Author, Author Doctors

APPLAUSE

Thank you! Thank you very much.

I'd like to thank someone who has greatly influenced my life and work.

Unfortunately, she can't be with us tonight.

Her name is Emily Bronte!

APPLAUSE

When I sat down to write Love In The Dales,

I felt Emily was there beside me...

influencing my story, and guiding my words.

There is someone else who I owe a tremendous amount of gratitude.

My novel's romantic hero - the dashing and suave Oliver Pomeroy -

was inspired by somebody very real, and very close to my heart.

My rock, my lover...

my doctor - the magnificent Daniel Granger!

MUSIC: "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush

D-Does that mean I've over-run?

MUSIC CONTINUES ON PHONE

SHE SIGHS MUSIC STOPS

It wasn't that big yesterday, was it?

It must've grown overnight! Hideous!

Maybe a profile shot would be acceptable.

No. That's not de rigueur.

I'll have to be airbrushed and decline all public appearances.

Unless...

-ZARA:

-She's been through the mill, poor girl.

-Have they been discharged?

-Mm-hm. I'm going to drop by later.

-A home visit? Why?

-To check that they're OK, of course.

The midwife'll do that.

The midwife didn't teach her how to breastfeed. I did.

Who'd have thought that someone like me could persuade someone like her?

I must have the common touch.

Wow! Could you sound ANY more condescending?

I'd like to see you give breastfeeding lessons.

-That's not in my job description.

-Mine, neither.

But unlike you, I'm prepared to go beyond the call of duty.

Hm. Especially for those who make you feel superior.

"Dear Miss Treadwell,

"Thank you for sending us your manuscript.

"I enjoyed some aspects of your writing

"but felt that the story was too old-fashioned,

"and that it teeters on the edge of cliche."

Imbecile!

I bet you didn't have this trouble, did you?

In your day, publishers recognised quality.

Now, all they want is 50 Shades Of... bleugh!

Hello!

Morning.

I didn't get much shut-eye last night, because of you!

Battlestar Gallactica.

Top tip! I devoured the box set.

Yeah?

Yeah! Sex, spaceships and theology - Ticks all the boxes.

-Where'd you get up to?

-Episode three.

Season one?

-Of season two.

-Hmm.

-Fragged?

-That's the one.

Very impressive. But, you know, there's no need to rush it.

It's a marathon, not a sprint.

If it's any consolation, the literati despised my book...

until I shuffled off this mortal coil.

And then, a huge bestseller and perennial classic.

SHE SIGHS

What good is that when you don't have a pulse?

You achieved what all novelists crave - immortality.

Given the choice, I'd exchange all of those posthumous book sales

for a dirty weekend in Blackpool.

I just want a bit of recognition.

Is that too much to ask?

Then embrace the new technology!

Stop waiting for your fairy publisher to arrive.

No, I want to be a proper author.

Not some online wannabe.

Besides, nobody bothered reading my free extracts on my website.

Only got 57 hits, and most of them were my mother.

Just like our Charlotte, you are - desperate for fame and adulation.

< SCREAMING

I'm done for. SHE GASPS

Blood...in my urine!

I told you I wasn't well.

And now, my morbid fears are vindicated.

I'll be dead by 30. Just like you!

I best get on to a solicitor - tie up all the loose ends.

Who will inherit my literary estate?

Love On The Dales could be a cash cow -

the film rights, TV adaptations...

At least Mother will be well looked after in her dotage.

I mean, I can't leave it to you - you're already dead.

Beetroot.

Eh?

Last night's supper was beetroot salad. Hence the pink pee.

Oh, really?

Oh, yes, of course.

What would I do without you to reassure me?

I think I'd go mad.

Good morning.

How is Team Jackman?

Jade didn't say you were coming.

It's just a courtesy call. How are they? Are they OK?

See for yourself. First, I've got a bone to pick.

Well, come in, then!

SHE SINGS ALONG TO TRACK: # You had a temper, like my jealousy

# Too hot, too greedy

-BOTH:

-# How could you leave me

# When I needed to possess you?

# I hated you

# I loved you too... #

PHONE PLAYS SAME SONG

Mother, no doubt.

Hello?

Good morning. Is that Sophie Treadwell, the author?

Yes. Speaking.

Charles. Charles Fitzgerald. Your prose landed on my desk.

My prose? You mean Love In The Dales?

Indeed. Such a wonderful yarn.

I couldn't put it down.

Oh, yes! I mean, er, the response has been fantastic.

Overwhelming, in fact.

The response? So, you've found a publisher already?

Er, no, not per se. I mean, nothing's set in stone.

But I have been courting several offers

from the big publishing houses.

I see. So, I'm too late to the party?

Well, no. Er, no.

Feel free to join the bidding war.

OK, yes. I'd like to throw my hat in the ring.

Great! Good.

Is it a big hat?

Yes. Very big, a generous fit!

But, er, why don't we discuss it over lunch?

I can be in Letherbridge this afternoon.

-This afternoon?

-Too short notice?

Let me just check my diary.

SHE BREATHES DEEPLY

I have a window at one.

Perfect. Shall we say Villa Luigi on the high street?

See you there.

I look forward to it.

Bye! SHE SQUEALS

My fairy publisher!

'He sounded gorgeous.

'Suitably suave and sexy, yet also very polite.'

Everything you want in a publisher.

What about the inside cover?

This could scupper the whole deal!

She's gone all Gwyneth Paltrow, thanks to you - filling her head with all that breastfeeding rubbish.

Middle-class propaganda! It's not natural.

Jade turned out all right on t'bottle. Why's it off limits now?!

It's not off limits.

But breastfeeding protects the baby against infection and...

What about all this?

I've got shed-loads of the stuff.

Bought a job lot off a bloke last week. He doesn't do refunds.

It makes a horrible milkshake, even if you add a bit of Haagen-Dazs.

I hope you're joking.

I suppose she'll want it sooner or later.

-Mum, I'm leaking! >

-See what I mean!?

ROMANTIC MUSIC PLAYS

MUSIC STOPS ABRUPTLY

Yeah, it's perfectly benign.

Nothing's changed since your last visit...

or the one before that.

You could have it removed.

But because it's only a cosmetic concern,

you'd have that done privately, as I think I also explained last time.

A lot has changed since then, Dr Granger.

Not least my financial situation.

I'm on the verge of a lucrative book deal.

Ah, yes, you're a writer.

A novelist.

So I could always, er, see you privately.

Possibly. I don't think it's a good idea

that I see you as a private patient.

I won't tell if you won't!

Hm. Isn't he a touch too smooth?

He doesn't have Heathcliff's rugged charisma.

You should've seen him when he had a beard.

-Sorry?

-Oh, nothing.

It sounded like you were talking to someone else.

No, no. Just my muse.

Perfectly normal for a writer.

Look who dropped in.

MUSIC: "Wrecking Ball" by Miley Cyrus

How is...Shontavia? Is she feeding well?

She's a greedy guts. I feel like a Jersey cow.

Pass us the remote, Mum.

-Get us a refill - I'm gasping.

-MUSIC STOPS

-What did your last one die of?

-If it's easier, I'll get a hydraulic lift and I'll do it myself!

Don't suppose you've got any nipple cream?

Sorry, no.

Did she offer you a cuppa?

No, but I'm fine.

Ta.

Don't fancy popping to t'chemist?

Nipple cream and breast pads while you're at it.

Why didn't you say when I was on t'fag run?

Just grab a tenner out my purse. And put the kettle on before you go out!

Love ya!

So...fleeing this disastrous love affair,

he takes the first available job - this tiny, parochial practice,

on the outskirts of Ilkley Moor.

There he meets Florence Cattermoul - a farmer's daughter,

who is brimming with joie de vivre yet horribly constrained by her

rustic horizons, and suffering with this rare, terminal disease.

But I won't... I won't ruin it for you.

No. Please don't.

I'm going to have to look out for that in my local book store.

You won't have to, because...

I want you to have one of the original manuscripts.

Er, I couldn't possibly take that.

Well, you have to. It's dedicated to you.

I thought it was dedicated to me!

Why would you do that?

Because...you inspired the novel.

Dr Oliver Pomeroy - it's based on you!

Even if we were stranded on a desert island,

thousands of miles away from the nearest Lidl,

it still wouldn't matter because my body gives all the nourishment she needs.

Nature's pretty clever that way.

She looks very contented.

Didn't you get any milk while you were out?

We've only got a splash left.

Yeah? Well, if you want another cuppa,

you'll have to top it up with them! I'm not your flippin' slave.

No, but you're her grandma.

You should be pleased I'm giving her the best start,

not fobbing her off with some poxy formula from your booty-call bloke.

He's not my booty call!

If he was he'd give me a refund, wouldn't he?

Maybe he doesn't rate you. Right, I'm going to put her down.

She's doing brilliantly.

You must be relieved.

Eh?

To have her back home in one piece,

with a beautiful and healthy granddaughter.

Yeah. I love being a nana, me(!)

Don't tell Lady Muck, but...

I do love it.

Mum! She's just yakked all over me!

Will you get this in the wash? It's the only one that fits me proper.

You don't have to marry him!

So sorry I'm late.

Charles?

My train was held at Leeds for half an hour.

A defective buffet carriage.

Still, it gave me a chance to reread your work.

What can I say?

Gripping, poignant, evocative - an instant classic!

Drivel!

To your unique talent!

And the beginning of a very special relationship.

Psst!

Who is this blaggard? He hasn't even mentioned a publishing house,

let alone a whopping advance.

I suggest you enquire, post-haste!

Who...are you exactly?

Sorry?

Which publishing house do you represent?

Which publisher?

Oh, I deal with a lot of the big hitters,

big players...household names.

Which names?

Big ones.

We don't have to decide which one - not just yet.

So, er...when were your first stirrings?

In a literary sense.

SHE SIGHS

So I said to him, "It's a gift, an absolute gift.

"Use your misery and turn it into art."

Next stop - the Booker Prize!

Of course, an unhappy childhood is a prerequisite for a writer.

I trust your early years were lonely and wretched?

No, I had a perfectly happy childhood.

You can't have it all!

I see from your blog that you attended the University of Bradford.

That's right. Closest I could get to Bronte country.

I believe we shared a module in Victorian Literature.

You were there too?

Yes.

I don't suppose you remember me.

I can't say I do.

But come to think of it, your name does sound familiar.

My name?

This is my lot in life -

pretty girls seldom notice chaps like me.

Pretty? Hardly. With this...thing.

Nonsense!

Most men I meet only see the mole. They don't see the person behind it.

I remember admiring you from afar during those long,

dreary lectures about Trollope and Eliot and Bronte.

-SHE SCOFFS

-The barefaced cheek!

He was probably talking about one of your sisters.

Beg pardon?

Time to cash in your chips.

Tell him to order you a minicab.

-You're doing it again.

-Doing what?

Talking in the modern vernacular. I've told you about it.

If he's not a real publisher, then how come he's read my manuscript?

Isn't it obvious?

He's only read the first three chapters - the ones on your website.

Hm. Maybe I should quiz him on chapter four.

He hasn't got the slightest interest in your prose.

Then, why's he here? What's he after?

Sex?!

Is this what this is about?

-KNOCK AT DOOR

-Enter.

Hey!

How goes it?

Yeah. All is good.

The lunching hour will soon be upon us!

Any plans?

No, I'm just going to stay here and power through with my research.

Come on! You deserve a break.

No, I'm on my break.

I'm just comparing prices and functionality of the latest webcams.

Fair enough.

I'm popping to the deli anyhow.

Can I pick you up a few comestibles?

Eh?

Lunch - I could get you some.

Nah, no. I'll probably pop out later.

OK.

How's your lasagne?

Why don't you stop pussyfooting about and tell me what you really want?

Excuse me?

You couldn't care less about my prose. Admit it!

Of course I care.

Though I admit I have been somewhat dishonest.

I used your novel as an excuse to get in touch.

Since our uni days, I always hoped our paths would cross,

and then I stumbled upon your website.

So, you're not a real publisher.

-No. Not per se.

-All the nice things you were saying about my novel,

and you were lying through your teeth.

Not entirely. But I've only read the first three chapters.

And what did you think about those? I want your brutally honest opinion.

Well, in all honesty...

I think your writing shows great potential.

However...

I don't think this particular story is suited to your talents.

It feels very...derivative.

Let's face it - you're not Emily Bronte.

Indeed!

I mean to say, you could be so much better.

Impudent boor!

Why pay homage to outmoded literary tropes,

when there's so much to say about now?

Yes, but everything in her day was so much more vital and romantic.

-What are you staring at?

-Oh, nothing.

You were staring at my mole.

No. No, I wasn't.

You are just like all the others. A complete oaf!

Can't a girl have a tiny blemish?

I might as well be the creature from the Black Lagoon.

It's not that. I like your mole.

I love your mole. It's just...

Just what?

It appears to be...weeping.

Weeping?!

Ugh! It IS cancerous. A melanoma!

The bill, please.

You needn't spare the grim diagnosis.

I have burned brightly and now my life is a fragile flame.

If, in the midst of your grief,

you should hear a tapping on the window, fear not.

It will just be I, beckoning from beyond the grave.

What did you have for lunch?

Erm...lasagne.

Yeah. Thought it was Bolognese sauce.

I don't think we'll be needing to do a biopsy.

Well, there's no need to look so smug!

Sorry?

Oh, I was just...

Talking to your muse?

Yes. Exactly!

I can tell you're simpatico with the creative spirit.

Sophie, let me give you one of these leaflets,

just in case you feel like you want to talk to someone.

Someone real, that is.

Counselling?

Yeah. That voice you hear...

You mean Emily?

Yes, Emily. Does she ever tell you to do bad things?

Feeble-minded chump! Now he wants to get you on the couch.

-Pfft! If only!

-Hm?

Oh, no. It's not like that.

Emily's just a friend.

An imaginary friend.

Have you never had one?

Er, yes. I think I did as a kid.

-I can't remember his name, though.

-Just as sane as you are!

Of course. Look...

really good luck with the novel. When's it being published?

It's actually not any more.

Oh, well, I'm sorry to hear that.

My publisher turned out to be... Well, nothing of the sort.

You might as well throw the manuscript away.

It's not worth the paper it's written on.

Oh. I...

I can see you already have, so...

Er...

Ta-da!

I couldn't resist.

Dandelion and burdock.

Cheesy tortilla chips.

Rocky road.

And pastrami and Emmenthal on rye, with chilli sauce.

What voodoo is this?

Did I do well?

Yes! This is like my desert-island packed lunch. How did you know?

I've been paying attention.

Wow! How much do I owe you?

Nothing. It's on me.

You could treat me some time, if you like.

For sure.

Quid pro quo, Dr Donoghue.

The silver lining is that now I have to get a real job,

I can afford that beauty treatment.

For what it's worth, I think the mole suits you.

-Do you really mean that?

-Yes.

-Yeah.

-Get a room!

Not really, er, appropriate.

Bernard - that was his name.

-Hm?

-My imaginary friend.

Are you still in touch?

No. We lost touch years ago. Probably for the best.

-Yes.

-Take care.

Sophie! Are you all right? I didn't mean to alarm you.

I don't think we have anything left to say to one another.

I thought it was takeaway only, but there's a few tables out the back.

This sweet little patio garden - it's a real sun-trap.

So you can always eat in... or out, I should say.

We should do that some time, yeah?

Look - omni-directional sound, echo-cancelling audio but...

it's only 15 frames a second. Juddery!

No, thank you.

-CHARLES:

-'Please, Sophie, there's something I must explain.'

No, I will not entertain your lustful advances.

You are no more welcome than a poisonous carbuncle,

feasting on my virgin flesh.

-Are you a virgin?

-Yes.

No!

I will not be your pet project.

If I can't be published properly, then...

I shouldn't be published, at all.

Very well.

Besides, don't you have anything better to do?

No, not really.

My father died a few years ago.

I inherited his vast Yorkshire estate,

and enough money to indulge my...pet projects.

I see.

No, no! He's nothing like Heathcliff.

He's more like Edgar Linton - rich, pompous, dull as ditchwater.

-You'll never be happy with him.

-Hm.

SHE SIGHS

I'm not that unappealing, am I?

Crack, why don't you?

-You all right, mate?

-Yeah!

Not a bother. Just checking my mascara.

Actually, if you really want to know, er...

I feel pretty crappy.

When I said that your writing shows great potential, I really meant it.

But...you should stop pretending to be Emily Bronte.

You need to find your own voice.

Good luck.

I fear that he is right.

It's time for us to go our separate ways.

No. What will become of me?

What will become of you?

I'll find another lonely bedsit.

And another lonely writer?

Charles...wait!

That vast Yorkshire estate -

how vast is it, exactly?

And you've told him how you feel?

I've dropped hints - you know, about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

I shouldn't have to spell it out, should I?

Well, you know, it depends. I mean, is he the bashful type?

No. He's really smart.

He can't be oblivious to my...

romantic overtures.

I think he's embarrassed by them.

Who is he?

I mean, er, is it anyone I know?

No. No! He's in Ireland.

We've been in touch online.

I thought there might be something between us.

But I was wrong.

Listen, you keep your chin up!

And I bet your dream guy is just round the corner.

-And a lot closer than Ireland!

-Yeah.

SHE SNIFFLES

What's that?

That is a tin.

How did you get in here?

Someone left the door off the latch. Very sloppy.

What's in the tin?

The mystery is about to be revealed.

Open it.

Are you ready to take the first steps?

Bring it on.