Hot Off The Press

With Archie Anderson staying nearby, this was my chance to meet my Hollywood hero!

I’VE always loved the colder weather. Maybe because I was born during one of the biggest snowstorms the Highlands has ever seen. Most people long for the summer sun, beach walks and ice-creams. Not me!

I love the darker months and shorter days. Then my life gets even better.

One word: Hygge. Suddenly, everyone’s mad about all things cosy. I can stay inside with my woolly blankets, books and candles without feeling guilty or looking weird.

Unexpectedly, the life I adore is on-trend.

My friends all get my passion; I’m lucky.

They love coming to gossip and drink comforting hot chocolate around my crackling fire.

I do venture outside. I just reach for my padded coat, sheepskin boots, warm hat, scarf and gloves.

I’m not going to be cold wearing all this. No siree.

Also, the best part about venturing outside into the world is returning home to my cosy home. Lovely.

The only person who isn’t supportive of my lifestyle is my brother, Craig.

He’s a summer child, through and through.

“It’s weird,” he says about a zillion times each year when I’m hibernating.

“You need to join in with everyday life.”

So, on a particularly cold, grey Saturday, when the phone rings and it’s Craig, I’m only half-listening.

“Lorna,” he says. “You won’t believe it. Guess who’s been spotted in town?”

Craig is the showbiz correspondent for our local paper, “The Pierceton Reporter”. If he’s ringing me, it must be good.

“Prince William? Barack Obama? Judi Dench?”

“I’m being serious. Listen. Who is your favourite person in the world?”

I can tell he’s getting cross and this makes me worse. I go from being a sensible accountant to his annoying baby sister.

“Do they have to be alive?”

“Of course they do. Someone famous.”

“Mary Berry?”

“Lorna. Be serious. Think movie stars.”

I sober completely.

“Male or female?”

“Male.”

I’m holding my breath. Surely not . . .

“Not Archie Anderson?” “Yes!” he says. “He’s supposed to be presenting a new hotel travel show.”

“Interesting.” I can hardly breathe.

“Well, it’s a pity you won’t see him. I mean, anyone out and about might bump into him. Shame you’re in full hibernation mode.

“What do you call it? Huggy?”

“Hygge,” I say, not biting. “Well, if I see him, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Very kind of you, Craig,” I say, my mind whirring.

There’s only one luxury hotel near Pierceton suitable for a movie legend. It’s a no-brainer.

“I’ve got to go. Take care.”

That’s how I come to be unpacking my case at the Loch Pierce Hotel, five miles from where I live.

I do the accounts for Douglas, the owner, so I get a discount and a room upgrade.

“What have you got in here?” Douglas asks, personally delivering my last suitcase to my room.

“All my home from home stuff. I like to be snug.”

Douglas is about my age and a golf nut. Decades ago, we attended dances together and even went out for a while, but it wasn’t meant to be.

He says nothing more about my luggage. Yet I can tell he’s wondering why I’ve brought three suitcases for a two-night stay.

“It’s a lovely room,” I say, to reassure him. “I just like my home comforts.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you one of the refurbished rooms; they’re booked up.

“I must admit, I had my doubts when my niece finished decorating them. It seems I was wrong.”

I arrange my face into a suitable neutral expression. His niece is bonkers, and so are the four rooms.

I know I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink in such a jumble of chaotic colours.

“This room is perfect. I’m lucky you could squeeze me in.”

“Shall I let you into a secret?” Douglas grins and leans in closer.

“Archie Anderson booked in this afternoon. He’s my favourite ever action hero.” Bingo!

“He’s scouting venues for his new TV show. He’s unearthing Scotland’s secret staycations or something like that.

“Shall we be seeing you for dinner this evening?”

“Table for one, please, Douglas.” I want to add, “Next to Archie Anderson”, but I remind myself I’m his accountant.

He doesn’t need to know about my silly crush.

****

I’ve never been one for dining out alone. In normal life, I don’t even like sitting by myself in a coffee shop.

However, this isn’t normal life. This is a once in a lifetime situation.

I’m wearing my favourite dress, the one I usually only wear for special occasions. It’s getting a bit old, really, but it suits me.

It’s a strappy number I wear with a pashmina wrap in midnight blue that brings out the colour of my eyes, or so I’m told.

I have a sneaky suspicion I may be overdressed, but that’s never bothered me.

Better to be overdressed than underdressed. I want to make an impression.

Walking down to dinner, my heart is pounding and my legs are shaking. It’s not just walking in there by myself. It’s the anticipation of seeing Archie.

I’ve been dreaming about this moment for most of my life.

“Good evening, Ms Bell,” the waiter says, meeting me by the restaurant door. “Do you have a reservation with us this evening?”

“Hello, Toby. Yes, table for one.” I smile and then scan the room.

My hero is sitting at a table near the window.

My breath catches in my throat. I clutch the door frame to steady myself.

He’s every bit as handsome and tall in real life.

Combine this with his head of silvery hair . . . be still my beating heart.

“Are you all right, Ms Bell?”

I blink and focus on Toby’s concerned face.

“Sorry, Toby. What were you saying?”

He narrows his eyes, glances back into the dining-room towards Archie Anderson, and then gives me a knowing smile.

“One moment.”

I watch as he consults his table plan and then grins.

“Right this way, Mrs

Bell.”

To my immense relief, Toby leads me towards Archie and seats me at a little corner table. I have an idea he’s rearranged tonight’s seating plan.

If so, he’s the ultimate professional and the soul of discretion. With minimal fuss, he takes my drinks order, hands me a menu and melts away.

Shrugging off my wrap, I pour a glass of mineral water and tune in to the conversation on the next table.

“Maxine, I’m not saying that on camera,” Archie says.

“This is a charming little hotel. The owner seems a decent chap. I’m not going to trash his business on television.”

I’m so shocked at what Archie is saying, I’m not concentrating on his lovely accent. It’s a disaster. Douglas will be devastated.

“The owner may be a decent man,” Maxine continues, “but he’s shown a serious lack of judgement, letting someone splatter paint all over that delightful room.

“Those patterned curtains and the whole clashing colour scheme.

“It takes maximalist to a whole different level.”

“That may be so, but I’m not saying it on camera.”

“Well, you better think of something fast. This is your fault.

“You should have read the small print on your contract – the production company can make you say what they want.

“I’ll go and speak to them now.”

I watch as Maxine pushes her chair back and strides away. Then, before I can think it through, I’m out of my seat and sitting down at Archie’s table.

“Don’t listen to her,” I tell him. “You’re right. This is a jewel of a hotel.”

Then it hits me. What am I doing?

I’m sitting with Archie Anderson from the movies. Sitting uninvited with

Archie Anderson.

“Sorry,” I stutter. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I don’t mean to intrude. I’m Lorna Bell. My friend Douglas owns this hotel.”

“Archie Anderson. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have heard that. Maxine is under a lot of pressure.”

“Why don’t you come and look around my room? It’s in the old part of the hotel. It’s full of charm.”

Then I realise what I’ve done. I’ve invited Archie Anderson to my bedroom.

Except, shocker! I’m not thinking about him.

After years of fantasising and dreaming about meeting this man, I’m more concerned about Douglas and his hotel.

It’s a lot to think about. But first, I have a more pressing problem.

Inviting a stranger up to my room, never mind a Hollywood hunk, is crazy.

Just as I’m praying the earth will swallow me up, Archie drains his wine glass and folds his napkin.

“Excellent idea. No time like the present. I’ve finished here. Is that OK?”

I nod and scramble to my feet, not thinking what this must look like to anyone watching.

“Follow me.” With all eyes on us, I guide him back through the restaurant.

As we walk through the hotel and up the stairs, I explain the history of the building and how Douglas came to be the owner.

I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m not usually so forthright.

“This room is more representative of the hotel,” I say, swinging open my bedroom door.

I let Archie walk in first and marvel that this is happening.

Archie Anderson is in my room. I close the door behind us and then panic.

I don’t want him to think I’m an obsessed fan or a deranged stalker locking him in my bedroom.

“Well, this is charming,” he says. “Much more what I was expecting from a Highland hotel.

“Four-poster bed, a view of the loch and lots of muted tartan.”

“The breakfast here is excellent, too. Plus, Douglas has always

I’m out of my seat and sitting down at Archie’s table

been an important local employer.”

Archie turns to me.

“He sounds an admirable man. It’s the little touches in here that will look impressive on the television show.”

He picks up my furry throw.

“Like this blanket and these fairy lights; they add ambience. As do these candles. It’s all like a home from home.”

I smile, hoping Douglas won’t be too cross with my additions to the room. “Exactly!”

“Very hygge,” Archie says, nodding his head.

“Perfect. Thank you, Lorna. You’ve saved us all a lot of trouble.”

Then it all happens at once. Someone bangs on the bedroom door precisely at the same time the strap on my faithful old dress decides to give way.

Worse still, unaware of my clothing catastrophe, Archie flings open the door to discover two paparazzi snapping photos of us – Archie emerging out of my bedroom and me in a state of half-dressed dishevelment.

The following morning all hell breaks loose.

I’m woken by the telephone at seven a.m.

It’s my brother.

“Explain yourself,” he demands.

Half-asleep, I have no idea what he means.

“How long has this been going on? You could have given me the scoop.”

“What are you talking about, Craig?” I sit up and stretch.

“You and Archie Anderson. It’s all over the papers. Well, not my paper. Not my article. Not my breakthrough into the tabloids.

“I’m your brother, for crying out loud.”

I stumble out of bed and retrieve the complimentary paper from under my door.

Sure enough, on the front page is a picture of Archie with me in the background.

It’s not as bad as it sounds, but I wish I’d been wearing a nicer bra.

“It’s not what you think.” I rub my forehead. “He was admiring my hygge.”

“I bet he was.” There’s no talking to my brother when he’s in this mood, so I ring off with a promise to update him later.

I shower and dress, wondering what’s in store for me at breakfast. Only, I don’t make it downstairs.

Instead, I open my bedroom door to an irate Maxine, trailed by Archie and Douglas. My heart sinks.

I’d hoped I would be able to speak to Douglas privately and explain.

I don’t want him getting the wrong idea.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” Maxine demands, flourishing an armful of newspapers at me.

I slump on a chair and leaf through the papers. Archie and I are on every front page.

Apart from “The

Pierceton Reporter”, which leads with the discovery of a potato that looks like Elton John.

“You can’t move down there for reporters,” Douglas says, wringing his hands.

“Don’t deny it,” Maxine rages, thrusting an envelope at me. “I found this in his suitcase.”

Stunned, I open the envelope to find an officiallooking document that turns out to be a marriage licence.

Then I see it, clear as day.

“You two are a couple, aren’t you?”

Archie reaches for her hand.

“Yes, Maxine is my dearly beloved consort.”

She bristles at this.

Men! If even a Hollywood heartthrob used to playing the romantic lead can be so dense, there’s no hope for womankind.

“How long have you been together?”

“Thirty-two years,” they say in unison and then grin at each other.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

Archie has spent his extensive career playing the romantic swashbuckling hero. Yet, he can’t sort out his real love life.

“Life is too short. What are you waiting for?” I say, glancing over at Douglas. He nods and gives me the thumbs-up.

“She’s right,” Archie says, looking at Maxine.

“Then why not get married?” I suggest.

Maxine shakes her head and withdraws her hand from Archie’s.

“Because his agent says it wouldn’t be good for his image.”

I laugh then.

“Who cares? And bluntly, how are old are you both? If you can draw your pension, then you need to get on with it.”

“I’m trying,” Archie says, turning to Maxine. “That’s what the marriage licence is for, my love. You should have read it properly.

“We’re going to stay near Gretna Green soon, aren’t we? That’s what gave me the idea.”

All Maxine’s defences fall away, and excitement glitters in her eyes.

Archie drops to one knee, and Douglas comes and stands by my side.

“Maxine Hartley, will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?”

“Oh, Archie. Yes!”

As they kiss, I turn and look at Douglas. He beams at me, takes my hand in his, and I know we are thinking the same thing.

“You’ve got your special licence. Go on. Off to Gretna Green,” I urge.

“Take my car.”

“We’ll swap. You take our motor. We have an overnight booking at Royal Dornoch tonight.” He stops and winks at Douglas.

“With a round of golf arranged for the next day.

“While our man here tackles the fairways, you, my good friend, Lorna, can spend a cosy morning in the hotel.”

Archie gives me his car keys and plants a great big kiss on my cheek.

Me, Lorna Bell, being kissed by Archie Anderson.

But do you know what? Things have changed. I’ve realised there’s only one man for me.

Archie, as famous movie stars go, has lived up to all my expectations and dreams.

However, it’s the man standing beside me I’m interested in, despite the fact that I can tell he’s thinking about whether his golf clubs and all my suitcases will fit into Archie’s car.

I realise I’d rather be heading north with my Douglas than south with my movie star crush.

Knowing the press are circling downstairs, we work out what we’re going to do and then go our separate ways.

At nine o’clock, we set our plan into motion.

It’s great fun.

Maxine, wearing my coat with my hat and scarf, and Archie, swathed in Douglas’s old dog-walking mac, are hardly recognisable.

Quietly, the lovebirds slip out of the hotel’s private side entrance and escape south.

At the same time, Douglas and I, surrounded by a wall of hotel staff, slip into Archie’s Aston Martin.

We head north with a stream of duped paparazzi trailing us. What fun!

I feel chic and mysterious wearing Maxine’s designer coat, silk headscarf and expensive sunglasses.

And being the same height and build as Archie, Douglas looks every inch like he could be my future real-life hero.

It’s been a bit of a weekend, really. Yet, there’s still one surprise in store for Douglas.

Maxine thought she had better warn me the hotel suite only has one large queen-size bed.

She also whispered she’s ordered champagne and strawberries and room service for this evening.

It all sounds incredibly romantic and better than any film.

After all, Douglas has taken everything else in his stride today.

One last little surprise will make everything perfect.

The only thing I promise myself is, when the time comes, we’ll give my brother the inside scoop. ■