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She looks at me appealingly, as if this small act of loyalty makes up for the lifetime’s worth of lies. In Mum’s world, it probably does.
“Where were you, anyway?” she asks, her forehead creasing in a frown. “I called and called, but it just kept going to your voicemail. I sent you loads of messages, too, but you didn’t reply.”
She has the gall to look aggrieved at this, as if I’m the one at fault here. Mum always has a way of casting herself as the victim. I’m nottotallysure she is one, though, now that the initial shock has started to fade. Wild though it is to me to think that she genuinely doesn’t know who fathered her child, I’m not going to judge her for it. And I suppose her heart was in the right place with the lie about the car.
I think again about the pile of magazines next to her phone.
She might have a weird way of showing it — like, areallyweird way of showing it — but I know she loves me, deep down. And, right now, she’s the only one who does; so I don’t suppose there’sanything to be gained by holding it against her that she can’t give me the answers I’m looking for.
“My phone was broken,” I tell her. “I only just got a new one.”
I don’t bother mentioning the fact that it was actually McTavish who got me it. Her long-forgotten ex-lover coming out of the woodwork to claim he’s the father of her child must be enough of a shock for her; if she thinks there’s a chance of me ending up with afarmer, it might just finish her off.
Fortunately, though, Mum either hasn’t heard the gossip about me and McTavish, or she’s wisely decided not to mention it. As if on cue, the phone he gave me emits a loud ping, and I glance down at it, annoyed.
“You have payments due that may take you overdrawn,” says the message on the screen, from my Bank. “We’ll charge you each day you’re overdrawn above your interest-free amount, if you have one.”
Shit. This is the last thing I need. And I’m not even sure I have an ‘interest-free amount’, whatever that is.
I push the phone aside and turn back to Mum, but it pings again, almost immediately.
“Lexie, it’s Ian,” says the new message. “Look, I’m really sorry to do this, but we’re going to have to let you go. We don’t have any more shifts available, and also, that silver-haired gobshite from last night is threatening to get us closed down if you come back. Sorry, Lexie. No hard feelings, eh?”
Ian’s ended his message with the clown emoji, which is either supposed to be Asher, or an attempt to take the piss out of me. Either way, though, I’m out of a job. Again.
Mum slaps a neon colored Fruit Shoot on the table in front of me, and opens one for herself.
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s all we’ve got. Unless you want a bag of Monster Munch?”
“No, you’re okay, thanks,” I mutter, picking up my drink without enthusiasm.
I can’t bring myself to tell her I just got fired again. There’s no point; there’s nothing she can do about it. I’m going to have to figure this out myself, somehow. First, though, I’m going to have to drink this Fruit Shoot, to see if it helps with the hangover, which has just come back with a vengeance.
“Did you feed Violet?” Mum asks, making me almost spit out the purple liquid in shock.
“Violet?What? Why would I feedViolet?”
And here was I thinking this day couldn’t get any weirder.
“Thecat,” Mum says patiently. “Violet the cat. I left a note asking you to feed her.”
Leave it to Mum to name her pet after my arch nemesis. And it’s not even agoodname for the orange moggy I saw back at the house, either.
“Yes, Mum,” I reply with a sigh. “I fed your cat. And I washed up the dishes you left in the sink, too.”
“You’re a good girl, Lexie,” she says, patting my hand again. “You really are, you know. And I’m sorry about all of this.” She gestures vaguely around the break room, but I know she’s talking about Lochlan Bell — or whoever my father might be. “It’s not how I’d have wanted you to find out about…. well,things.”
“Well, no, I don’t suppose it is,” I reply, wincing as I remember the scene in The Crown last night when I first found out Lochlan was looking for me. I don’t thinkanyonewould want to find out about “things” like that.
I scroll idly through the unread messages on my phone, wondering what I should do next.
I suppose I should contact the journalist who put the story together. She’ll presumably be able to put me in contact with Lochlan Bell, daunting though that thought is. I also need to finda new job, though: ideally one that’ll pay quickly enough to keep me within my overdraft limit, unlikely though that sounds.
I can feel the panic starting to build again. I’ve lost two jobs in 48 hours. That must make me virtually unemployable, surely? Or evenmoreunemployable than I was to start with, rather.
The phone beeps again, and I grab it as if it’s a lifeline.
“Hi Lexie,” says the latest message, which comes from a number I don’t recognize. “This is Alex Russell from Tinseltown Insider. I’m reaching out in the hope you might be willing to talk to us for an exclusive interview about your relationship with Jett Carter. We’re willing to pay for your time, of course.”
