I can recommend him a whisky, all right. My family own a brewery back in Scotland, so you could say that whisky’s in our blood. Quite literally, in some cases. It’s one of the reasons I went into bar work when I moved here, actually; it’s one of the few things I know anything about. Sometimes when I’m serving drinks, all it takes is the slightest whiff of whisky and I’m right back there in Heather Bay, listening to the sea crash on the rocks from my little cottage. And sometimes that memory is so painful that it’s all I can do not to burst into tears right there in the middle of the bar. Which would be unusual for me, because Inevercry. Well, not for real, anyway.
As it happens, the brand 3.5’s asking about — The 39 — is brewed in Heather Bay, too, so yes, Ihaveheard of it. I really wish I hadn’t, though, because, in a roundabout way, the owner of that brand is the reason I’m out here in L.A., serving beer and throwing drinks at customers, rather than back home, where…. well, where I’d be doing much the same thing, actually, only for my Mum’s business rather than for someone else’s. And even though it’s all my fault, and I like it here just fine, I sometimes wish that’s exactly what I was doing.
(Not the throwing drinks bit, of course. I hardly ever wish I was doing that.)
But this is my penance. Being here is my punishment for what I did back home, which is why, once I’ve taken a second to recover from this unexpected collision of my old life and my new one, I straighten up again, and look 3.5 in the eye, smiling as if my heart doesn’t feel like it’s been ripped right out of my chest, and completely ignoring the nagging pain in my stomach which started up as soon as he mentioned The 39.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never heard of it,” I say, shrugging apologetically, as I pick up his now-empty glass. “I guess it can’t be any good.”
Oh yeah, that’s the other thing you need to know about me and my life here: it’s all fake. Everything in L.A. is fake — from the impressive pair of boobs on the woman in the corner of the bar to the lie I just told the man in front of me. And that’s fine with me, really, because if none of this is real, that means it can be whatever I want it to be.Ican be whatever I want to be.
And that’s exactly why I like it.
Chapter 2
Do you ever do that thing where you put on some music and pretend you’re in the opening scenes of a movie, even though you’re actually doing something totally ordinary, like going for a run, say, or loading the dishwasher?
(I’m going to pretend you said yes to that. Otherwise this confession will besuper-awkward.)
I do that all the time. I’m doing it now, in fact, as Summer and I clear tables and give the floor of the bar a half-hearted swipe with the mop at the end of the night. In real life, I’m a waitress wiping sticky drink residue off a table, my hair pulled back, and my eyes heavy with fatigue. In my mind, though, I’m the star of my own personal movie: the camera framing me perfectly as I stand, Cinderella-like in the middle of the empty bar, the dirty glasses and tacky neon signs acquiring a poignancy that’s totally lacking in real life as the music swells around me.
In the movie of my imaginary life, I’m no longer Lexie — Heather Bay exile, and Woman With Only One Friend. No, I’m Alexandra; tragic heroine of some Oscar-nominated tale, the details of which I haven’t quite ironed out yet, but it’ll beepic, I’m sure.
(This version of myself is also at least 4 inches taller than my actual self, and looks a bit like a young Grace Kelly, who Mum — in a rare moment of praise — once said I reminded her of. So if you could imagine me like that from now on, that would be fantastic, thank you.)
“Oh my God, Lexie, you’vegotto come and see this!”
I pause in the act of wiping down my last table as Summer’s voice breaks into my silver-screen daydream, making the image in my head shatter like a champagne flute being dropped from a great height.
To be perfectly honest, I don’t really care about whatever it is she wants to show me. It’s been a long night, and, unfortunately for me, the trouble didn’t end when Drunk Guy left the bar, because, rather than heading home — you know, like anormalperson? — the dickhead stood outside, taking photos through the grimy window, until finally Joel had to threaten to call the police unless he moved on.
He did, of course — I mean,weall know Joel’s a complete softie, who’s probably never raised hisvoicein his life, let alone his fists, but heis6’5”, and built like a tank, so people tend not to argue with him if they can possibly help it. Not even drunk ones. I’ve felt uneasy about the whole thing ever since, though; the same way I do when there’s a storm brewing over Heather Bay, and the air feels heavy and loaded, even though you can’t see the dark clouds yet.
Why was Drunk Guy taking photos of the bar? And who was he photographing? Was it me? Mr. 3.5? Is he going to come back tomorrow with his arm in a sling, saying one of us assaulted him, and now he’s going to sue the bar? Because that’s the kind of thing people do over here, and I’m in enough trouble as it is without adding lawyers into the mix.
“Lexie, come on!”
Summer isn’t about to give up on this, so I heave a heavy sigh, and give the table I’m cleaning one last flick with my cloth before reluctantly following her over to the window. The bar is empty now, and, with most of the lights switched off, we have a clear view out onto the street beyond. The street which is slick and shiny in the streetlights, covered in…
“Is thatrain?” I ask, my voice hushed in astonishment. “Is it actuallyraining?”
“It is! Can you believe it?”
Summer opens the blinds a bit wider, and we stand there for a minute or two, watching the light drizzle hit the pavement, like we’re Stone Age people worshiping some kind of God.
I may not be from California originally (Hardly anyone is, to be fair), but I’ve been here long enough now to know that this is something of anevent. In the time I’ve been in L.A., I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen it rain. Back in the Highlands, by contrast, I could probably have counted the number of times itdidn’train in the same time period. It’s no accident that when I walked out on my life in Scotland, I chose somewhere as different as possible to run to; somewhere there wouldn’t be memories and reminders hiding around every corner, and ghosts rising out of the damp on the pavement — sorry, thesidewalk— to ambush me at every turn.
“Summer, don’t!”
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t realize my friend is about to open the door until she’s already done it, and the smell of rain on concrete is filling my nostrils, almost suffocating me with memory.
“Get a load of that!”
Summer stands by the door for a few seconds, drawing in deep lungfuls of damp air, and I pull myself away from the window and busy myself behind the bar again, before picking up my bag and slinging it over my shoulder.
“You ready?”
I look over at Summer, but she’s busy on her phone now, the weather outside forgotten.
