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Violet turns to face me, her shiny hair swinging around her perfect face, her famous arched eyebrows raised in a question.
There’s a moment when my life splits in two. I can see it clearly, the options laid out before me, like one of those flowcharts I used to do in Cosmo magazine: except, rather than telling me which lipstick will suit my complexion, this one shows me the consequences of the two choices I could make here.
The right thing or the wrong one: Good Lexie or Bad Lexie. Which is it to be?
The trouble is, there’s no time to think. Violet’s already starting to turn away from me: soon she’ll be back inside the car, and the choice will have been made for me.
I’m not really keen on that. I like to make the bad decisions for myself, you know?
“Fuck it,” I mutter under my breath, only vaguely aware of the sea of camera phones surging around me.
Then I step forward and tip the contents of the tray all over Violet’s glossy head.
I’m back in my villain era.
Five
Of course, Brenda fires me.
“It’s not as bad as you think,” I protest, once I’m safely back inside the shop, with the shutters drawn to keep the cameras at bay. “That was theoldbatch of chips, not the new one. They’d already gone cold. And there were hardly any left, anyway. If I’d emptied the ones from the fryer over her head,thatwould’ve been different. But, look, Brenda, it was what… ten chips? Fifteen, maybe? And most of them landed on the pavement, rather than onher.”
This is true, actually. I really need to work on my aim.
But, ultimately, no harm was done, was it? Violet was unscathed. She just got a couple of chips on her arm, that’s all. I’ve hadwayworse than that in my time as a barmaid/waitress/Wildcat employee. Not that I can call myself that anymore, obviously, because Brenda’s mind is made up: which means I’m back down to just the one job again.
“Ye can bring the apron back after ye’ve washed it,” she says, looking at me as if there’s a chance I might want to keep thething. “And I’ll be takin’ the cost o’ the Mars bar out o’ yer wages. And the chips.”
I accept this without quarrel. I’ve already tried arguing that all publicity is good publicity, and that once people know it was The Wildcat’s chips that landed on internationally acclaimed actress Violet King, they’ll be flocking here to buy them, sotheycan throw them at people, too.
It could become a wholething. No, I’m serious, itcould.
But it’s no good.
“It’s already on that TikTok,” says Ronnie, appearing again from the back of the shop. “It doesnae look good.”
He hands me his phone, and I stare at the video, which starts with me gawping at Jett like the village idiot (And yes, Idohave a pimple on my chin. Ronnie was right: itdoesn’tlook good.), and ends with me tipping the tray of chips over Violet, who looks like a tragic heroine, all big eyes and fluttery eyelashes, as I charge at her like a pit-bull, to the sound of Olivia Rodrigo’s “Bad Idea, Right?”
It was averybad idea, to be fair. I can see that now. I could see itthen, too: it’s just… when I heard her describe me as “pathetic”, it was like something snapped inside me. Some part of me I’ve been trying desperately to suppress was suddenly jolted awake (The same part of me that once set Emerald Taylor’s dress on fire just as she was about to walk out on stage at The Heather Bay Gala Day, I suppose), and now that this monster has been raised, I’m not sure I know how to contain her.
“Dinnae be daft,” says McTavish, who’s waiting outside for me when I finally leave the shop, Brenda and Ronnie having graciously — well, for them — allowed me to wait for a bit, until the Jett Carter fans had all raced off in pursuit of Jett and Violet’s car. “Ye’re no monster, Lexie. Ye’re just a bit… impulsive.”
“Stupid, you mean?”
“Well, aye,” he admits, sheepishly. McTavish has never been one to tell a lie. “Sometimes. But everyone’s stupidsometimes. We’ve a’ done stuff we regret. You’ve just maybe done it a wee bit more often than most.”
“Oh God,” I say, getting into his car. “I can’t believe I did it, McTavish. I was so determined to be good. I was trying so hard. Why am I like this? Why do I keep doing stupid shit that goes viral on TikTok? Why can’t Istop?”
“Er, well, only you can answer that, Lexie,” McTavish says awkwardly. “Ye do seem to have a knack wi’ the social media, though. Maybe ye could try to turn that to yer advantage? Start yer own channel? Get your side of the story across?”
“I’ve tried that,” I say, staring glumly out of the car window at the cobbled streets and pretty little houses of my hometown as they slide past. “When Jett and I first broke up, I thought I could become a social media star, like Ada Valentine, you know?”
McTavish nods gravely. Hedoesknow Ada Valentine.Everyoneknows Ada Valentine, and her Instagram account, which I’d naively thought I could somehow replicate, as an easy way to stay afloat after the breakup.
“But I’m damaged goods,” I go on, sadly. “No one wanted to work with me. Not after that stupid TikTok video, anyway. And every time I tried to post something, people just called me names. I ended up deleting the whole thing.”
“Probably for the best,” says McTavish, sagely. “Ye shouldnae be looking at that stuff, Lexie. It’s no’ good for ye.”
“I can’t look at it now, even if I wanted to,” I shrug. “My phone’s broken. And my car, and my shower—”
