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Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Next to him, Violet’s wearing a simple black dress that I can tell, even from this distance, cost significantly more than I just spent on my council tax bill. It clings to her spectacular curves as if it was made just for her. It probablywasmade for her. I know that if I were to get close enough to her (Which I have absolutely no intention of doing, just to be clear) I’d see the makeup on her high cheekbones, but, from here, it looks like she’s wearing none at all, and is just naturally beautiful, without any help whatsoever.
I know. What a bitch, right?
Violet doesn’t appear to notice me either. This definitelyisa good thing.
I watch from behind the bar as the two of them cross the room to where Justin Duval is sitting with a group of people I don’t recognize: probably writers, or producers, or whatever. Duval stands up to greet them, slapping Jett heartily on the back,clearly delighted to see him. Jett grins back at him, and I find myself smiling along with him from my position behind the bar.
Getting this role meant so much to him; and being able to film it here, in Scotland, was almost as important. I’m so happy it’s finally happening for him.
I just wish it didn’t have to be happening for Violet, too.
The group in the corner all sit back down again, and Duval clicks his fingers in the direction of the bar, gesturing for more of the expensive champagne the caterers delivered along with the food. (Whoever set this thing up obviously had the sense to realize The Crown’s not-even-remotely chilled cava wouldn’t cut it with this crowd…)
I duck quickly behind the bar and pretend to tie my shoelace so Ian can’t ask me to take the drinks over. From above my head, I hear a lot of indistinct muttering and grumbling, then the champagne bucket disappears, and I take a quick peek above the bar, watching as Ian carries it over to the group at the table.
They’re all so deep in conversation now that they don’t even look up as he opens the bottle and pours the drinks. He’s doing a fairly good job, actually. Maybe I should give him more credit?
Jett glances up briefly to thank Ian for the drink, then turns back to Duval. Beside him, Violet glances restlessly around the room, her nose wrinkling with distaste as she takes in the tartan carpet and wood-paneled interior. She looks bored. After a few seconds, she takes out her phone and starts scrolling through it, and I straighten up cautiously, and creep out from my hiding place to collect some glasses from the nearest table.
I know Ian isn’t going to be happy with me for staying out of sight as much as possible — and Maureen definitely won’t be, when she figures out I’m not going to be introducing her to Jett — but I can’t help it. It would be too humiliating for me to have to face them both like this. For one thing, I’d have to at leasttryto apologize for yesterday, and I’m not sure my acting skills areup to that particular task. Idoregret doing it. Obviously I do. I’m just… not quite ready to look Violet in the eye and grovel to her for forgiveness.
Also, I’ll probably never forgiveherfor swooping in on Jett as soon as I was out of the picture — assuming she even waited that long — which makes it hard for me to feel truly sorry about throwing those chips at her yesterday.
So I don’t want to apologize. Not yet, anyway. Most of all, though, I don’t want to be hereat all, watching her snuggle into his side, and put her arm through his, as if he belongs to her, when I know perfectly well that he’s supposed to belong tome.
I don’t have a choice, though. Ian’s already paid me in advance for this shift, and it’s not like I can give it back now I’ve used it to pay off that bill. So I continue to collect glasses, keeping my face carefully angled away from the table in the corner, where Justin Duval is still holding court, while Jett interjects every so often. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I’ve been trying my best, but the babble of voices drowns out everything, and, just to add to the noise, someone’s switched on the TV on the wall, too, and is flicking through the channels, looking for a sports station.
Great. That’s all we need.
I go back behind the bar and start cleaning up the glasses I’ve gathered. I’m just giving them a final polish, deliberately taking my time, so I can keep my back turned to the room, when a familiar voice cuts across the babble.
“What the fuck isshedoing here?”
I freeze on the spot, desperately hoping there might be someoneelsein the room who really shouldn’t be here.
I know there’s not, though.
I know it’s me; and the reason I know is that I’ve already recognized the man who’s speaking. Well,shouting.
It’s Asher Ford, Jett’s manager. I can see his silvery gray hair reflected in the mirror behind the bar. He’s standing rightbehind me, his finger raised in anger, as he jabs it in my direction.
I should have realized Asher would be here. I should have realized that if anyone was going to notice me, it would be him.
“Well? Is anyone going to answer me?” he demands into the silence that descends. “What’s Lexie Steele doing in this bar? Who let her in?”
I turn slowly around, just as Ian appears on the scene, looking flustered.
“Is there a problem?” he asks, a trifle redundantly. “Lexie? What’s going on?”
“I’ll say there’s a problem,” says Asher, who’s possibly the best-dressed person to ever set foot in The Crown, in one of his immaculately tailored suits. “She’sthe problem.”
I feel my face start to burn with embarrassment.
So much for flying under the radar, then. It looks like I’ve inadvertently turned into the evening’s entertainment.
I stare down at the wineglass in my hand, willing it to turn into a magic pumpkin, or something else that could get me the hell out of here. I don’t dare look at Jett. Or Violet. Or even Asher, who I’d normally quite enjoy sparring with, but who currently has the power to lose me another job, and who must therefore be treated like a bomb that could go off at the slightest movement.
