* * *
The next morning, the note is still where I left it, but it doesn’t matter, because Scarlett herself is at the front door, lifting up the letterbox to peer through it as she calls my name.
“Lexie,” she yells down the hallway. “Please, can you let me in? I just want to talk to you. I can help you. I can let you tell your side of the story.”
I crept out of my room when I heard her at the door, and now I’m sitting crouched at the top of the stairs, but I leap up at her words and go thundering down them, pulling up the letterbox on my side, and screaming at her to leave me alone.
“As if I would trust you to tell my side of anything, Scarlett,” I sob, unable to stop myself. “You can’t even get my age right. And all you care about is creating more drama, anyway. Just leave me alone. I don’t need your ‘help’.”
There’s a silence, then her eyes appear again, framed by the letterbox.
“I’m sorry about the age thing,” she says contritely. “I was just being a bitch. But I was being serious when I said I wanted to help. I don’t know if you’ve seen any of the articles about you yet, but—”
I slam the letterbox closed on my side. I finally succumbed to the lure of the Internet last night. I couldn’t resist it. I wanted to know what they were saying about me, but, most of all, I wanted to know what they were saying about Jett. Like where he is, for instance. Orhowhe is. And I know it’s not like DeuxMoi will be able to give me any unique insight into his state of mind, but if there are any pap photos of him that’ve been taken in the last couple of days, I’ll know just by looking at him. Even in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve learned every one of his mannerisms. I know the way he raises his shoulders and pulls his cap down over his eyes when he’s feeling anxious. I know the way his whole face changes when he’s happy. I know him so well that it seems incredible to me that, from now on, he’s only going to be a picture on a screen to me. Nothing more than that.
And, as of this morning, noteventhat, apparently.
There are no new photos of Jett online. No news stories. No unconfirmed sightings posted on the Instagram fan sites. Even Shona’s Instagram just has a random photo of an alpaca, and nothing about Jett or me. It’s like he’s just disappeared. Meanwhile, though, there are plenty of stories about us both; some of which have been illustrated by photos of me and McTavish — who’s described by the tabloids as my “new love interest” — arriving back at the house after our round trip to the airport that day: me with my mascara in thick streaks down my face, and McTavish clutching a fresh sausage roll, which he insisted on stopping at Greggs for after I ate the first one.
There’s also a lot of hate.
I thought I knew what it felt like to be publicly shamed when Emerald told the entire town it was me who’d set her dress on fire last year. But that incident now seems pretty benign, really, compared to the hell that’s raining down on me now. I’m a gold-digger, apparently. A scheming, Machiavellian fame-whore. I am the worst of all possible worsts, according to everyone on Twitter. (Oh, and I also have “legs like a garden gnome” apparently. So that’s another thing to add to my list of troubles.)
So, yeah, I’ve seen the news, thanks, Scarlett. And I definitely don’t want to play any further part in it, so once I’ve closed the stupid letterbox for the last time, I crawl back upstairs and lie on my bed, staring hopelessly at the ceiling until the doorbell rings again.
And again, and again.
“Go away, Scarlett,” I scream from the top of the stairs. “Or I’ll call the police. I mean it.”
There’s a long pause, then a woman’s voice comes from the other side of the door.
“It’s Wednesday, Lexie,” she says apologetically. “You know Young Dougie has a half day on a Wednesday.”
It’s Emerald.
* * *
Emerald perches on the edge of my bed while I lie curled up in the fetal position on my side.
“Sorry,” I say, as she looks around the room, which I haven’t bothered to tidy; a sure sign of my rapidly declining mental state. “It’s a bit of a mess in here. Do you want a coffee or something? Because you can help yourself. You know where everything is.”
I’m trying my best to be welcoming here — and, well, to avoid having to go and make the drinks myself, because I just don’t have the energy for it — but Emerald freezes at what she assumes is a reference to last year, when she briefly worked as my cleaner, and I want to kick myself in frustration.
Can I seriously not getanythingright?
“It’s okay,” she says, smiling uncertainly. “I won’t stay long. I just thought I’d pop round to see how you’re doing. I… well, I’ve been reading the news, obviously. I figured you could probably use a friend.”
“Are we friends?” I ask, sounding much more suspicious than I meant to. “Even after… The Thing?”
“Well, we weren’t exactly friendsbeforeThe Thing, were we?” Emerald points out reasonably. “But, look, people were nice to me when I came back here last year. I thought someone should do the same for you. Pay it forward, you know?”
“But I was an absolutebitchto you, Emerald,” I sniff, pushing myself into an upright position so I can see her better. “I literally set you onfire. Why would you even want to be in the sameroomas me, let alone try to be myfriend?”
“Because you need a friend,” she says simply. “And all of that … The Thing… was a long time ago. I don’t know about you, but I like to think people can change. I know I have. I haven’t stolen anyone’s identity forages, for instance.”
She grins, and I surprise myself by smiling back at her. It kind of hurts, actually. I guess my mouth isn’t used to forcing itself into that particular shape these days.
“I meant it when I said I was sorry,” I tell her, looking her in the eye. “I know it maybe didn’t sound like it. I’m not very good at this. But I’ve been wanting to say it since it happened. It’s the biggest regret of my life, honestly. I say that as someone who’s currently the Main Character on Twitter, so that’s not nothing, trust me.”
