a circulation of nearly one thousandand that was a success in the sparsely populated area of the Highlandsnot because of its news coverage but because of its columns of gossip, its cookery recipes, and above all, its horoscope. The horoscope was written by Elspeth Grant and was amazingly detailed. Startled Highlanders read that, for example, they would suffer from back pains at precisely eight oclock on a Monday morning, and as back pain was a favourite excuse for not going to work, people said it was amazing how accurate the predictions were.

But Hamishs initial disapproval began to fade although he thought astrology a lot of hocus-pocus. There were only three on the editorial side: Sam, and Elspeth, and one old drunken reporter who somehow wrote the whole of the six-page tabloid-sized paper among them.

He did not know that the larger world of the media was about to burst in on his quiet world.

Over in Strathbane, the television station, Strathbane Television, was in trouble. It had been chugging along, showing mostly reruns of old American sitcoms and a few cheaply produced local shows. They had just been threatened with losing their licence unless they became more innovative.

The scene in the boardroom was fraught with tension and worry. Despite the No Smoking signs, the air was thick with cigarette smoke. What we need, said the head of television features, Rory MacBain, is a hard-hitting programme. Over his head and slightly behind him, a television screen flickered showing a rerun of Mr. Ed. People come to the Highlands but they do not stay. Why?

Thats easy, said the managing director, Callum Bissett. The weathers foul and its damn hard to make a living.

As a babble of voices broke out complaining and explaining, Rory leaned back in his chair and remembered an interesting evening hed had in Edinburgh with a BBC researcher. He had met her at the annual television awards at the Edinburgh Festival. He had been amazed that someone so go-ahead and with such stunning, blonde good looks should be only a researcher. He had been even more amazed when she had taken him to bed. He had promised her that if there was ever any chance of giving her a break, he would remember her.

He hunched forward and cut through the voices. I have an idea.

They all looked at him hopefully.

Our biggest failure, he said in measured tones, is the Countryside programme.

Felicity Pearson, who produced it, let out a squawk of protest.

The ratings are lousy, Felicity, said Rory brutally. For a start, its all in Gaelic. Secondly, you have a lot of old fogies sitting at a desk pontificating. We should start a new series, call it, say, Highland Life, and get someone hard-hitting and glamorous to present it. Start off by exploding this myth of the poor crofter.

They are poor now, protested Felicity. Sheep prices are dreadful.

Rory went on as if she had not spoken. He said that although people did not like to live in the Highlands, they liked to see programmes about the area. With a glamorous presenter, with a good, hard, punchy line, they could make people sit up and take notice, and the more Rory remembered the blonde charms of the researcherwhat was her name? Crystal French, that was itthe more convincing he became. At last his idea was adopted. He retreated to his office and searched through his records until he found Crystals Edinburgh phone number.

After he had finished talking, Crystal put down the phone, her heart beating hard. This was the big break and she meant to make the most of it. She would be glad to get out of Edinburgh, glad to get away from being a mere researcher. Researchers worked incredibly long hours and had to kowtow to the whims of every presenter. Who would have thought that a onenight stand with that fat little man would have paid such dividends? And she had just been coming around to the idea that a woman cant really sleep her way to the top! She did not realise that her past failure to move on had been because of her reputation for doing just that thing. There were a lot of women executives in broadcasting these days who had got to the top with hard work and brains and did not look kindly on any of their sisters who were still trying the oldfashioned methods, so when her name had come up for promotion there had always been some woman on the board who would make sure it was turned down flat.

Rory, when he met her at the Strathbane Station, was struck anew by her looks. Her long blonde hair floated about her shoulders, and her slim figure was clothed in a business suit, but with a short skirt to show off the beauty of her excellent legs. Her eyes were very large and green, almost hypnotic. Crystal kissed him warmly. She had no intention of going to bed with him again. He had done his bit. He was only head of features. If necessary, she would seduce one of his superiors.

Hamish Macbeth did not watch much television. But he did read newspapers. He was intrigued to read that a new show called Highland Life was to start off with an investigation into village shops in the Highlands. He decided to watch it. He expected it to be a series of cosy interviews.

The show was to go out at ten oclock that evening. He was about to settle down to watch it when there was a knock at the kitchen door. He opened it to find with dismay that he was being subjected to a visit from the Currie sisters. It had started to rain, and the sisters, who were twins, stood there with raindrops glistening on their identical plastic rain hats, identical glasses, and identical raincoats. Our tellys on the blink, said Nessie, pushing past him. Jessie followed, taking off her plastic hat and shaking raindrops over the kitchen floor. I was just going to bed, lied Hamish, but they hung up their coats and trotted off into his living room as if he had not spoken.