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The message ends with a figure in dollars that’s so large I think I must be imagining it at first.
“What is it?” says Mum, as I rub my eyes before reading the message again to make sure I’m not mistaken. “Is it him? Is it Lochlan Bell?”
“Er, no. No, it’s nothing like that,” I tell her, pushing my chair back hurriedly. “It’s just something to do with work. Actually, I really need to go and deal with this, Mum. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Mum’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but she makes no comment as I kiss her on the cheek and prepare to leave.
“Do you want a lift?” she asks. “I get off work in an hour. You could wait here, if you like?”
“No, it’s fine, thanks,” I say quickly, thinking of Mum’s terrible driving, which has seen her write off more than one car in her time. I’m surprised she still has a license after all the accidents she’s had. “I’ll just walk. It’ll do me good. Help clear my head, you know?”
And I’m going to need a clear head for what I’m about to do next.
“You will let me know what happens, Lexie, won’t you?” she says, opening the door that leads to the soft play, and admittinga roar of sound that almost knocks us both over. “With this Lochlan? There’s… well, there’s still a lot we should talk about, I suppose.”
She’s not wrong. But it’s not Lochlan Bell I’m thinking about as I make my way through the crowds of people all making their way to the cafe (Who knew garden centers were this popular?), and out into the car park, my phone in my hand as I go.
I will think about him soon, I promise. I’ll call the reporter who broke the story, and I’ll ask her to put me in contact with the man who claims to be my father.
First, though, I have a different phone call to make.
Eleven
The taxi driver drops me off outside the double gates that lead to the Emerald View log cabin complex, and I rummage in my pocket before handing him my last remaining 56p as a tip.
“Um, I’m supposed to tell you to put the fare on McTavish’s account?” I say awkwardly, feeling myself blush right to the roots of my hair. “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got on me.”
“It’s fine, hen,” says the taxi driver. “McTavish sends plenty o’ work my way, now this place is open. He’s a good lad. So you keep your money. You look like you need it more than I do.”
He grins widely, then speeds back off down the hill, leaving me clutching my 56p and wondering what on earth I must look like that made him say that.
On second thoughts, maybe it’s better if I don’t know the answer to that one.
I smooth down my hair nervously as I press the buzzer on the gate and wait for someone to answer. When McTavish reiterated his offer of a job here right before he dropped me off at Mum’s work this morning, I was adamant that I wouldn’t be acceptingit. But that was before Ian sacked me. And before I got that message about my overdraft.
As bad decisions go, me working in the same place Jett and Violet are staying for the next few weeks is right up there with my decision to throw a tray of soggy chips at a movie star. Or the time I set Emerald Taylor’s dress on fire because I was jealous she’d been picked as Gala Queen, instead of me.
(Look, I’m not proud, okay? But I’ve apologized for that. And grovelled. And I was a teenager when it happened, so it doesn’t really count.)
Terrible though they were, though, at least those decisions were all mine. This one, however, doesn’t even feel like a choice to me; it’s not a decision so much as a necessity. I’m accepting McTavish’s offer because there’s literally no other option — and trust me, I’ve tried. Before I got the job at The Wildcat, I must have applied for a few dozen different roles, from cleaning to PR, and everything in between. I even applied to be an assistant to a children’s party entertainer at one point — and when even The Animal Man didn’t want me (“How do I know you won’t swear at the bairns?” he’d asked, having obviously seen the infamous “bawbag” video…) I knew I was going to have to settle for whatever I could get.
Which turns out to be a job at Emerald View.
Where my famous ex-boyfriend just happens to be staying.
What could possibly go wrong?
“McTavish isn’t here right now,” says the woman on reception once I’ve been buzzed through the gate, and have walked what feels like miles along a winding woodland road to reach the complex’s clubhouse: an extra-large log cabin with a high, pointed roof, which houses the bar, restaurant, and even a small swimming pool and gym. “But he said I should show you around, and he’ll come and find us when he gets back. I’m Hazel, by the way.”
I shake the hand she offers me. Hazel is tall and gorgeous, with shiny black hair slicked back into a ponytail, and an efficient look about her that I instantly envy. She has, she tells me, been working at The View ever since it opened, having transferred here from a large hotel chain in London, and it’s obvious she’s been trained to be discreet, because although she keeps looking at me curiously as she shows me around, she doesn’t ask any questions about Jett — or about why his most recent ex-girlfriend is so down on her luck that she has to accept a job that McTavish has blatantly invented for her.
“I’m not actually sure what he’s planning for you to do,” Hazel admits, as we admire the swimming pool, which is in a large, glass-sided building next to the reception, with a vaulted wooden ceiling and a strong smell of pine cones . “I didn’t know we were looking for staff, to be honest; we took on quite a few people before the film crew arrived, but I know they wanted to keep as few of us as possible on staff, just to minimize the chances of someone selling stories to the press, you know? They’re all really hot on privacy. We had to sign non-disclosure agreements before they all arrived, saying we wouldn’t take any photos, or talk about who’s staying here.”
“What happens at Emerald View stays at Emerald View,” I quip weakly, my stomach flip-flopping with guilt at the mention of selling stories to the press.
Not that I considered doing it, obviously. Not even for a second. I might be back in my villain era, but not when it comes to Jett. Never when it comes to him.
I know a lot of Jett’s previous girlfriends were asked to sign NDAs (Not by Jett, but by Asher, needless to say…) guaranteeing they’d never talk about their relationship with him, but I never did; not because I refused to, but purely because Jett trusted me.
