“Deep fried pizza?” asks Jett, undaunted.
“Sold out.”
“Okay, what about the fish?”
“Nane.”
“That means none,” I start to explain, but, judging by the look on his face, I guess Jett’s already gathered that.
“Look, we have haggis suppers, or we have chips n’ cheese,” says Brenda, in the tone of a woman who thinks this should be blatantly obvious, and is surprised she’s even having to say it out loud. “What’s it to be?”
“Three haggis suppers, please,” I interject, wanting to hurry this along. “Thanks, Brenda.”
Brenda laboriously writes our order down in her notepad, before turning to face the counter at the back of the shop, over which the stuffed wildcat that gave this place its name still hangs in a dusty glass case.
“THREE HAGGIS SUPPERS, RONNIE,” she bellows “And hurry up wi’ it, will ye?”
Jett blinks in astonishment as Brenda retreats.
“Are you sure you should be eating that, Lexie?” Mum asks, casting a meaningful look at my figure. “You know how carbs go straight to your thighs, and if you’re going to keep having your picture in the paper—”
“Lexie’s thighs are perfect the way they are,” Jett interjects pleasantly, smiling across the table at her, as if my thighs are a perfectly normal dinnertime conversation. “She can eat whatever she likes. She always looks good to me.”
Mum and I stare at him in astonishment.
Did he really just say that?
And, more importantly, did hemeanit?
“Well, of course she does, Jett,” Mum says, recovering herself. “Her legs are her best feature. Always have been. I’m just trying to help, that’s all. You never know when one of those photographers is going to pop up, do you?”
She looks eagerly around the restaurant, and is rewarded with a toothless grin from Old Jimmy, who’s turned his chair round to face us, as if he’s watching a play.
“NO PHOTOS,” McTavish shouts from the door of the shop. “I’M WARNING YE ALL.”
I sigh. This has been averylong day.
“I still don’t understand why you came to my place from the hospital?” I say, turning to Mum. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable at yours?”
“Och, no, Lexie,” says Mum, her fake accent slipping slightly. “It’s been sitting empty the whole time I’ve been in hospital. There’s nothing in the fridge. And the doctor said I shouldn’t be left on my own until I’ve fully recovered, anyway.”
“There’s nothing in my fridge either,” I point out, wishing I didn’t sound quite so argumentative, but somehow unable to stop myself. “And you look pretty much recovered to me.”
“Lexie, I could keel over at any second,” Mum says, fanning herself dramatically. “And you wouldn’t want your poor mum coming out of hospital to an empty house when she’s been so ill, would you?” she adds, her eyes wide. “All cold and dusty and unloved.”
As it happens, “cold, dusty and unloved” is a pretty good description of Mum’s place all the time, not just when she’s in hospital. “Add in “messy and chaotic”, and you have the perfect picture of my childhood home. No wonder I grew up a neat freak.
“It’s going to need a good clean before I go back to it,” Mum goes on. “I was thinking of hiring Frankie Allison’s firm. You know the one Emerald Taylor works for? Wouldn’t it be hilarious to get Emerald round to do the cleaning? That would take her down a peg or two.”
“No, don’t do that,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll… I’ll come round and clean it for you. Just don’t ask Emerald, okay?”
“That’s my girl,” Mum says, patting my hand fondly. “I knew I could count on my Lexie to help me out. And the three of us will be nice and cosy at your place while I’m waiting. Won’t we, Jett darling??”
She beams over at Jett, who smiles warmly back, as if she hasn’t just thrown a hand-grenade into the whole fake-relationship thing we’ve got going on here.
The cottage only has two bedrooms. He knows that. Hemustknow that, surely? Two bedrooms means two beds, and if Mum’s in one of them…
“You know you’re more than welcome to stay with us, Sam,” he says, the very picture of charm. “We’re happy to have you. And we wouldn’t dream of letting you go home on your own so soon after your operation. Would we Lexie?”
