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“It’s not a fish and chip shop,” I said, referring to The Wildcat Cafe (Tagline: ‘The Second Best Chippie in the Highlands.’), which is myotherdead-end job. “It’s a… a high-end restaurant. And I’m notworkingthere, I’m just helping out for a bit. Like a consultant, you know? I wor… I’m there two days a week, so I’ll be at the, er,wine barthe rest of the time. What can I say? I’m in demand!”
“You’re certainly a busy lady,” said Summer doubtfully. I nodded enthusiastically, smiling until my mouth hurt.
Hi, I’m Lexie, and I’m an actress. Not arealone, obviously. But enough of one to be able to put on a good show when I need to. Like when I want to convince Summer not to worry about me, for instance. Orevery other day in my life, when I go to work and act like there’s nowhere I’d rather be than behind the bar in a small town in the Highlands. Or serving deep-fried Mars bars to tourists.
I’m living the dream, for sure.
The thing is, though, most of the time people don’t actuallywantto know the truth, anyway. They prefer the act. The truth is inconvenient, even to me; can you blame me for avoiding it at all costs?
“I’m really glad you’re okay, Lexie,” Summer said gently. “I’ve been worried about you. But look at you, girl-bossing it! I guess going home was the best thing for you, after all.”
“There’s no place like home,” I agreed, casting my eye around the poky little living room, which hasn’t been decorated since my grandmother left it to me. (And thank God she did, because there’s absolutely no way I’d be able to afford to live in it — or anywhere else — if I had to pay rent on top of all my other bills.)
Five thousand miles away, Summer took a deep breath, as if she was about to say something she knew would upset me.
“Isn’t it tomorrow Jett’s supposed to be—?”
“I better go, Summer,” I said quickly, cutting her off before she could actually do it. “I’ve got so much to do now that I’m back; I’ve barely had time to catch my breath.”
“Um, okay,” she said, still sounding worried. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it, though? It’s just, won’t it be really hard, knowing he’s—?”
“I don’t care what he’s doing, Summer,” I interrupted, standing up in a bid to sound more convincing. “It’s noneof my business. I probably won’t even see him. Honestly, I’d completely forgotten about it until you mentioned it.”
Even Summer wasn’t convinced by that one, I could tell. It wasn’t my best work, to be fair. But she knew better than to argue with me, so we said goodbye, and I went straight to bed, to think about the thing I was definitely not thinking about, and how it reallywashappening tomorrow… ortoday, rather which is what it was by the time I was done not thinking about it.
That was last night.
Now here I am, back at The Crown, still determinedly not thinking about how today is the day that Jett Carter, the ex-boyfriend who broke my heart so comprehensively that I’m amazed it’s still working, is arriving in Scotland to film his new movie.
Nope, not thinking about thatat all.
Not even a little bit.
As soon as I walk into the bar, though, it’s obvious that everyone else in here is very muchthinking about it. And talking about it. And constantlyaskingme about it; whichreallydoesn’t help me with my bid to win Best Actress in a Leading Role for my performance as Disinterested Ex-Girlfriend.
“There she is!” says someone, as I take my place next to Ian. “It’s Sexy Lexie! Can we get a quick photo with you, Lexie? Actually, can you say the ‘bawbag’ thing, so we can do a video?”
I hold up a hand to cover my face as everyone starts snapping away without waiting for an answer.
Okay, this is intolerable. There’s no way I’m going to be able to work here if this is what it’s going to be like.
“I, er, might have put the word oot that ye’d be working here,” says Ian apologetically. “Caused quite a stir. I think they’re hoping Jett Carter will come in to see ye once he arrives.”
“Well, he won’t,” I snap, waving away a woman who’s trying to take a selfie with me in the background. “We’re not togetheranymore. And he wouldn’t come into a dump like this even if we were.”
Ian looks hurt. I bite my lip, wishing I hadn’t said that last bit. It is true, though; Heather Bay might be something of a tourist trap, with its picturesque little harbor and dramatic mountain backdrop, but The Crown is very much a “local” haunt; not in a “best kept secret” kind of way, but in more of a “sticky carpet and a faint smell of sick,” kind of way.
Jett will not come here.
That’s one of the reasons I applied for the job, actually.
“It’s her own fault they’re here,” says Old Jimmy, who’s in his usual seat at the end of the bar, his pet sheep Edna lying obediently on the floor beside him, having recently been allowed back inside after a two-year ban imposed by Ian after she somehow got into the storeroom and ate fifteen bags of Wotsits. “It’s because o’ that bloody man o’ hers and his movie. Three busloads o’ tourists today, all hopin’ to catch a glimpse o’ him. The hotels are burstin’ at the seams. ”
“He’s not my man,” I say stiffly, trying to sound like it’s no big deal. “So it’s hardly my fault he’s coming here, Jimmy.”
“It is that,” insists Jimmy, who has always been a stranger to logic. “If you hadnae brought him here last year, he’d never have seen the place, and he’d never have decided to film his movie in it. So all these eejit tourists wouldnae be here either, and the beasts would be safe in their fields.”
“Ye have to admit, he’s got a point,” says Ian. “Er, no’ that it bothers me,” he adds hurriedly, seeing the look on my face. “It’s right good for business, this movie. Look at how many extra folk are in the pub because o’ it.”
