Good For You

Chapter One

‘OH GOD, HELP! HELP ME, PLEASE!’

I make a panicked run from my bedroom and down the hall, my heart hammering in my chest. I throw myself into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it quickly behind me. I’m panting hard.

‘Help!’ I call out again, leaning for support against the towel rail.

I try to make an action plan. What are my options here?

Go through the window? There’s a flat roof just outside the bathroom window that could take my weight, but then it’s three floors to the ground.

I’m fairly sure the drainpipes are sturdy though and I could— oh wait, that won’t work.

The window’s painted shut, of course it is.

There’s no way. If my flatmate Samira doesn’t hear my shouts, I’ve got no chance now.

‘HELLLLLLLLLLP!’ I scream one last time, any hope draining away as my voice reverberates back at me across bathroom tiles.

‘Liv?’

It’s Samira. I almost sob at the sound of her lovely, familiar voice on the other side of the door. I sag against the loo roll holder, feeling my heart rate slowing. Thank god. Thank god she’s here. My best friend speaks again, sounding half-asleep. ‘It’s 4am, babe, what’s going on?’

‘He’s back, Sam,’ I half whisper. ‘In my room. I only just got out in time.’

There is a judgemental pause on the other side of the door. ‘Okay,’ she says at last, not sounding nearly as sympathetic as I would’ve liked. ‘I’ll go get the thingymajig.’

I hear her creak her way down the hall as I wait in front of the mirror, staring at myself, my heart still pounding.

I look horrendous.

I haven’t slept a wink, I have to go to work in a few minutes, and now the fucking daddy long-legs is back for the fiftieth time, trying to ruin my life.

I’m deathly afraid of the bastards and this one particular arsehole daddy long-legs keeps creeping into my room at night through the open window, chasing me out, and scaring me to death.

He’s got a vendetta against me, I know he has.

He comes in, flapping his weird fucking wings and his weird fucking legs, knowing I’ll have to run for the panic room.

AKA the bathroom. I swear to god, he knows I’m terrified and he thinks it’s funny. He’s laughing at me.

I visualise the creature coming for me again now, throwing himself at the bathroom door, flapping furiously as he tries to break the door down to reach me.

If Sam can’t get him out this time, what then?

Set the whole flat on fire, smash my way out of that sodding painted window, and begin a whole new life in another country?

We definitely wouldn’t get our deposit back from the estate agent, but what with everything that happened last night with Justin – not to mention this daddy long-legs vendetta – losing a battle with cunty estate agents doesn’t feel like it would be the worst thing in the world.

I study my reflection in the mirror, taking in the cavernous eyebags and pallid skin. The fear recedes for a moment and the rage rushes back in.

I still can’t believe Justin dumped me. Out of nowhere.

In a restaurant. A restaurant that doesn’t even serve tiramisu!

What kind of decent restaurant doesn’t have tiramisu?

I hate him so so so much. I’m overflowing with fury; my chest burns with it.

I’m not even sad – I’m too mad. I wasted a whole year and two months on that man.

On that waste of space idiot. And he’s not even good enough for me!

I was doing him a favour going out with him and he had the AUDACITY to end it with me?

The bitterness makes me breathe hard. I can taste the fury on my tongue.

I’m aware anger is not the healthiest way to process a break-up, but I have to admit, it’s a lot easier than acceptance or misery.

Being this cross feels like downing six cans of that mad looking Monster drink and washing it all down with a few tabs of speed.

Which I only did that one time and do not recommend.

The anger courses through my veins. I’ve had no sleep but I feel caffeinated to fuck.

I am fired up with lividness. With Liv-idness.

I’m ready to burn the whole world down with my rage. I feel ferocious and powerful.

And angry.

It’s just so unfair.

I honestly, honestly, honestly thought Justin was going to propose last night.

Things have been so amazing between us since we met at my thirtieth birthday party last year – it’s been like a dream.

And yes, okay, he’s been a bit cagey for the last few weeks, but I thought that was him making secret plans.

Y’know, picking out a ring, booking the restaurant, making arrangements.

And then I overheard him in this very bathroom last week, practising a proposal speech in the mirror.

He was going on about how wonderful I am and how special our time together has been.

It was so obviously a proposal speech – I was so sure.

Even Sam agreed! Although she did keep harping on about how I have to stop saying I overheard it, when the truth is that I had an ear pressed up against the door.

But overhearing or eavesdropping – either way – the very next day Justin invited me out to dinner at his favourite restaurant…

what the hell was I meant to think? I even got my nails done in preparation – I was so sure.

But it turns out a proposal speech can sound an awful lot like a dumping speech.

‘Liv?’ Samira is back. ‘He’s gone, babe, the daddy long-legs has been taken care of. You okay now? Can I have a wee, please? I had too many Kefir yoghurt drinks last night.’

Sam is obsessed with her gut health.

I pull back the bolt slowly and open the door an inch.

‘Are you sure?’ I hiss, eyes frantically scanning the ceiling.

‘He could be tricking you. He’s wily. He could be waiting for you to turn your back and then he’ll dart straight back in.

He might be hiding in my wardrobe right now, ready to pounce and torment me.

That’s how he gets his kicks. Did you check my chocolate drawer? ’

She sighs, still not as sympathetic as one might expect. ‘No daddy long-legs can outsmart me,’ she says firmly, pushing past me and into the bathroom.

She opens the loo lid, pulls down her pyjama trousers and takes a seat, totally uninhibited.

She does it all the time, but her total lack of shame still takes me by surprise.

Imagine being so chill with urinating in front of others!

I guess that’s what comes from having such a secure and loving childhood.

Yuck, I’m quite glad mine was so dysfunctional.

‘You know, you could close your window at night,’ she offers, yawning and tucking curly dark hair behind her ear, as she helps herself to too much toilet roll.

‘I need the cool air.’ I shake my head. ‘June starts tomorrow and I haven’t yet swapped my 13.5 tog winter duvet for the 7.5. I get so sweaty, it’s like bathing in the bedsheets.’

‘Okay, well, then you need to just get over your fear.’ Her face brightens. ‘You should read up about the daddy long-legs. Get rid of the unknown element. Get to know them. Make them your friends. Immerse yourself in the most long legged of the daddies.’

Ever since Sam started having therapy a month ago, she’s become a bit of a know-it-all when it comes to trauma. But I’m the therapist here. I know plenty about exposure therapy, thank you.

She pauses, then looks excited. ‘Ooh, or we could both take a month off and travel to the daddy long-legs’ country of origin – probably the or something, right? – where we could camp out and become as one with the insect life there. That would cure you.’

‘I’m not sure getting into debt to upend my life just so I can bond with mosquitoes and beetles would be a sensible choice,’ I point out, before adding fiercely, ‘And I have read about the daddy long-legseses. They’re evil little bastards. They tear their prey apart with just their mouths.’

‘Their prey being?’ She raises an eyebrow as she pulls up her pants. I look away.

‘Mainly grasshoppers and slugs.’

Sam snorts as she flushes and moves to the sink. ‘They don’t bite, they’re not poisonous, they don’t even spin a web or do anything annoying like that. They’re mostly just… sort of… silly?’

Silly?

For a moment I consider telling Sam what happened with Justin last night. I could tell her how I got brutally dumped in a public place. That would make her feel bad for calling my very legitimate daddy long-legs terror silly.

‘I’m going back to sleep,’ she yawns again, drying her hands.

I open my mouth to say the words, to tell her about Justin, and then I shut it again.

I’m not ready to say out loud that I got dumped. I don’t want to see the pity that I know will be there in her eyes. Yet another relationship Liv couldn’t close, how sad. Sam’s pity might dim my anger and I need to hold onto it right now. It’s all that’s keeping me standing upright.

Plus, it would seem that my best friend is not all that sympathetic at this hour of the day.

‘Night night,’ I call out, as she trudges back to bed. ‘And thank you for saving me, I love you loads.’

‘Whatever, loser,’ she responds, as per our friendship protocol, slamming her bedroom door and laughing.

I glance out of the bathroom window. It’s pitch black out there. My taxi will be here to take me to the studio in a few minutes. I have to be at work for 5am and I haven’t even showered yet.

I turn on the water and start to strip, feeling adrenaline zigzagging through my body. I can’t be late.

Justin’s taken my romantic hopes away from me, the evil flappy daddy long-legs has taken my home from me – my work is just about all I have left. I’m not going to mess that up on top of everything else.

I climb into the shower, trying not to think about Justin – about my ex – and my ever-so-slight overreaction to the break-up last night.

It wasn’t that bad, was it? Sure, I was a little bit upset, but who wouldn’t be a little bothered by getting dumped like that?

I’m sure the diners at the next table understood if I raised my voice a little.

I mean, I could’ve gone really postal. I wanted to flip the table and punch everyone in the room.

So what if I hid under the table for a while, eating cheesecake? Is that so bad?

I put my face under the warm water, letting any doubt drain away along with the overpriced bodywash I bought off TikTok.

I just need to get through my segment this morning – I need to focus on other people’s problems – then I’ll have the whole weekend to process this break-up; to decide what I’m going to do next.

Two solid days to let go of all this anger bubbling away inside me and have a big old cry.

I have the training for this very thing, for god’s sake.

I’m a relationship therapist! I know exactly how to handle this break-up with appropriate poise and grace.

Mindful and demure, that’s what I’m all about.

Cool, calm, collected Liv Carpenter, that’s what they call me.

It’s one of my many mottos. It’s who I am.

And it will aaaaaaaall be fine.