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Oh, shit.
The council tax bill.
That was due today, wasn’t it?
I think about the reminder I got yesterday on my phone:council tax due today.
No no no no no.
I’d been planning to pay it with last week’s wages from The Wildcat. But then I got fired, so there wasn’t as much as I’d been expecting. Which means there’s no council tax payment. Which means… actually, I’m not sure what that means? Can you go to jail for non-payment of council tax? Is that what happens? Or would they just send the bailiffs round to repossess… something?
I don’t even have anything valuable to be repossessed, though. If I did, I’d have sold it weeks ago, so I didn’t end up in this exact predicament. I think that means my only option would be… jail?
The glass in my hand drops to the ground, where it shatters instantly.
“Lexie,” tuts Ian, popping his head around the door, alerted by the noise. “Ye need to take care. We cannae afford to lose any more—”
“Ian, you couldn’t give me an advance on tonight’s wages, could you?” I interrupt desperately. “I’m really sorry to ask, but I just… I just…”
I allow my voice to wobble slightly, as if I’m about to start crying. Much to my surprise, it works.
“Er, aye, I suppose I could dae that,” he says reluctantly. “Ye will stay late tonight, though, Lexie, won’t ye? We’re really countin’ on ye here.”
“Yes! Yes, of course I will,” I babble, watching as he opens the till and peels off some notes. “As long as you like. I’ll even help clear up. Or I’ll do it myself, I don’t care, as long as—”
Ian hands me the notes wordlessly, cutting me off in mid-flow. I take them and tuck them guiltily into the pocket in my apron, feeling a bit like I’m accepting a bribe — which I suppose I am, in a way. There’s no chance I’d have agreed to do this if the cash payment for it wasn’t the only thing standing between me and …isthere such a thing as a debtor’s jail? Or is that Charles Dickens times I’m thinking of?
Anyway. I might not go straight to jail for not paying my council tax, but I’m not willing to take the risk, so as soon as Ian tells me I can take my first break, I hurry out to the post office, where I pay the council tax bill, the hood of my jacket pulled up to avoid any photographers — or teenagers — who might be lurking in the shadows. Back at the pub, I carefully count out myremaining cash. I have exactly twenty-two pounds and fifty-six pence to last until I next get paid: which I’m hoping will be soon.
I’ll have to ask Ian to give me as many shifts as he can. I have to get out of this mess. I have to get back on my feet, and get a real job, and a new car, and… and…
I take a deep breath, trying to stave off the panic attack I can feel rapidly approaching. It’s hard not to panic, though. It’s all so overwhelming. The job, the house,Jett… all of it. I think longingly of my life back in California, during those few blissful months when Jett and I were still together. Still happy. Still naively thinking it would last forever. The last thing I imagined was that I’d end up back in Heather Bay, and working in TheCrown, of all places. My family used to more or less own this place. I remember when I was a kid, there was a Steele Spirits sign hanging above the door; and not just here, at The Crown, but above every bar in town.
Ours was one of the biggest distilleries in the Highlands; started by my grandfather after the war. He ran it successfully for decades — then my mum took over, and everything went wrong.
But that’s a whole other story.
I’m not really used to beingpoor, is what I’m saying. Or notthispoor, anyway. Because me and mum might not have been rich, exactly, but we always muddled along somehow; mostly on credit cards, I suspect, coupled with the generosity of mum’s various “men friends.”
I should really go and see her. I haven’t been for ages; not since the time I asked if she could lend me some money, and she told me she didn’t have any, either.
How the mighty have fallen.
And how theykeep onfalling, too, thanks to me.
“Are ye ready, Lexie? That’s us closed the bar to the public,” says Maureen, who’s sporting a rigid, Margaret-Thatcher stylehaircut after her trip to The Chop Shop earlier today. (‘Young’ Libby is about 82, though, to be fair. I don’t expect her finger’s on the pulse, exactly.) “We just need to clean up before tonight. The caterers should be here soon wi’ the food.”
Maureen disappears, and I slip my precious £22 (not forgetting the 56p) into my apron, then tighten it around my waist, as if I’m putting on armor. I wish Iwaswearing armor. Or even just some decent makeup. Because the act I’m about to put on is going to have to be the very best one of my life.
I’m going to have to face Jett and Violet, and pretend I really don’t give a damn about either of them.
(Oh, and I’m also going to have to try not to throw stuff this time. Which might be an even bigger problem.)
Seven
Not long after Jett and I got together, we went to Mexico.
It was Jett’s idea. A “getting-to-know-you” break, he called it.
