Chapter Nine
I’m really into this new game on my phone. You basically move bits of different coloured liquid around test tubes trying to find some order in the chaos.
I complete another level and smile, enjoying the tiny boost of dopamine.
‘Olivia?’
I start a new level. This one looks a lot harder. Lots of test tubes, a rainbow of different colours to sort out.
‘Olivia!’ My head snaps up at the sound of Edward’s sharp tone.
‘What?’
‘You can’t just play games on your phone throughout the whole session. That’s not what this is for.’
‘Fine,’ I sigh loudly, locking my phone and throwing it to one side with as much passive aggression as possible. I look up, and into Edward’s dark eyes, channelling every last ounce of defiance.
It has been two weeks since that fucking press release went out to the world.
Following a recent incident in a TGI Friday’s restaurant involving tiramisu, Morning Tea’s resident agony aunt, Liv Carpenter, has voluntarily taken some time away from the show.
For the next two months, she’ll be attending therapy sessions to work on her anger issues.
She would really like to thank all the viewers for their well wishes and support while she gets the help she needs.
I’m still steaming over that last line in particular. Help I need? The absolute cheek.
But I got no say in it, no veto power over my own life.
By the time I saw what had been written, the team at Morning Tea had already shared it across their socials.
And then my agent, Fabian, posted it to my own Instagram, immediately changing the password and locking me out of my account.
The utter bastard. Him and toad-producer Spencer deserve each other.
I’m raging.
Which, admittedly, isn’t really helping my case when I try to explain to everyone that I don’t have an anger problem.
And here’s the worst part of it all: the man sitting across from me in an expensive dark green suit, legs crossed ever patiently, wearing that smug expression I can’t stand.
Edward.
Ugh, I never should’ve mentioned his name to Fabian. He took the idea and ran with it, agreeing the whole thing with Spencer and arranging it all before I had any more chances to object.
‘Come on, Olivia, you know how this is supposed to work.’ Edward takes his glasses off and leans forward. I swear Edward doesn’t even need those glasses. I’d bet all of Fabian’s bitcoin that they’re just clear lenses he bought after googling ‘How to look like a therapist’.
‘This is the initial evaluation part,’ he begins in a serious tone. ‘I need to assess your situation, start looking at patterns and triggers. But I can’t do that without your cooperation. You need to help me.’
‘I don’t need this,’ I reply, injecting ice queen boredom into my tone.
How dare he tell me how this is supposed to work.
He leans back into his chair. It squeaks lightly around him and I try to imagine Edward ever farting. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had his butthole sewn up. No farting for me please, doctor, it’s just not part of the Edward brand.
I wonder how he’d react to Sam weeing in front of him. Go mad? No, I don’t think he’d lose his cool. He’d just watch with detached disinterest, no doubt pointing out that her lack of inhibitions is a sign of something deeper she should explore through CBT.
‘Can we talk for a minute about that night at the restaurant?’ he asks, his pen hovering over a pad in his lap. No one else in this building takes notes like that. Edward’s not much older than me – mid-thirties – but it’s like he’s operating out of 1984.
‘I’d rather not,’ I say, matching his cool tone.
‘Please,’ he prods, and I sigh. I’m a sucker for someone saying please.
‘Look, there really isn’t much to say.’ I swallow.
‘I assume you’ve seen the video?’ I don’t wait for him to answer.
‘I thought my boyfriend was going to propose. Instead, he dumped me in the middle of a restaurant. I felt like the right recourse in the moment was to ask for some dessert. It’s possible I asked at a volume that wasn’t completely appropriate, but who hasn’t accidentally used their outside voice on occasion?
I didn’t deserve to be publicly shamed over it. ’
I pick up my phone again, resuming the game and trying to focus all my rage and feelings of injustice into the silly little colourful test tubes. I can feel Edward’s eyes on me, watching, waiting.
‘Look,’ I say, and I’m trying – I’m really trying – to keep the impatience out of my voice as I put the game down again.
‘I know it wasn’t my greatest moment. Believe me, I know it wasn’t great.
’ I feel myself flush with shame yet again, before quickly pushing the feeling away.
‘But I do feel like the reaction has been massively outsized.’ I shift on the sofa, trying to find a more comfortable spot.
‘And it’s not like I get dumped every day, is it?
So, it’s not as if I’m going to be casually heading into random chain restaurants every day of the week, begging for creamy puddings’—I pause, aware this sounds somehow extremely dirty—‘so I don’t need to figure this thing out.
I don’t need a solution or an epiphany or some other self-realisation crap.
I’m only here having this session as a PR stunt.
’ I wave a hand. ‘It’s just so the show can be seen by the viewers to be doing something.
And that means that we – you and I, Ed – we can just sit this out.
You can get on with your paperwork during these six sessions.
And I’ll just’—I shrug—‘sit here and play Sudoku on my phone.’ Edward doesn’t need to know about the colourful test tubes.
I lean forward, eager for him to understand.
‘This can benefit both of us, y’know? I get my old job on Morning Tea back, and you get paid by the studio for doing nothing.
It’s win-win, especially because we don’t need to talk. ’
It’s Edward’s turn to move in his seat. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t been watching Morning Tea since all this happened?’
I shake my head, my stomach turning at the thought. ‘Christ no. I don’t need to see and hear a reminder of everything I’m on the verge of losing.’
For a moment he looks like he wants to say something. He puts his notepad to one side and clears his throat.
‘Look, Olivia, we need to talk about Morning Tea…’
‘No,’ I say flatly.
‘No?’
‘No.’ I am absolute. ‘I don’t want to talk about the show. I don’t want to think about the show. I don’t want to see the show.’
‘You’re not interested?’
I shake my head. ‘Of course I’m interested. I’m dying to know what’s going on over there, but I can’t. Until I get my job back I can’t hear about it or talk about it. And I definitely can’t watch it. It would be too horrible.’
‘But—’ Edward shifts and I take a deep breath.
‘I’m not talking about Morning Tea,’ I say again.
‘We can talk about that night in the restaurant with Justin, we can even talk about tiramisu if you really want to, but not the show.’ When he doesn’t say anything, I speak again, spelling out the most important thing.
‘And just because I don’t want to face one horrible thing, doesn’t mean I have issues.
I’m a therapist, Ed, I don’t need therapy. ’
He watches me now, heavy-lidded and thoughtful. Eventually he does speak and it’s in his usual low, measured tone. ‘We’re nearly out of time today, Olivia. I think it’s going to be really useful going forward if you work on some exercises at home – some therapy homework if you will.’
He’s ignored everything I just said.
I sigh as he turns to find something on his desk.
I zone out, casually picking up my phone again and opening Instagram.
I don’t have access to my public account – thanks Fabian, you arse – but I do still have my personal, private profile, where I post under a fake name.
The one where I share all the goofy pictures of me and Sam that the Daily Mail would have a field day with.
I scroll through mindlessly, barely taking in the array of baby pictures and weddings from people I went to school with.
Then I stop. What did I just see?
I scroll back up a few posts.
No. No fucking way.
It can’t be.
It’s a post from Justin.
Justin. The man I was sure I was going to marry until three weeks ago. The guy I’m choosing to hold responsible for this whole mess I’ve recently made of my life. The person behind the ruination of my career and my reputation. The human-shaped reason I’ll never be able to eat tiramisu again.
He’s there, smiling his bloody head off, next to a woman I’ve never seen before. And there’s the caption. Short and so goddamned sweet.
‘Orla. #HardLaunch’.
I gape at it, horror creeping its way through my whole body.
No way. While my career burns down around me and I’m forced to make ash angels in what’s left of my life… Justin’s been busy finding himself a new girlfriend.
And she’s gorgeous.
This can’t be happening.