“Dunno.”
I shrug, lifting the mug to my lips. I know I sound childish, but I don’t know what else to say, really. How do I condense everything that happened last year — not to mention what I did to Emerald when we were younger — into something Jett could understand? How do I spin me dropping my cigarette onto Emerald’s dress, and it burning the town hall down as a result, into the kind of ‘accident’ he might have some small amount of sympathy for, and not the moment of sheer, self-destructive madness it actually was?
How do I convince him I’m a good person deep down, in other words, when I know perfectly well I’m not?
Jett stares at me for a long moment, then gets up and pours himself another cup of coffee, ducking his head instinctively to avoid the low beams on the kitchen ceiling.
“Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says, without turning round. “But I’m going to have to tell Asher something. Because he’s not happy. He’s saying if you knew this journalist had some kind of vendetta against you, you should have told us straight-up, before signing the contract. He has a point, you know.”
“Ididn’tknow she had a vendetta against me,” I protest indignantly. “I didn’t even know the Gazette would be interested in publishing the kind of rubbish she’s been writing. When I lived here, it was all stories about cats stuck up trees and what time the community council would be meeting. They’ve obviously decided to branch out a bit since Scarlett started writing for them. That’s not my fault, though. She’s probably just hoping to make a name for herself, so she can get a job on one of the tabloids or something. And you have to admit, you being here is the biggest thing to happen in Heather Bay since—”
Since I burned down the village hall and let Emerald take the blame for it.
I can’t tell Jett that, though, can I?
I allow my sentence to trail off. Even if I was prepared to be honest with Jett, there’s no point. He doesn’t actually care what kind of history Scarlett and I have, or why she might think it’s fair game to totally ruin me in the pages of the Heather Bay Gazette. All he cares about is his own reputation, and what Asher’s going to say when he sees the latest coverage. All Asher cares about is the money Jett will make for him if he gets this role. And as for me, well, no one really cares much about me at all, do they?
I cough loudly to hide the sob that rises up in my throat.
“You want a coffee?” Jett asks, oblivious to my distress. “I’m making another pot.”
“Another one? You must be really jetlagged.”
“It’s not jetlag,” he says irritably. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Was it the bed?” I ask, worried. “I know it must seem tiny after what you’re used to. What you’re probably used to, I mean. I obviously haven’t seen your bed. Not that Ishouldhave, of course, I just mean—”
Jett silences me with a glance.
“It’s not the bed,” he says, taking another swig of his coffee. “I just don’t sleep well. I never have.”
“Okay,” I reply, not knowing what else to say to that. “So, other than mainlining coffee, what’s the plan for today? Pap walk? Photo call? I promise I’ll make sure I’m more appropriately dressed this time, whatever it is.”
“Hospital visit,” says Jett, draining his mug and immediately refilling it. “We came here to see your mom, Lexie, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
* * *
The hospital mum’s been taken to is in Inverness. We’re driven there by the same driver who picked us up at the airport yesterday, and this time there’s no conversation between me and Jett in the car. Not even a half-hearted chat about our favorite foods, or what animal we’d be if we had to choose one.
(Which is a shame, because that’s one question I can actually answer. I’d be a unicorn. Partly because they’re so beautiful that people can’t help but love them, but mostly because theydon’t actually exist, and that would solve a lot of my problems right now.)
Instead of attempting to make awkward conversation, we sit in stony silence; Jett glued to his phone, me staring out of the window at the passing scenery, and hoping the thick layer of foundation I’ve applied will be enough to cover the black eye I woke up with this morning.
We had to push our way past the gaggle of photographers outside the house when we left, and when we pull up at the hospital — which is a huge, 1970s concrete affair, not the cute little country cottage I know Jett was expecting — there’s another group already there waiting for us. I know this is part of the deal. Scarlett’s latest article might have alerted them to our presence here a little earlier than expected, but the paps stationed outside the hospital were probably sent there after a tip-off from Asher or Grace, who’ll be expecting me to play the role of the dutiful daughter rushing to her ailing mother’s bedside, with her loving partner by her side. That, as Jett pointed out earlier this morning, is why we’re here, after all.
Now that wearehere, though, all I want to be is quite literallyanywhere else.
“Ready?” Jett asks, looking at me for the first time since we stood together in the kitchen this morning.
I swallow nervously.
“Not really,” I admit. “I’m feeling a bit sick, actually.”
“Well, at least if you faint again, you’re in the right place for it this time,” Jett says grimly. He still isn’t smiling, but at least he’s talking to me again. I guess that’s something.
“Look, Lexie,” he says, as the driver appears to open the car door for him. “It’ll be okay, yeah? I’ll look after you. Just follow my lead.”
Before I can reply to tell him it’s not the world’s media I’m worried about facing, it’s my own mother, he opens the car door, and disappears into the light of a thousand flash bulbs. Okay, maybe just a dozen. It may as well be a thousand, though, because by the time the driver’s appeared to open my door for me, they’re all shouting and cat-calling at the same time, and I’m grateful for the protective arm Jett puts around me as he leads me past them, and through the main doors of the hospital, which the paps have obviously been refused entry to.
