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“Ye sounded like ye were in a bit o’ a pickle, Lexie,” he says, with typical understatement. “And I don’t need to be at The View until later, so I figured I’d do my good deed for the day and help a damsel in distress.”
“That’s really nice of you, McTavish,” I say, touched. “And I’m sorry to have called; it’s just, my car wouldn’t start, and—”
“What’s wrong wi’ it?” asks McTavish, backing out of the driveway. “D’ye want me to get Big Dunco to have a look at it for ye?”
“Everything’s wrong with it,” I say miserably. “And I already took it to Duncan. He says it needs CV boots. That’s made up, isn’t it? That can’t be a thing?”
“Naw, that’s a thing right enough,” says McTavish, grinning. “Dunco wouldnae steer ye wrong, Lexie. And he wouldnae charge ye more than he needed to, either. He’s a fine mechanic.”
“I’m sure he is,” I reply dully. “But it’s… well, it’s a bit more than I can afford right now, let’s put it that way.”
McTavish looks at me curiously at this, but doesn’t comment. I steel myself for the inevitable questions about me and Jett — I’ve had them from everyone else, so I don’t see why McTavish wouldbe any different — but he doesn’t go there either, thankfully, and, before I know it, we’re pulling up in front of The Wildcat, where I can see Brenda, who owns the place, peering at us through the window, then tapping her watch when she realizes it’s me.
“Thanks, McTavish,” I say, opening my bag and hoping there’s going to be enough money in it to pay him. “How much do I owe you?”
“Ach, it’s on the house,” he says easily. “I was going to come in for a bag o’ chips anyway, so it was nae bother.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he waves me away.
“It’s fine, Lexie,” he says firmly. “Dinnae worry about it. And dinnae mention it again, okay? I’m doin’ a lot better these days, thanks to The View. Especially now that we’ve got…” He trails off, suddenly awkward. “Well, I dinnae need yer money,” he finishes. “So that’s that.”
I smile gratefully, touched by this small act of kindness. Then I quickly pull myself back together as I see Brenda looking pointedly at her watch again.
Inside the restaurant, I get quickly to work, pulling the hideous, frilly apron Brenda makes us wear on over my clothes, and getting McTavish an extra-large helping of chips, to thank him for the lift.
Like the pub, the shop is busier than usual today: and —alsolike the pub — it seems like most of the people here have come, not for The Wildcat’s legendary fish suppers or ‘retro fifties decor’ (We’re instructed to refer to it as ‘retro’, but it’s just really old…), but in the hope of seeing Jett Carter wandering down the street and popping in for a bag of chips. Which isridiculous, really. AsifJett would come here.
“Aye, we’ve had Jett Carter in loads o’ times,” I hear Brenda tell a customer as I shovel onion rings into a bag, my nostrils already filled with the nauseating smell of chip fat and fried fish.“He used to come in a lot wi’ Lexie here; before he dumped her, ye ken?”
I look up for just long enough to glare at her.
I’ve never liked Brenda, who’s made being dour and unfriendly into an art form. But now I outrighthateher; because, okay, it might be true that Jett and I came in here a couple of times — not “loads” of times,Brenda— back when we were in our fake-relationship stage, and had come to Heather Bay to try to make it look real. But did she really have tosayit?
When I brought Jett to The Wildcat, I did it because I knew the place was so obscure that it was unlikely anyone would see us there, or take pictures of us to sell to the press. And I was right, too. Jett loved the little restaurant; loved doing something as normal as going out to eat at some local cafe, where no one asked for his autograph, and no one tried to stick a phone camera in his face, either.
But now the tenuous connection to a movie star has made The Wildcat… notfamous, exactly, but well-known enough to Jett Carter fans that of course they’d want to come here and eat in the place their idol once enjoyed a greasy haggis supper with me and Mum.
(Or, at least, Ithinkhe enjoyed it. Hesaidhe did, anyway.)
“Which table did he sit at?” the girl at the counter asks Brenda excitedly. “Can we have that one? Do you remember which chair he used?”
“Naw,” says Brenda, who’s apparently reached the limit of her small-talk capabilities for the day. “Lexie will know, though.”
“Oh my God,” breathes the girl, turning to me. “You’re Lexie Steele! Jett’s ex! Can I get a photo with you? Can you say the ‘bawbag’ thing?” “No,” I say, turning my back and pretending to be busy rearranging the cans of Coke that are lined up like soldiers at the back of the shop. “No, I can’t. Now, do you want to order something or not?”
It’s exactly the kind of thing Brenda herself would say — she’s not exactly known for her customer service skills — but it still earns me a warning glance from her as she lumbers out of the kitchen and throws a fresh batch of fish onto the pan.
The girl pouts with disappointment, then cheers up again, as the cafe door opens and a gang of teenagers enter, all of them shrieking with excitement when they see me behind the counter.
“It’s really her,” the first girl says. “Imagine Jett’s ex working in a chippie!”
They all burst into peals of laughter, then simultaneously raise their phones to start filming me.
“It, like, absolutely stinks of fish in here,” says a girl in a Heather Bay t-shirt, who seems to be live-streaming her visit to The Wildcat for the benefit of her TikTok followers. “It’s, like, really, really bad. But look who’s here!”
She turns the camera on me, and I resist the impulse to raise my middle finger at it.
“Boke breathed bawbag!” the assembled teens shriek in unison. Then they start chanting it, for good measure.
