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If I’d thought it would be hard to live down the ‘bawbag’ incident — or the ‘chips-on-a-celebrity’ incident, for that matter — it’s absolutely nothing to what the residents of Heather Bay are going to make of the news that me and McTavish are apparently “loved up”. Sure enough, the bar falls silent as I walk through the door, before exploding into a riot of sound, as everyone tries to shout questions at me at once.
“Leave the lass alone,” yells Ian, coming unexpectedly to my rescue. “Ye’re like a pack o’ wolves, a’ baying for blood.”
“Thanks, Ian,” I say gratefully, pulling on an apron and going to stand behind the bar. “And I’m sorry for being late. I’ll stay on a bit longer to make up for it.”
“Aye, that would be great,” says Ian, who, I suddenly realize, is looking even more wild-eyed than usual. “The thing is, Lexie—” He leans forward, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “We havea special event on tonight. Averyspecial event, if ye catch ma drift.”
He straightens up, looking pleased with himself.
“Right, okay,” I reply, bemused by the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but happy to find him focused on something other than the Lexie-and-McTavish story. “Is it the darts club again? Maureen said you had them in last week. 80th birthday party, wasn’t it?”
To be totally honest, I don’t particularly care what passes for a “special event” at The Crown. I just want to clock up as many extra hours of overtime as I can to make up for the loss of wages from The Wildcat. And if I can keep Ian talking about this event, whatever it is, it’ll give him less of an opportunity to ask me about McTavish, and our alleged affair. Or Violet and her shower of chips. Or Jett, and… it’ll just give him less of an opportunity to talk aboutme, okay?
“It’s no’ the darts team,” says Ian, looking strangely smug for a man who once told me he’d seen every episode ofBaywatchat least twice . “It’s even better than that.”
“Better than the darts team?” I reply, feigning astonishment. “Gosh, I’m having a hard time believing that, Ian. Go on, then, what is it?”
I pick up a cloth and start wiping down the bar, which is covered with what I assume — and, indeed,hope— is beer. It’s not a particularly fun job, but at least it means I’m not looking at Ian when he says the name that’s guaranteed to get a reaction from me.
“It’s Jett Carter,” says Ian, in acan-you-believe-thistone. “And a’ the rest of the folk working on this movie o’ his. They’ve hired the pub for the night!”
***
It’s five minutes later, and I’m sitting in the little staff room next to the kitchen, with a glass of cheap whiskey in my hand, which Maureen made Ian pour for me, somewhat against his wishes.
“It’s good for shock,” she says helpfully. “You get that down ye’ and ye’ll be right as rain in no time, hen.”
I very much doubt that; I’ve seen how much Ian waters down the spirits in this place. But I take it anyway, to give myself some time to think.
When Ian first told me Jett was coming here tonight, I assumed he was joking. Because it’s TheCrown.It’sliterallythe last place on earth you’d expect a Hollywood star to show up. (And, yes, I know I said that about The Wildcat, too, but Jett does have some history with The Wildcat. Strange though it might sound to those of us who actuallylivehere, he really did like those deep fried Mars bars we keep strictly for the tourists — because they’re the only ones who ever ask for the things.)
But no: after a bit of clarification from Maureen — who’s wearing a fetching neon pink lipstick in honor of the occasion — it seems the production firm responsible for the filming ofMacbethhave hired The Crown’s grotty old function room for the evening, for a cast party to celebrate the start of filming.
“They had originally booked The 39 for it,” says Maureen, naming the best restaurant in this part of the Highlands. “But there was some kind of emergency with the kitchens there and they cannae dae it. We were the only place available at short notice.”
She says this as if it’s something to be proud of. I resist the impulse to point out that the only reason The Crown is always available at short notice is because no one in their right mind would want to come here, and ask instead about the catering for this fiasco… I meanevent.
“Are you going to be able to handle it on your own, Maureen?” I ask, thinking of the ‘school dinner’ style curries and rock hard jacket potatoes that are Maureen’s specialty.
“Och, dinnae worry about that, lass,” says Maureen, waving away my concerns. “That’s the best bit: they’re bringing in some posh catering firm to take care o’ the food, so we just need to serve the drinks. Well,youjust need to serve the drinks,” she adds, checking the time on her phone. “I’ve booked an appointment wi’ Young Libby at The Chop Shop. I want to look my best for your Jett Carter. I just love him, so I do.”
“He’s notmyJett Carter,” I say automatically, but Maureen isn’t listening.
“Will ye introduce us, Lexie?” she says eagerly, handing me a KitKat, presumably to sweeten the deal. “D’ye think he’d give me his autograph?”
“Or maybe we could take a photo o’ him and that Violet King and hang it behind the bar,” says Ian, appearing as if from nowhere and plucking the KitKat out of my hand before I can open it. “The Crown: watering hole of the stars!”
He beams at us both delightedly.
“Er, if ye wouldnae mind hurrying up wi’ that, Lexie,” he says, nodding at the glass in my hand. “We need ye back behind the bar.”
I wait until they both leave, then pour the whiskey down the sink. I feel sick enough from the news that Jett and Violet are coming here tonight; I don’t need Ian’s home brew to make it any worse.
I can’t do it, obviously. The overtime. As much as I need the money — and, trust me, I really,reallyneed the money — there’s absolutely no way I can face Jett and Violet again. Not after what happened yesterday. Notat all, in fact. I can’t risk a repeat of yesterday’s incident; and I can’t trust myself not to get embroiled in one. It’s not in my character to keep my mouth shutwhen someone’s annoying me; and it’s not inViolet’scharacter tonot annoy me. Or to hurt me, rather.
Because Violet’s very existence hurts me. It’s a source of so much pain that it makes it hard for me to think straight. Every time I see her and Jett together — or eventhinkabout her and Jett together — I feel like someone’s casually reached into my chest and ripped my heart right out of my body. It’s an actual, physical pain. Anache. A feeling of something very important being missing. Seriously,youtry functioning as normal without your heart; go on, I dare you. Try mixing drinks, and pulling pints, and chatting to customers, while the love of your life sits across the room with the love ofhislife.
Can’t do it, can you? Didn’t think so. And I can’t do it, either; which is why, as soon as I go back out to the bar, I’m going to tell Ian I can’t stay on tonight after all. He’ll understand. He’s not a bad guy, really. Maybe I can feign illness, or… or death, even? Anything to get out of this without losing my job. Because I really can’t afford to lose this job. Not with the council tax due, and the…
