Chapter 1
If I told you what actually happened last summer, you wouldn’t believe me: which is why, when they asked me about it, I made it all up.
“Oh, you know, it was the distance, really,” I said in my one-and-only statement to the press (If you can call The Heather Bay Gazette “the press”, anyway…), when I landed at Glasgow airport and found Scarlett Scott, the Highlands’ answer to Lois Lane, standing there waiting for me, like she was in some kind of rom-com, only without the ‘rom’ bit. And not much of the ‘com’ either, if we’re being honest.
“Hollywood, the Highlands,” I went on, leaning fully into my self-appointed role as Home-Loving Lexie. “They’re so different. And I guess I missed home too much to want to stay in California forever. Now get out of my way, Scarlett, I’ve been on a plane for 12 hours; I need to pee.”
Scarlett didn’t believe me, naturally (About the distance, I mean, not about the need-to-pee. That bit really was true, although I still don’t think she should’ve put it into her article…), which was fair enough — I wouldn’t have believed me either. No one walks out on Jett Carter — Jett freakingCarter — just because she’s a little bit homesick. And as if Lexie Steele, three-time winner of the Miss Western Highlands pageant, and the girl voted most likely to run off with a movie star in High School, would seriously prefer a moldy old cottage in Wester Ross to a mansion in the Bird Streets. Seriously, though.
So, like I say, I made it all up. Even that thing about High School, because, look, this is Scotland: we don’t even have year books here. If we did, though, I would definitely have been voted most likely to end up with Jett; and the knowledge that I didn’t, and actually ended up coming home to work two separate dead-end jobs just to pay the bills, makes my heart break all over again every time I think about it. Which is why I don’t think about it. And also why I keep pretending everything is awesome, to make myself feel better.
Fake it until you make it, and all that.
“I love it here,” I said through gritted teeth, during the 2-minute “interview” that secured me the role of chief — and, indeed, only — barmaid at The Crown, on Heather Bay High Street. “You know what they say: you can take the girl out of the Highlands, but you can’t take the Highlands out of the girl.”
“Och, yer arse,” said Big Ian, the landlord, who had opened our meeting by asking if it was true that Jett was the highest-paid actor in the world now, and if I could lend him a fiver, if so. “What a load o’ pish.”
Then he handed me an apron (I don’t know why, I’m a barmaid, not a chef), and asked if I could start right away.
“Don’t you want to check my references first?” I asked, pulling out the hastily cobbled-together resume my friend Summer had described as “a great first attempt at creative writing” when I sent it to her the night before.
“Naw,” said Ian, waving it away. “This is The Crown, Lexie. If ye can pull a pint, ye can do the job. There is one thing, though…”
He looked at me eagerly, and my stomach churned with sudden anxiety. Or possibly just from the smells drifting out from the kitchen, it was hard to tell. Ian’s wife, Mo, isn’t much of a cook.
“Can ye say the line?” asked Ian, suddenly shy. “The one from that mime thingummy-gig?”
“Meme,” I said dully. “It’s a meme, not a mime. I’m a meme.”
“Aye.” Ian nodded. “So, can ye? I’ll pay ye 50p extra per hour. It’s just, it would really help bring in the punters if they thought they might get to meet the ‘boak-breathed bawbag’ girl. I was thinking ye could say it every time someone came in?”
We both glanced at the double doors of the bar, which hadn’t opened once in the time I’d been there. I could see Ian’s problem, to be fair. At the same time, though, I was pretty sure I knew who the boak-breathed bawbag was in this situation, and it wasn’t me.
For once.
“Sorry, Ian,” I said, standing up and slinging my bag over my shoulder, like someone who had so many options she didn’t need his stupid job, anyway. “But I’m trying to get away from the whole ‘Bawbag’ thing. Reinvent myself, you know?”
“Fair enough,” said Ian, shrugging. “We can go with the ‘Dumped by Jett Carter’ angle, if ye prefer. That’s a good one as well. We can definitely work wi’ that.”
My shoulders sagged in defeat. When I’d said I wanted to reinvent myself, I’d meant as something other than Jett Carter’s ex-girlfriend, or the unwitting star of a viral TikTok meme that had made me an instant anti-hero. I wanted to just be Lexie: whoever she turned out to be.
I also needed a job, though. Ideally before my next electricity bill was due. So it didn’t look like I had much of a choice.
“You can keep the extra 50p per hour,” I said at last. “But no one mentions Jett, and no one says the word ‘bawbag’. Deal?”
“I cannae guarantee the last one,” said Ian thoughtfully. “This is Old Jimmy’s local, ye know. But I don’t think Jimmy even knows what TikTok is, so if he does say it, it probably willnae be anything personal. So, aye, it’s a deal.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it reluctantly, even though I knew perfectly well that Jimmy the farmer has his own TikTok account. Well, his sheep Edna does, anyway. But I was out of options. The Crown was my last chance saloon: and the fact that it was literally a saloon — and with a real ‘last chance’ kind of vibe, too — wasn’t lost on me.
I started work that afternoon. By the time I helped Ian and Mo close up, nine hours later, I’d been asked about my relationship with the word’s best-known movie star at least 52 times (Which was strange, because we’d only had about 6 customers), and every single person who’d come in — including Ian himself — had asked me to say the line that made me a TikTok sensation, shortly before I found myself single again.
“I’m managing a small boutique wine bar by the coast,” I told my friend Summer over Facetime that night. “Very classy. Really exclusive, you know?”
“Like Soho House?” asked Summer excitedly.
“Yeah,” I said slowly, thinking of The Crown’s crumbling paintwork and ‘old man pub’ vibe. “A bit like that.”
“And are you doing that as well as the fish and chip shop job?” said Summer, confused. “Or did you quit that one?”
“It’s not a fish and chip shop,” I said, referring to The Wildcat Cafe (Tagline: ‘The Second Best Chippie in the Highlands.’), which is my other dead-end job. “It’s a… a high-end restaurant. And I’m not working there, I’m just helping out for a bit. Like a consultant, you know? I wor… I’m there two days a week, so I’ll be at the, er, wine bar the rest of the time. What can I say? I’m in demand!”
“You’re certainly a busy lady,” said Summer doubtfully. I nodded enthusiastically, smiling until my mouth hurt.
Hi, I’m Lexie, and I’m an actress. Not a real one, obviously. But enough of one to be able to put on a good show when I need to. Like when I want to convince Summer not to worry about me, for instance. Or every other day in my life, when I go to work and act like there’s nowhere I’d rather be than behind the bar in a small town in the Highlands. Or serving deep-fried Mars bars to tourists.
I’m living the dream, for sure.
The thing is, though, most of the time people don’t actually want to know the truth, anyway. They prefer the act. The truth is inconvenient, even to me; can you blame me for avoiding it at all costs?
“I’m really glad you’re okay, Lexie,” Summer said gently. “I’ve been worried about you. But look at you, girl-bossing it! I guess going home was the best thing for you, after all.”
“There’s no place like home,” I agreed, casting my eye around the poky little living room, which hasn’t been decorated since my grandmother left it to me. (And thank God she did, because there’s absolutely no way I’d be able to afford to live in it — or anywhere else — if I had to pay rent on top of all my other bills.)
Five thousand miles away, Summer took a deep breath, as if she was about to say something she knew would upset me.
“Isn’t it tomorrow Jett’s supposed to be—?”
“I better go, Summer,” I said quickly, cutting her off before she could actually do it. “I’ve got so much to do now that I’m back; I’ve barely had time to catch my breath.”
“Um, okay,” she said, still sounding worried. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it, though? It’s just, won’t it be really hard, knowing he’s—?”
“I don’t care what he’s doing, Summer,” I interrupted, standing up in a bid to sound more convincing. “It’s none of my business. I probably won’t even see him. Honestly, I’d completely forgotten about it until you mentioned it.”
Even Summer wasn’t convinced by that one, I could tell. It wasn’t my best work, to be fair. But she knew better than to argue with me, so we said goodbye, and I went straight to bed, to think about the thing I was definitely not thinking about, and how it really was happening tomorrow… or today, rather which is what it was by the time I was done not thinking about it.
That was last night.
Now here I am, back at The Crown, still determinedly not thinking about how today is the day that Jett Carter, the ex-boyfriend who broke my heart so comprehensively that I’m amazed it’s still working, is arriving in Scotland to film his new movie.
Nope, not thinking about that at all.
Not even a little bit.
As soon as I walk into the bar, though, it’s obvious that everyone else in here is very much thinking about it. And talking about it. And constantly asking me about it; which really doesn’t help me with my bid to win Best Actress in a Leading Role for my performance as Disinterested Ex-Girlfriend.
“There she is!” says someone, as I take my place next to Ian. “It’s Sexy Lexie! Can we get a quick photo with you, Lexie? Actually, can you say the ‘bawbag’ thing, so we can do a video?”
I hold up a hand to cover my face as everyone starts snapping away without waiting for an answer.
Okay, this is intolerable. There’s no way I’m going to be able to work here if this is what it’s going to be like.
“I, er, might have put the word oot that ye’d be working here,” says Ian apologetically. “Caused quite a stir. I think they’re hoping Jett Carter will come in to see ye once he arrives.”
“Well, he won’t,” I snap, waving away a woman who’s trying to take a selfie with me in the background. “We’re not together anymore. And he wouldn’t come into a dump like this even if we were.”
Ian looks hurt. I bite my lip, wishing I hadn’t said that last bit. It is true, though; Heather Bay might be something of a tourist trap, with its picturesque little harbor and dramatic mountain backdrop, but The Crown is very much a “local” haunt; not in a “best kept secret” kind of way, but in more of a “sticky carpet and a faint smell of sick,” kind of way.
Jett will not come here.
That’s one of the reasons I applied for the job, actually.
“It’s her own fault they’re here,” says Old Jimmy, who’s in his usual seat at the end of the bar, his pet sheep Edna lying obediently on the floor beside him, having recently been allowed back inside after a two-year ban imposed by Ian after she somehow got into the storeroom and ate fifteen bags of Wotsits. “It’s because o’ that bloody man o’ hers and his movie. Three busloads o’ tourists today, all hopin’ to catch a glimpse o’ him. The hotels are burstin’ at the seams. ”
“He’s not my man,” I say stiffly, trying to sound like it’s no big deal. “So it’s hardly my fault he’s coming here, Jimmy.”
“It is that,” insists Jimmy, who has always been a stranger to logic. “If you hadnae brought him here last year, he’d never have seen the place, and he’d never have decided to film his movie in it. So all these eejit tourists wouldnae be here either, and the beasts would be safe in their fields.”
“Ye have to admit, he’s got a point,” says Ian. “Er, no’ that it bothers me,” he adds hurriedly, seeing the look on my face. “It’s right good for business, this movie. Look at how many extra folk are in the pub because o’ it.”
My phone beeps loudly in my pocket, making me jump. I glance down at the display, wondering, as always, if it might be a message from Jett, telling me he still loves me, and wants me back.
“Council tax due tomorrow,” says the reminder I typed in myself a couple of weeks ago.
Shit. The council tax. I wonder if Ian will give me an advance on my wages so I can pay it?
“Can ye no’ have a word wi’ him, and get him to sling his hook?” Jimmy says, when I finally refocus. “It’ll be lambing season soon. I dinnae want Edna and the other lassies havin’ their heads turned by a’ this Hollywood nonsense.”
“Lexie and Jett Carter aren’t together now, Jimmy,” says Mo, appearing from the kitchen, and referring to Jett by his full name, as befits a man who’s been nominated for two Oscars, and is frequently described as “the hottest actor on the planet” — and not just by me. “She already told ye that. Jett Carter dumped her, mind?”
“So she was the one who had to sling her hook,” chortles Ian, as if he’s said something hilarious.
“There must be something she can do,” says Jimmy, looking at me suspiciously from under his bushy eyebrows. “Otherwise, what’s the point o’ her?”
I draw myself up to my full height — which isn’t all that impressive, really, given that I’m only 5’4” — ready to retort, but Mo gets in first.
“Now, Jimmy, ye ken what we’ve said about being nice to the staff,” she says firmly. “That was why the last lassie left. We’re lucky Lexie here was able to fill in at such short notice. Nobody else would do it, thanks to you.”
I smile weakly and go back to polishing the glasses.
Be nice.
I know Mo was talking to Jimmy, but her words ring in my ears all the same.
I have to be nice if I want to keep this job; and I have to keep the job if I want to be able to pay the council tax bill — and the electricity, and the gas, and maybe start eating something other than beans on toast every night for dinner.
Be good, Lexie. You have to be good.
But I told myself that last year, too; back when I’d run away from Heather Bay, trying to start over in California. Back when I met Jett.
But now I’m back where I started: I ran from Heather Bay to L.A., and then from L.A. back to Heather Bay. Towards Jett, then away from him again. Full circle. Absolutely no change. Maybe there never will be. Maybe people like me aren’t meant to change. Maybe we just can’t. Maybe there’s something so broken about us that we can never be fixed, no matter how hard we try.
And I did try: I really did.
I tried so hard to be good, but look where it got me? To a skanky old bar in the hometown where everyone’s hellbent on casting me as the villain, no matter what I do.
My hands tighten around the glass I’m holding. For a second, I think about throwing it against the wall, watching it smash. That would be bad, sure… but satisfying.
Then, from the TV that’s hanging on the wall opposite the bar, I hear Jett’s name again.
“… landed at a private airfield close to Inverness,” says a woman on the screen, who’s standing outside what I’m guessing is the airfield, although the fence around it is so high it could be anywhere, really. “The Hollywood star is in Scotland to work on Justin Duval’s Macbeth, which is due to start filming later this month in locations around the Highlands.”
The reporter looks like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to her. It probably is, actually. God knows, Jett was the best thing that ever happened to me.
And now he’s here. In the Highlands. Which means it’s impossible not to think about it — about him — any longer. I am going to have to think about it. I’m going to have to think about what I’ll say if I bump into him: which isn’t particularly likely, I suppose. He’s an A-list movie star. I’m a barmaid. And, okay, that’s exactly how things were the first time I bumped into him, but that doesn’t mean it’ll happen again, does it? Lightning doesn’t strike twice; and neither does true love — if that’s even what it was. What happened between me and Jett was a one-off; one of those never-to-be-repeated, could-not-make-it-up moments that you spend the rest of your life thinking about. Regretting. Re-living. Wishing you could have it back again, even for a second.
But now it’s done. Over. And Jett being on the same continent as me — maybe even in the same postcode, depending on where he’s staying — isn’t going to change that.
It really isn’t.
I’m saying that to convince myself as much as anyone else, you understand, because I have to believe it. I can’t let myself think there’s even the slightest chance of Jett and me getting back together. Because there isn’t. And when I look back up at the TV screen in the corner, that fact is confirmed.
“With him,” says the reporter, looking like she might be about to cry with excitement, “is his rumored girlfriend Violet King, who’ll play Lady Macbeth, alongside Jett.”
Her grinning image disappears and is replaced by photos of Jett and Violet, which have been put side-by-side in a way that suggests they might have been together when the photos were taken, even though I know for a fact that they weren’t, because, in the one of Jett, I can see my own hand on his arm, the rest of my body having been cut out of the picture, as if it never existed.
Ouch.
Jett and Violet definitely weren’t together when that photo was taken. They are together now, though, if this news report is to be believed; and it’s not The Heather Bay Gazette this time, so I can’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be.
Jett and Violet, starring as husband and wife in a movie. Arriving together on a private plane. Working together every day. Closely. Really closely, actually: I should know — I’ve seen the script.
I thought that me and Jett breaking up was the worst thing that could happen to me. And in a way, I was almost comforted by that knowledge, because if the worst thing that could happen had already happened, that meant nothing else could hurt me, right?
But I was wrong.
As it turns out, the worst thing that could happen to me is Jett getting back together with his beautiful, famous ex-girlfriend: the one everyone thought was the love of his life, until I came along.
That’s the real worst thing that could happen.