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Now it’s mine. And, just like everything else I own, it’s not working either: which really shouldn’t be a surprise to me, because when I took it to the garage a few weeks ago, they presented me with a long list of problems that absolutelyhadto be fixed, apparently, or it would stop working altogether. The list is still there, actually, on the passenger seat, and I open the door and get back in, so I can pick it up and quickly scan through it.
£2,678 worth of problems, including something the mechanic has listed as “CV Boots”, and which I swear to God is totally made up. Cars don’t needboots, do they? Or any of this other stuff, which comes to more than it’s even worth, and which, even with two jobs, it would take me months to be able to pay for.
“Fuuuuuckkkkk!” I scream, throwing my phone at the leather passenger seat in frustration, and watching in horror as it misses its target and goes sailing out of the window instead.
Oh no.
Oh, please God, no.
I throw myself out of the car and race around to the side to snatch up my precious phone — my only link with Summer and the rest of the world I left behind.
But yes.
The screen is shattered.
Ofcoursethe screen is shattered.
I tentatively swipe up, to see if I can get it to work, anyway. The jagged plastic pierces my thumb, which immediately starts bleeding.
The phone remains blank.
I’ve killed my phone. And, what’s worse, I’ve done it through sheer bad-temper. It wasn’t an accident, that could have happened to anyone. No, it was a stupid, reckless act of impatience, such as I’m famous — well,infamous — for.
I deserve this, I tell myself, going back into the house and picking up the handset of Gran’s old landline, which I have neverused in my life (Whodoes, though?”), and which has simply sat there gathering dust in the hallway ever since I inherited the cottage.
I look at it suspiciously. It has a circular dial on it that phones used to have back in the olden days. I’m not sure I know how to work it. To my surprise, though, when I put the handset tentatively to my ear, there’s a low hum on the end of the line, which suggests it is, at least, still connected. I guess it must be part of the broadband package?
That reminds me: I need to cancel the broadband package. Because I can’t afford it. And it’s not like I’m going to be using the internet much without my phone, is it?
I stand there for a few seconds, trying to think of a phone number —anyphone number. But I don’t actuallyknowany. (Again, doesanyone?) Any time I need to call someone, I tap on their name on my contacts list — or send them a Whatsapp, instead. You know, like a normal person?
But now I need to know some phone numbers. And quickly, too, because I’m already late for my shift at The Wildcat, and if I try to walk there, I’ll be even later.
I wrack my brain, searching through all the accumulated junk that’s in there for the number of a taxi firm. Isn’t there a local one that advertises on the radio? Don’t they have that annoying jingle with the phone number in it? Surely I can rememberthat, if I really think about it?
Then it comes to me.
Not the number of a taxi firm, exactly, but the number of a man whodrivesa taxi, the phone number of which is displayed proudly in the back window on an old piece of cardboard.
With a sigh of relief, I put the phone back to my ear and call McTavish.
Three
McTavish arrives five minutes later, driving a smart black SUV, which is so different from his usual rusty old Volvo that it takes me a few seconds to figure out who’s in it.
He gets out, wearing what looks like a brand new pair of jeans, and a baseball hat with “Emerald View” embroidered on the front.
Of course! McTavish is a partner in the swanky new resort Jack Buchanan built in the hills above the town. (I say “resort”: it’s a bunch of log-cabins you can rent out for a holiday. Itispretty swanky, though, according to … well, pretty much everyone in town, really. It was all anyone could talk about — until I came back, obviously, and gave them all a rich new source of gossip. It’s practically a public service I’m performing here.)
“Wow,” I say, as he opens the passenger side door for me to get in. “When I called for a taxi, I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Och, it isnae really a taxi,” says McTavish, whose blonde hair has been cut since the last time I saw him, but who still has the same bright blue eyes in his tanned face, and the same big smile, which he flashes at me now, as if it’s totally normal for me to callhim in a panic, begging for a lift to work. “I had to give up the taxi business when I started working for The View. It was just too much, what with the farm and everything else.”
I nod. The McTavishes have farmed the land around Heather Bay for as long as anyone can remember. I’m surprised he’s still keeping it on now that he’s working with Jack Buchanan (Who more or lessownsHeather Bay…), though, and I’m about to ask him about it, when another thought strikes me.
“Wait,” I say, halfway into the car. “If you’re not running the taxi any more, why on earth are you here?”
This comes out a little more bluntly than I’d intended it to. Luckily, though, McTavish is used to me by now, and he smiles again, and gestures again for me to get in.
