Chapter Fifteen
On Wednesday I get two messages in a row that have me curled up in a ball on my sofa.
The first is from Justin. He says – very politely – that he would like to drop off the rest of my stuff this week.
The less nice inference rings loudly: he wants to get rid of any last, remaining evidence that we ever had a relationship.
To dismiss for good the last year and three months of my life, like it was nothing.
In his message he’s very keen to emphasise that I ‘don’t have to be there’ at the flat when he drops off my things, if I’d rather not see him. Or – he adds – he would be ‘more than happy’ to meet in a neutral place.
It’s clear he fears the wrath of Tiramisu Girl and underneath the embarrassment, it gives me a small boost to feel his terror. Until the humiliation rushes back in. I reply quickly, before I can get too sad, telling him I’m around all evening if it suits.
The second text is perhaps even more crushing and alarming. It’s from Jamal, one of my colleagues at our therapy collective. He’s reminding me of our group dinner this week. And that it’s my turn to host.
After we set up the collective four years ago, me, Jamal, Arshiya, Fran and, of course, Edward, all decided to have a semi-regular dinner to celebrate our partnership.
It gives us a chance to re-bond every four or five months; to catch up socially as normal human beings, as well as chat about work and the office.
We all appreciate it, but we also all need it.
It sounds strange, given so much of the job is about talking to other people, but sometimes being a therapist can be a little isolating.
We go off into our own individual offices and rarely interact or overlap.
Our dinners have become an important tradition that gives us that chance to properly catch up. I’ve always really loved them.
But so much has changed since our last one. I’m single again. I’ve been suspended from my TV job. I’ve lost a dozen clients. And I’m infamous on TikTok in the worst possible way. Even Celeste Barber recreated my tantrum video.
Not to mention how odd it will be to have my own therapist, Edward, over to my flat for a social event. At previous dinners, we’ve barely interacted. What will we do at this one?
I can’t do it. I won’t. I’ll tell them I’m ill, they’ll understand.
I’m reaching for my phone when Sam arrives home.
‘Ugh!’ she yells, slamming the front door, ‘I hate my job.’
This is our daily routine.
‘Come and tell me all about it,’ I call out and she appears at the living room door.
‘I don’t want to,’ she pouts. ‘It’s the same list of frustrating things it always is and I’m sick of the sound of my own complaining.
’ She flounces past, throwing her bag down onto the sofa, then wheeling around on me.
‘Okay, since you insist. My boss is a letchy old Eton boy who thinks I’m his PA, not a highly trained and qualified legal secretary.
I hate him.’ She slumps down onto the sofa beside me.
‘Today he asked me to fetch his dry cleaning. When I told him I was working on some urgent contracts for a client, he told me to give it to one of the “other girlies”.’ Her eyes bug out as she looks over at me.
‘That’s what he refers to the female legal secretaries as – other girlies.
We have plenty of men working with us, but no, he’d never ask any of them to do his chores.
They can have the real work and join him on his golfing trips, while us girlies do the household shit and fetch office birthday cake. ’
‘God, what a prick,’ I sigh.
‘He’s a narcissist,’ she shouts into the room, then tuts.
‘Actually, no, he’s not. I’ve decided that calling people a narcissist is over, it’s lost all meaning since everyone started saying it.
’ Her eyes widen with emphasis. ‘It’s become such a cliché – everyone is a narcissist: exes, bosses, co-workers, overbearing parents.
That curious cat who knocked over a vase.
We’re all narcissists, it’s become a normal state of being. ’
I nod. ‘I think maybe it’s just being a human. We’re all narcissists.’ I sit up taller. ‘And maybe being one can be good! I’ve met a hell of a lot of women over the years who could do with walking into a room believing they’re the star of the show and no one else matters.’
‘I try to channel that energy.’ She nods. ‘I’m the star of my movie. I’m the main character. I’m no one’s funny, sassy sidekick.’
‘Quite right,’ I say. ‘I love narcissism for you.’
She grins. ‘Although, I’ve never felt more like a side character today, what with my dick boss stealing everyone’s MC vibes. It didn’t help that I was hungover after my date last night.’ She looks outraged. ‘I only had one glass of prosecco, what’s happened to me since I turned thirty?’
I grimace. ‘Ugh, how embarrassing. Less prosecco, more amateur-secco, am I right?’ I am delighted with this joke and Sam snorts gratifyingly. I beam, then add, ‘Was the date any good though?’
‘It was…’ Sam searches for the right word. ‘… fine. She was sexy and nice, but we had nothing in common. Literally nothing.’ She shrugs. ‘The trouble is, all the men I meet want to hit it and quit it—’
‘Are we still saying that?’ I murmur but she ignores me.
‘—and all the women I go out with immediately want to move in with me after one date.’
‘Who can blame them?’ I ask, feeling pangs of jealousy, though I know she’s joking.
Only one woman has ever tried to live with Sam apart from me, and to be fair, they’d been dating for six months at that point.
I’m happy to report my best friend still ran a mile though, because I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Sam smirks, and I add, ‘You’re not going to move in with anyone else though, right? You’re not moving in with her or anyone else? Because you belong to me, remember?’
‘God no!’ she says, laughing. ‘She spent a full hour discussing whether marine collagen is better than bovine collagen.’
‘Ooh!’ I cry, genuinely interested, ‘And what did you decide?’
‘What we decided was that we would not be having a second glass of prosecco,’ she says solemnly.
‘Amateur-secco,’ I mutter my joke again, but it doesn’t get a laugh this time.
Sam pulls her shoes off beside me, making animal noises with the relief.
‘I think the problem with dating is that I don’t really want a partner.
I’m only dating in the hopes that someone will be mega rich so I can quit working.
I want to be a trad wife but without doing literally any of the wife stuff.
’ She pauses. ‘Including the actual wife bit because marriage – ew. Do you know that heterosexual marriage makes women much less happy and men much more so? There’s actual research proving men suck the life out of you. ’
I think of my client, Wendy, with her husband and two grown-up sons. All annoyed with her for finally finding her own life and not solely serving them. She has predictably ‘postponed’ her last few sessions with me after seeing my TikTok videos and it makes me sad. I felt like I could’ve helped her.
I reach across to squeeze Sam’s shoulder. ‘I hate that your job is so rubbish.’
She sighs. ‘It’s not really the job itself.
Though that is boring as hell most of the time.
’ She sighs again. ‘It’s just the director.
Team morale is so much better when he’s off on another one of his little skiing or golfing jaunts.
’ She rolls over on the sofa, so we’re almost nose to nose.
‘It only seems to take one person to poison an entire office, doesn’t it?
And there is always one dick, ruining everyone’s work life. ’
‘Do you think that one person is me at my office?’ I whisper. ‘At the therapy collective?’
‘God no.’ She sits up straight. ‘Of course not, why would you say that?’
‘All this shit.’ I wave my hands in the air to indicate the universe and all the horribleness it contains.
‘It has to be impacting my workmates, doesn’t it?
Do you think they’ve had any clients cancel on them?
Ruined by association with Tiramisu Girl?
’ I gulp. ‘It’s probably why they want to have dinner on Friday, to tell me I’m out. ’
‘Dinner?’ Sam frowns. ‘Don’t you have a regular dinner now and again together anyway?’
I nod. ‘Yes, but surely they must know I wouldn’t want to be involved in this one. Not with everything going on. But, no, they even want me to host it!’
‘Oh, you should!’ Sam’s face breaks out in a huge smile. ‘I missed the last time you did it here, and I’m so keen to meet Jamal and Fran.’
I regard her with horror. ‘You can’t be here! It’s not right. It wouldn’t be professional for you to have dinner with your therapist, Arshiya! There are ethical guidelines around stuff like that!’
‘Professional schmofessional! Ethical schmethical!’ she says happily. ‘I’m dying to see what she’s like when she’s not being a therapist. I want you to ply her with booze, get her drunk. I would love to see the human side of her.’
‘Arshiya doesn’t drink and that wouldn’t be appropriate,’ I try weakly. ‘And it wouldn’t be right for me to socialise with Edward either, not while we’re mid sessions.’
‘Don’t be boring!’ Sam cries. ‘It’ll be fun. You can put Edward and Arshiya up one end of the table. You and I can be way up at the other end, if it helps. I’ll just watch Arshiya from afar and take notes.’
‘We really shouldn’t,’ I try again and Sam pouts.
‘Please let me have this,’ she says. ‘My job is so boring and my boss is so hateful. You are my favourite drama and I need this in my life.’
I laugh. ‘Ugh, fine!’ I tell her, picking up my phone and replying to Jamal, confirming the time and details. ‘But you, missy, are going in the anger journal.’
Sam cocks an eyebrow. ‘You’re doing it again this week?’
I nod. ‘I didn’t exactly take it seriously last time, and I promised Edward I’d give it a proper go. So, I am.’
‘I’m glad,’ Sam says seriously. ‘I think it’ll be good for you.’ She narrows her eyes then smirks. ‘Sorry again for interrupting Monday’s session.’
I automatically reach up to touch my new fringe.
It wasn’t too bad when I left the hairdresser’s, but it quickly bent over into odd angles that won’t be tamed.
I tried to wash it this morning and it has dried into a poufy, gigantic thing that looks like a clip-in hair piece. And very much not in a good way.
Sam’s new fringe, meanwhile, looks phenomenal.
She smiles nicely. ‘How was the session anyway?’
‘It was kind of…’ I trail off, searching for the right word, ‘… it was surprising.’ Sam waits for me to continue, so I do.
‘It was actually a bit enlightening. Some of the things Edward was saying were really interesting.’ I clear my throat.
‘I’m not saying I need therapy or anything, but some of the stuff he said made a lot of sense.
’ I pause. ‘I have to admit, Edward’s pretty smart. ’
‘Not to mention super sexy,’ Sam adds, grinning. ‘Do you think he’ll wear his three-piece suit to dinner on Friday?’
I try to picture Edward at any of our previous dinners. I can’t. It’s funny how he’s come so much more into focus for me these last few weeks.
My phone vibrates with a message from Justin. Oof. The sight of his name still hits me square in the chest.
‘Justin’s dropping off the last of my stuff in half an hour,’ I tell Sam, and she makes a face.
‘Yuck,’ she says loyally. ‘Let’s release some daddy long-legseseses on him when he knocks on the door.’
‘You’ll have to be in charge of that, I’d need to be locked in the bathroom,’ I tell her, and she snorts, getting up and wandering out into the kitchen.
‘God, did you see Orla’s latest post?’ she calls from the other room. I hear the clinking of glasses and the click of our oven being turned on.
I sit up straight. ‘A new post?’ I call out, frantically pulling up Instagram on my phone.
My heart thumps at what I might’ve missed in the three hours I’ve been offline – what was I thinking!
Sam always says I should have Google alerts set up for every single person we’ve ever dated, but I’m not sure that would work for new Instagram posts anyway.
I find Orla’s profile and there she is. I scan her gorgeous, clear-eyed face, her wide guileless smile. And there’s Justin, beside her. She’s done it, she’s posted about him.
‘I wanted you all to officially meet this guy,’ she writes in the caption underneath their happy faces. ‘His name is Justin and I am just the tiniest bit smitten. But don’t tell him that, I’m totally playing it cool.’
Oh, fuck me, that’s charming.
That’s it then, they’ve both shared. They’re Instagram official – both of them. It’s happened. There’s no going back.
Sam reappears at the door. She’s drinking a pint of water. ‘You see it? The smitten thing? Are you okay?’
I nod, unsure if I really am. ‘What does she have that I don’t, Sam?’
‘Nothing,’ she says firmly, coming to sit beside me.
‘No, I mean it,’ I say, insistent. ‘There must be something. I know she’s prettier than me and cooler than me, but is that all it took?’
Sam shifts uncomfortably. ‘Have you considered… no, never mind.’ I stare at her, waiting, and she sighs. ‘Okay, I just wondered if maybe she just might not… maybe she… I don’t know, perhaps Orla just…’ She looks sheepish. ‘… doesn’t let him take the piss?’
I frown at her. ‘What?’
She looks a little flustered. ‘I don’t want to make you feel bad. I just mean, maybe he’s had to meet her at her level, instead of lowering herself to his.’
‘You think I lowered myself?’ I cringe at her words.
‘That sounds worse than I meant it to,’ she tuts at herself.
‘But, look, babe, you did wash the guy’s clothes.
He’s an adult man and you did everything for him like he was a small boy.
You let him behave however he wanted without a word of protest, and he treated you like you weren’t important.
And maybe that ended up meaning you weren’t that important to him.
’ She swallows. ‘I’m saying maybe this woman doesn’t take his shit and so he doesn’t give her his shit. ’
‘Jesus,’ I breathe out, unsure how to respond. Unsure how I even feel. Is this fair? It doesn’t feel fair. It feels really cruel and horrible. I think I need a solid minute with my anger journal.
‘Look, I’m sorry—’ Sam begins, and the doorbell goes.
‘That’ll be Justin,’ I say robotically.
‘Hey, wait, Liv—’ she tries again, and I shake my head.
‘Let’s not,’ I say lifting a hand, my head spinning. ‘I have to go take some more of Justin’s shit before he leaves forever for someone better.’ I don’t look at her as I head for the front door. ‘But thanks for your honesty, I guess.’