‘I’m not going to help you stalk him if you’re gonna make it weird.’
‘Look,’ Rose said with a laugh, ‘he was no Willie McCabe, Lord Dalwhinnie.’
‘That’s right, girl, keep your eyes on the prize. I respect that you’re holding out for a fictional Scottish earl,’ said Nicola. She kissed two fingers and reached out to touch them to her screen. ‘Love you.’
Rose repeated the gesture on her own computer. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you more when you’re on reality TV.’
Rose had been walking around the docks for the last fifteen minutes and she hadn’t found any evidence that a television show was being filmed nearby. Twenty years ago, commercial ships had unloaded their cargo here, but nowadays it was only used as a marina for yachts and small fishing vessels. There were plenty of people working on their boats in the crisp morning air – she just couldn’t tell who was working on them for a TV audience.
She’d called Old Steve the previous night to break the news.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Old Steve had said, in between coughs and the pounding of the waves. He claimed he needed to live by the beach for the health-giving ‘sea air’; Rose suspected it was because a beach shack was the only kind of dwelling the council would let him make entirely with his own hands. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You need a cough lolly?’ Rose had said, shaking her head.
‘I’ll live,’ he’d said, ‘hopefully.’
Rose hadn’t taken the bait. ‘Anyway, Steve … I don’t know how to tell you …’
‘You don’t need to,’ Old Steve had said after an elaborately phlegmy intake of breath. ‘I know you’ve found work,’ he coughed, ‘down the docks.’ He repeated the final syllable. ‘Dohhhhcks.’
‘What?’ Rose had been taken aback. ‘That’s not –’
‘Bernie called me this afternoon. He wanted to check your credentials.’
‘So … what did you tell him?’ she’d said.
‘That you were the most promising nail shaper I’d seen in years. I said that I was just about to let you … let you …’ He’d sniffled.
‘Use a hammer?’ Rose had said.
‘Hold a hammer. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘Look Steve, I really appreciate everything you’ve taught me over these last six months. But it’s time for me to –’
At this point, a fresh burst of coughing had come down the line. ‘I guess I didn’t realise how much I’d come to rely on you,’ Steve had said when he’d recovered. ‘I’m just so busy these days, I don’t know how I’m going to manage it alone.’
‘Well, once you’re on your own you might have to slow down a bit, turn down some of those jobs,’ Rose had said. ‘You might have to pass on remodelling Wilson Fabrication’s boardroom.’
Old Steve had grunted non-committally.
‘Maybe you should knock back doing those cabinets for the Liew kitchen.’
‘Ehhh …’ Old Steve had said.
‘The TAC job?’
‘Hell no,’ Old Steve had said firmly.
‘Well, if you can keep doing all that without me, what did you need me for?’ Rose had said briskly.
Old Steve had chuckled. ‘Maybe my retirement was a few years further away than I led you to believe. But doing things the right way is a two-person job. Besides, I like having a young person around so I can pass on all my wisdom. All the old ways.’
‘Come on, Steve, what wisdom did you actually pass on to me?’
‘Don’t trust your boss?’
Rose had laughed at that.
‘I should have known I couldn’t pull the wool over your eyes forever,’ he’d said.
‘It was sweet of you to try,’ Rose had said. ‘See you round, Steve.’
Now, she was still trying to figure out where she was meant to report to. It wasn’t until she spotted someone emerging from a shed holding a boom microphone that she figured she was on the right track. There wasn’t much in the way of signage; taped to the inside of a window next to the roller door was an A4 printout that read ‘Endeavour Productions – Studio 2’. Gingerly, Rose walked through the open doorway.
At first glance, the inside of the shed looked like any other busy worksite. At the far end were a couple of boats on trailers, from which Rose could hear the familiar sounds of hammering and drilling. Around the hulls, other workers hurried back and forth. They were dressed much the same as Rose, in jeans, shorts or work pants with polo shirts and polar fleece. But as Rose looked more carefully, she noticed the walkie-talkies and headsets the production staff were wearing as they bustled about.
‘Um, I’m looking for Bernie?’ Rose said to a passer-by.
‘Over by craft services.’
‘Craft services?’ How fancy was this show? Was reality TV more artisanal than she’d realised?
‘The food.’
With one shoulder, the man indicated a trestle table set up along the side wall, bearing a hot-water urn, jars of teabags and instant coffee, a plate of dry biscuits and an assortment of mugs.
‘Where’s the real food?’ Rose said to herself. This was a distinct comedown from the lavish catering on the Mansions in the Sky set. As she watched, the urn let out a burping noise and began to drool water. Maybe Nicola was right about this show …
Stirring spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his tea was a burly man with grey hair peeking from under a faded baseball cap. As Rose watched, he took a hip flask from his pocket and added a slug of its contents to the cup.
‘Bernie?’ Rose said.
He turned. ‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he said, ‘unless you’re from my ex-wife’s lawyers, in which case I died in a fire.’
Rose laughed awkwardly. ‘No legal skills here,’ she said. ‘I’m a cabinetmaker by trade. Cody Somerville hired me yesterday – she said she’d ring you to say I’d be here today.’
Bernie stared at Rose. ‘Come with me,’ he said, jerking his head at a side exit.
Behind the shed was an L-shaped pier, with half-built houseboats moored at regular intervals. Rose followed Bernie along the numbered berths until he stopped at the third boat. Two clearly inexperienced people in beanies and heavy jackets were trying to install new decking at the bow. The old decking had been torn out and was lying in a pile on the pier.
Such a shame, Rose thought. It was still in perfectly good nick. Then she winced as she noticed how unevenly spaced the new planks were: some were pressed flush together, while others had gaps wide enough to drop a phone through. Why weren’t these people using spacers to measure out consistent widths?
And no wonder the planks were all over the shop – as their hapless installers knelt at one end, the other ends were flicking up in the air. What they needed were some bricks to weigh them down, Rose thought. Perhaps wrap the bricks in some plastic or something, though, so they wouldn’t scratch the wood …
On the pier, a camera operator and sound recorder edged around the pile of discarded decking, filming the two incompetents. Bernie watched them, sipping from his tea, his other hand on his hip above his low-slung tool belt.
‘Now, who were