I want to point out that Edna is also a sheep — the same sheep we saw outside my house, in fact — but Jett’s looking confused enough already, and McTavish has already lost interest in the conversation, preferring to bicker with Jack instead over whether The 39 can accurately be described as a seafood restaurant when, as Jack points out, it serves a wide variety of dishes.
Welcome to Heather Bay, Jett.
“Your mum?” Emerald prompts gently, once the starters are delivered to the table and conversation resumes once more. “She was looking well, considering—?”
“She is well,” I say, pushing my salad around the plate without enthusiasm. It’s so like Emerald to ask me about Mum. Anyone else would be more interested in me and Jett and our supposed romance, but Emerald’s always been a bitintense, for want of a better word, and right now her brow is furrowed with concern.
“You know what Mum’s like,” I tell her, giving up on the salad and putting my fork down in defeat. “She just does things for the attention. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with her, Emerald. It was just her way of getting me to come back here.”
I turn to face her, forcing myself to look her in the eyes at last. The table is far too small for all of us, and we’re all so crammed together that I have to twist round in my seat to do it. When I’m finally facing her, we’re so close I’m glad I chose the salad rather than the garlic mushrooms.
“And you didn’t want to come back,” Emerald says, nodding slowly. “Because you didn’t think anyone here would want to see you.”
She speaks as someone who’s been here before; which, of course, she has. When Emerald came back to Heather Bay last year, everyone still thought she was the one who was responsible for the ‘town hall’ fiasco. Ironically enough, she knows exactly how I’m feeling right now. (Well, fake boyfriend aside, obviously. I don’t imagine there can be too many people who know howthatfeels.) She’s probably the only person in the world who does. I just wish I wasn’t the reason for her comprehensive knowledge of what it feels like to be the town pariah.
“I don’t blame people for not wanting to see me,” I say carefully, twisting my napkin in my hands. “It’s no more than I deserve, really. I wouldn’t want to see me either, after… well, after what I did.”
It’s the closest I’ve come to an apology and, right now, it’s the closest Icancome. It’s not that I don’t want to say more. I do. More than anything, in fact. But when I try, the words seem to stick in my throat, and I feel like an actress playing a role — badly.
Emerald is still watching me, pity sketched all over her face. I wish she wouldn’t do that. I wish she wouldn’t feel sorry for me. I wish she wouldn’t beniceto me. Because I don’t deserve it, do I?
“Anyway, I’m here now,” I say, a little too brightly. “The prodigal daughter returns. Sexy Lexie, that’s me!”
I pick up my wineglass and discover it’s empty. Emerald silently reaches for the bottle and refills both of our glasses.
“You know no one here takes those articles seriously, don’t you?” she says, after a moment’s silence, which is broken by McTavish snorting loudly at something Jett’s just said to him. “The ones Scarlett’s been writing about you? I don’t think you should take them too personally, okay? It’s just… well, it’s justScarlett, really. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
I raise my eyebrows skeptically. Considering that Emerald spent part of last year pretending tobeScarlett, I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised that she’s defending her now. Well, sort of.
“So you’re telling me peopledon’tthink I’m a cold-hearted bitch, then?” I joke, in a feeble attempt to shake off the weird atmosphere that’s hanging over the table.
“Idaethink that,” McTavish pipes up helpfully. “So does Mike-the-dentist. I went tae see him last week and he was sayin’—”
“McTavish!” Emerald silences him with a look, then turns back to me, her face flushed.
“Most people here know your mum well enough to… well, you know what I mean,” she says, looking at Jack for help, but finding him too deeply embroiled in his conversation with Jett to notice her pleading look.
“Scarlett’s still fairly new to town,” she goes on. “She’s still finding her way, I suppose. But, like I was saying, I don’t think you should take it too personally. No one here hates you. Well, other than Mike-the-dentist, apparently.”
“And Doreen fae the post office,” adds McTavish, who appears to have the ability to listen to two conversations simultaneously. “She says ye’re probably just after Jett Carter’s money.”
“McTavish!”
This time, Emerald’s shriek of embarrassment alerts Jett, who looks up from the glass of whisky Jack’s just handed him enquiringly.
“Lexie’s never asked me for a penny,” he says easily, swilling the liquid around the glass. “She’s the least materialistic person I know, actually,” he adds. “And the kindest, too. You can tell Doreen that next time you see her, if you like.”
He speaks softly and pleasantly, but with so much authority that not even McTavish dares to challenge him.
“Thank you,” I mouth silently across the table to Jett, who raises his glass to me in return. In the silence that follows, Emerald shifts uneasily in her seat, and I can tell she’s trying to think of something to say — Emerald has never been able to resist breaking an awkward silence awkwardly — but before she can speak, there’s a high-pitched squeal from across the room, and a tall, wiry man with bleached blonde hair practically throws himself at Jett.
“Oh my God,” he shrieks, “I can’t believe it’s you! Can I have your autograph? Or, actually, no, wait, let’s take a selfie. Here, Emerald, you do it, will you?”
He passes his phone to Emerald, who looks like she’s about to die of embarrassment.
“I’ll have one with Sexy Lexie next,” the newcomer says, pointing at me across the table. “I’m Brian, by the way. From the bank?”
I look at him blankly.
