Chapter Three
Spencer sits across from me in his office, squatting there balefully like a pouty toad. Except his pond would be overflowing with horrible Dior Sauvage.
He waits for me to speak first – a move I know he’s gleaned from some awful advice article on being an alpha male – and so I do.
‘Is everything okay? What’s, er, what’s going on?’ I feel a little trembly, squeezing my phone in my right hand, feeling it vibrate again and again.
I haven’t looked yet. I’m still trying to convince myself this isn’t anything serious. It can’t be to do with my Justin break-up last night. It can’t.
‘The video,’ he says at last, and we stare at each other some more. I still don’t understand what he means but my heart is thumping like mad. It’s pounding in my ears as I fight waves of nausea.
‘What video?’ I ask in a quiet voice, and he sighs abrasively.
‘Liv, for fuck’s sake, don’t pretend you don’t know.
Don’t make me say it. You know what I’m talking about.
The meltdown video? It’s all over TikTok.
The internet is having a field day. They’re calling you The Tiramisu Girl.
’ He tuts. ‘Someone’s made T-shirts! Even though half of them can’t spell tiramisu and the other half don’t know what it is.
Everyone’s sharing it. It’s everywhere! The Daily Mail have fucking called us for comment!
They want to know how Morning Tea’s relationship expert – known for being cool, calm and collected, for advising women to be rational and balanced in their relationships – how she could go all Will Smith at the Oscars.
’ He pauses, looking exasperated, then half shouts, ‘For fuck’s sake, Liv, your mantra is Keep Calm and Carry Condoms! ’
My heart is pounding wildly now. He is talking about last night. My break-up with Justin. Someone was… filming us? The video’s gone… viral? But it can’t. Why would it…? Why would anyone…? Oh my god.
I feel my breathing pick up as I try to get a handle on myself.
Okay. So, someone in the restaurant filmed Justin dumping me – and my reaction. But it wasn’t even that bad, was it? I held it together for the most part. I was just blindsided and desperately needed some sugar. It wasn’t that bad…
Spencer watches my expression curiously. After another moment, he swivels his monitor to face me. He clicks on a tab and presses play on some bright but grainy footage from inside last night’s restaurant.
Fuck, it’s me. I recognise us both – Justin and me – sitting at the table at a distance, our finished dinner plates in front of us.
I can just about make out the half-finished mushroom pie I’d pushed around for half an hour, waiting for the big moment I was so sure was coming.
There were onions in there I didn’t want to eat before our post-proposal snog.
It takes me a minute to place the conversation point. It is just post-break-up; after Justin had generously told me it’s not me, it’s him. I’m shouting about my nails. My proposal-ready Shellac.
An image of this morning’s taxi driver hits me again. The words he said as I got out of the car. He complimented my nails. ‘Very Instagram ready,’ he’d said.
Oh my god. He’d seen this. That’s why he was being weird.
On the screen, they’ve zoomed in on me. I’m flouncing around the table holding a spoon, yelling at waiters. I tell Justin his boxer shorts are disgusting.
Honestly, I don’t remember it being this bad. Did I blank it out? Sure, I was upset, but this isn’t me. Is it? I don’t recognise myself at all.
I’m storming out now, screaming about Justin’s mother. The video cuts out and TikTok asks if we want to watch it again.
Oh god, no thank you, TikTok.
My eyes travel with horror across the numbers on the right-hand side. They look all wrong. Under the heart symbol, it reads 34,019. There are 2,550 comments.
No.
NO!
I realise I am crunching my phone in my palm and release it. Pain shoots through my hand and up my arm. Saliva fills my mouth. I’m going to be sick. My cheeks chipmunk and I cover my mouth as Spencer regards me with pure horror.
For a second, his repulsion grounds me and the nausea recedes. Okay, that worked. I try to find something else to focus on. To stop me from losing my mind. What would I tell a client to do in this moment?
Metacognition.
The act of thinking about my thinking. I must observe my thoughts with detachment to avoid this negative spiral of horror running away with me.
So, what am I thinking?
Basically?
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
What else?
I’m thinking that I’m screwed. That my life is over.
There is a video on the internet of me being a proper mad person and thousands of people have seen it.
My boss has seen it. My taxi driver had seen it.
That reality star saw it. Maz at the front entrance had seen it.
Clearly Jools and Andi on the beauty team had, too.
I’ve been publicly humiliated – publicly shamed.
This is the end of everything. Everyone I’ve ever met or known has no doubt seen this, or will see it.
Every friend, every ex-boyfriend, every single person I went to school with, every teacher, everyone I’ve worked with over the years; they’ve all seen me behave like this.
They’ve all seen me being this awful, crazy, hysterical dumpee, screaming at a room full of people about an Italian dessert made of lady fingers. Me, a renowned relationship therapist.
I consider all the WhatsApp groups out there in the ether, all alight right now with acquaintances I’ve met across the years, all sharing this link and mocking me.
‘This psycho used to come to my coffee shop every day!! LOL! Good job I never got her order wrong!!!’
‘I snogged this girl at a balloon party when I was a uni student. Soooo glad I ghosted her!!!!’
‘I’m pretty sure I sit across from this woman on the train home, what a crazy bitch!’
Never mind all the people I actually care about seeing it and judging me.
And, oh god. All the clients I’ve ever seen or worked with will watch this and doubt everything I’ve told them. Because who would trust this awful, shrieking woman?
My head spins with the horror.
This is it. No one will ever love me again, no one will ever speak to me again, I will be a pariah in society.
I look up, making eye contact at last with Spencer. He looks grim as fuck.
And I’m clearly about to lose my job. The best job I’ve ever had. The only job I’ve ever really loved.
My life is over.
I take a deep, wholesome breath, trying to steady the thump-thump-thump in my chest.
See how helpful metacognition is?
Spencer takes a deep breath of his own and I steel myself for his words. I know what’s coming.
‘I don’t want to fire you,’ he says at last, and it is so unexpected that I can’t understand the words.
It’s a jumble of mess that sounds like he’s…
not sacking me? He sighs heavily and continues, ‘Not yet anyway. The viewers really like you. So do people here.’ He turns his computer away from me while I stare at the back of the monitor, still seeing my wild, furious expression as I scream at Justin for not proposing.
Like a mad-woman version of the bright sun seared into the back of my eyelids.
I stare down at my lap. The humiliation doesn’t just burn, it’s molten lava in my chest, making its way into my lungs and on throughout my whole body. Red, hot, liquid shame.
But I’m not fired?
Spencer begins speaking again and I try so hard to listen; to take in his words.
‘We’re going to give it a few days – you’re obviously not going on air today – and we’ll issue a public apology on your behalf.
And then, if this has all blown over by Wednesday, we’ll get you back to your regular schedule.
’ I breathe out heavily and he hastily adds, ‘If! If, Liv! If it hasn’t blown over – if people don’t move on to the next big humiliating thing,’—I wince at his words—‘then we’ll have to…
revisit this.’ He gives me a second to take all of this in, looking at me with an expression I’ve never seen from him before: pity.
‘Get one of the assistants to book you a car back home, okay? Get some rest. You look terrible.’
So much for Jools’ hard work. Although, to be fair, she didn’t get to my eyebrows, and I feel like my eyebrows do a lot of heavy lifting for my face.
I wander out of Spencer’s office in a daze, my mind racing. I pass a few familiar faces in the corridor, and they all look away awkwardly. I feel my way to one of the bathrooms and just make it into a cubicle before I sink to the tiled floor, my head in my hands.
I sit there for a few minutes, everything spinning around me.
And then I look at my phone.
I stare at the screen. It looks ten thousand miles away and I briefly wonder if I’m having a panic attack.
My fingers look tiny and delicate holding the device, as I swipe it open.
Part of me hopes Face ID won’t work, but it clicks open.
Just about every app is lit up with notifications.
Multiple notifications. Multiple messages.
I ignore them all and open TikTok instead.
Shakily, I search ‘tiramisu girl’ and there it is.
The video. There are hundreds more likes and comments now, though it’s only been a couple of minutes since I left Spencer’s office.
I scroll through people’s opinions, my horror increasing with every LOL and every unimaginative millennial calling me a Karen.
I let the video auto play over and over, until it doesn’t feel like it’s me anymore.
I put my phone face down in my lap for a second and try to rationalise.
Okay, so maybe this isn’t that bad. I haven’t lost my job, after all. Maybe this will end up being a funny story I tell my kids.
I think of Justin again – has he seen this? Sure, he saw it happen in real life, but has he seen this?
In my lap, my phone vibrates and I turn it over. The video disappears, replaced by caller ID. It’s Samira. I want to sob at the sight of her name and quickly hit answer, bringing my phone to my ear. It’s not even 6am, she must’ve just woken up – but she sounds alert and worried.
‘Liv?’
The sound of my own name, said by a person I know loves me and cares, is enough to push me over the edge. I start crying, tears rolling down my cheeks as she shushes me nicely. ‘Babe, it’s okay, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.’
‘You’ve seen it?’ I ask through sobs.
‘Yeah. Like, fourteen people have already sent it to me this morning.’
‘Fantastic,’ I say sourly.
‘Why didn’t you say anything earlier?’ she asks. ‘In the bathroom this morning?’
I shrug helplessly. ‘I hadn’t seen it! I didn’t see it until my twat-head boss pulled me into his office and showed it to me. Everyone was acting weird, and I didn’t know why. I thought my taxi driver just really liked my nails.’
I can hear her shake her head. ‘No, I mean the break-up, dude. You didn’t tell me about Justin – that he’d… ended things.’
‘That prick can sod off and die,’ I bark, the anger rushing back in. ‘He’s stolen my thirties from me.’
‘You’re only thirty-one,’ she points out, then something occurs to her. ‘Wait, you said your boss called you in? You mean boy child Spencer himself? Are you in trouble? They’re not…?’
‘I think it’s going to be all right,’ I breathe out. ‘He says as long as the internet moves on and this all quickly blows over, my job is safe.’
‘Well, shit, that’s almost halfway decent of him.’ Sam sounds relieved. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to kick you out of the flat for being an unemployed layabout.’
‘Me too,’ I laugh.
‘It will blow over quickly,’ she continues with strength in her voice. ‘You know what TikTok is like, it’ll be onto the next viral thing within twenty-four hours. You’ll be forgotten so fast.’
‘I hope so.’ I swallow hard, then feel anger rising in my chest. ‘Why would someone share this though?’ I ask. ‘What kind of person would do that? What kind of horrible sad excuse would film it in the first place and put it on the internet?’
‘I think we both know who posted this,’ she replies sombrely, ‘I mean, it’s obvious. Who would want to hurt you like this? Who’s already been torturing you for weeks and whose whole purpose is solely driven by tormenting and destroying you?’ She pauses dramatically. ‘It was the daddy long-legs.’
Despite myself, I laugh at this.
Everything always feels so much better when I’ve spoken to Sam.
And maybe she’s right and things will be okay. Sam still loves me, I’ve still got my job, and all this drama will die down really fast. I just have to hang on in there.
The bathroom door opens and someone at the sinks calls my name. I recognise Jools’ voice and say a quick goodbye to Sam, slowly standing up. ‘I’m here,’ I call out.
‘Oh, sweetheart!’ she says, throwing her arms out as I exit the cubicle.
She pulls me close and I breathe in her familiar shampoo smell.
‘I’m really sorry I didn’t say anything!
I was so surprised to see you turn up this morning and didn’t know whether to mention it.
I assumed you knew and were trying to be as normal as possible. I’m so sorry, my darling.’
I shake my head into her shoulder. ‘Don’t be silly, Jools, it’s not your fault. I just can’t believe it’s happened. I’m so embarrassed.’
‘You must be a wreck.’ She shakes her head, her glasses sliding down her nose as she regards me with concern. Then she frowns. ‘I can’t believe that little knob Spencer wouldn’t let me finish your eyebrows. He hasn’t sacked you, has he? Tell me he hasn’t? We’ll riot.’
I shake my head, then straighten up. ‘No, and I’m okay, honestly.
Thanks for being so lovely, Jools, you’re the best. But you don’t need to worry, I’m all right, I think.
I’m just going to ignore all the comments and wait for this to blow over.
It was just one silly video where I made a fool of myself.
There will be another idiot on the internet tomorrow, stealing focus from my temporary insanity.
I just need to keep my head down for a couple of days. ’
She nods slowly, looking worried and avoiding my eyes. ‘Um, well… yeah, maybe.’
I narrow my eyes at her. ‘What?’ She says nothing and I move closer, forcing her to look straight at me. I give her my sternest expression, which is effective even without eyebrows. ‘Jools, what?’
She swallows dryly and removes her glasses, cleaning the glass with the corner of her cardigan. ‘Oh, love. I’m so sorry. There’s another video of you from last night. Someone just shared another one.’
From out in the hallway, I hear Spencer roaring. He’s yelling my name.