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“You’re going to have to stop obsessing over her,” Summer says, tipping up her box of popcorn and emptying the last few pieces into her mouth. “Surely they can’t have that many scenes together, anyway? I remember reading Macbeth at school. The wife’s hardly in it, is she? Doesn’t she, like,die?”
“Yeah.” I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction at the thought of Violet, like,dying. “But the film isn’t totally true to the play, Summer.” The smile dies on my lips. “It’s a modern adaptation. A sexy one. It’s what Justin Duval’s famous for.”
It’s what Jett and Violet are going to be famous for, by the time this film comes out.
“Oh God,” I wail, the full horror of this catching up with me. “I can’t stand it, Summer. I can’t stand the idea of watching him with her, even if it’s not for real.”
But itisfor real. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. Jett and Violet were one of those golden couples, back when they first got together. She was his first proper girlfriend. He once told me he’d thought they’d be together forever. He had really loved her. And no matter how many times he tried to say it was over between them, and thatIwas the one he lovednow, I had always struggled to believe him.
Why would he?
Why would he choose Lexie Steele over Violet King?
Why wouldanyone?
“You don’t have towatchthem,” says Summer, wrinkling her nose. “I think that’s one movie you’re definitely going to want to skip, Lexie.”
“Yeah. I know. But it’ll still havehappened,” I point out, determined to wallow in my misery. “And I’llknowit’s happened. I’ll be able to imagine it. Which might even be worse than the reality of it.”
“Youdohave a pretty vivid imagination,” concedes Summer. “But, look, you’re going to have to find a way to get past this. It’s not like there’s anything you can do about it. He’s going to make this movie. He was going to do it, whether or not you two were together. I don’t know, maybe you should come back here for a bit while they’re filming? It feels like a bad idea, you being there at the same time as him. It’s going to make it impossible for you to forget about it.”
“I know,” I say, rubbing my eyes wearily. “But I can’t leave, Summer. I can’t afford to come back to L.A. I can’t afford to goanywhere. I only came back here because at least I have somewhere to live here, that I don’t have to pay rent on. There’s literally nowhere else for me to go.”
There’s a long silence as Summer digests this small series of truth bombs from me.
“Right,” she says at last. “So the wine bar…?”
“Is just a pub,” I admit, shrugging. “A pretty crappy one, actually. But between it and the chip shop, I can just about cover my bills for the month. Assuming nothing else goes wrong.”
“Well, fingers crossed,” says Summer, holding her hands up to the camera so I can see the fingers in question. “The only way is up. Right?”
“Yeah. I suppose so.”
I force my lips into an approximation of a grin, then say goodbye, promising to call her again tomorrow. Then I sit down to eat my unappetizing plate of beans on toast, not bothering to switch on the TV while I eat, like I usually do, because I know every news station will still be focused on Jett and Violet, and how amazing it is that these two major Hollywood stars have come to the Highlands: a move that will surely breathe new life into the area, bringing an influx of tourists, all hoping to rub shoulders with the movie stars.
I think I’m on team Jimmy, for once. I really wish they’d sling their hook.
The next morning, I get up and jump into the shower to get ready for work — then jump right back out again, shrieking in protest when I realize it’s doing that thing again where it runs scalding hot, then freezing cold, with nothing in between.
It’s something to do with the water pressure, apparently. Or a valve. Or some other thing I can’t remember, because I can’t afford to pay to fix whatever it is, so I kind of stopped listening when the plumber I called round to look at it gave me the bad news.
At least the bath still works. Not that I have time for one, anyway.
Shivering in the chilly air of the antiquated bathroom (This cottage might look cute from the outside, but it was built in the 1800s, and is, as Gran always used to say, “A bugger to heat”), I wash quickly in the sink, then throw my unwashed hair up intoa greasy bun. I’m aiming for “effortlessly cool,” but when I look in the mirror to do my makeup, I look a lot like a potato with a clump of hair balanced on top of it, so that’s another dream dead.
My roots are showing. I really need to get them fixed. I can’t afford to get them fixed. Or, indeed, to replace the expensive bottle of foundation that I got sent for free, back when I was still Jett Carter’s girlfriend, and brands kept sending me things, hoping I’d show them on my Instagram. There were also designer shoes and handbags, perfume, clothes … all kinds of things I’d never have been able to afford on my own, and which I ended up selling on Vinted for a fraction of what they were worth, to get me through the first few months of being back home, and unemployed.
I kept the foundation, though; and the rest of the makeup. I figured I should have at least one thing to make myself feel better. But now the foundation has finally run out, so it looks like I’m showing myrealface to the world today — flaws and all.
What was that Summer was saying about the only way being up?
For me, though, it feels like the only way isdown— a fact that’s confirmed when I head out to the car, and, of course, it won’t start.
“Why won’t you work, you little shit?” I yell in frustration, kicking one of the tires of the little orange convertible, as if it’s doing this deliberately, then feeling instantly contrite.
“Sorry,” I whisper, hoping no one’s close enough to see me talking to my car. “It’s not your fault. You’re just a car, aren’t you?”
It’s notjusta car, though. The MG was my dad’s car. It’s all I have of him. It’s all I’veeverhad of him, actually: he left before I was even born. For some reason, though, he didn’t take this car — which, in a rare act of sentimentality, my mum kept for me.
