Chapter Twenty-Six
It’s been four days and Sam still isn’t really speaking to me.
I mean, we passed each other in the kitchen yesterday and she mentioned it was bin day. And this morning she politely asked if I’d seen the council tax was going up again, but otherwise, I think we are officially in the midst of A Feud.
It’s shit. I hate it. I feel wretched every time I hear her moving about the flat with none of her usual look-at-me energy. But I also don’t feel like I have the emotional bandwidth to have a big conversation with her about it all.
I know I need to apologise. But there are also things I feel were true in what I said.
So, I don’t know how to say sorry for hurting her and sorry for being a prick, but also address those other important things.
I love love love our friendship and I don’t want to lose it, but there are times when she encourages my bad behaviour.
I don’t want her to enable my worst impulses.
And I don’t want her to feel like she has to enable them.
As if that is the only way this friendship works.
I don’t want the Sam and Liv dynamic to be me always providing stupid drama and making bad choices, while she laughs along and screams ‘yaaaas’ from the sidelines, encouraging me to do something even worse.
This has been an ongoing staple in our friendship over the years, and I want it to be better.
I want us to make each other better; to bring out our best sides, not our worst. Maybe it didn’t matter so much in our twenties, when making bad choices was part of the lived experience, practically a rite of passage or a requirement of youth.
It was fine as long as the stakes weren’t all that high.
But they suddenly do feel like they are high.
Things are too real now to keep on going the way I was.
I need to make healthier, happier choices for myself.
I need to empty myself of this painful, angry energy.
And I need her help with that. She’s my sister, my soulmate, I love her.
I want us to be in this whole, complicated, difficult life thing together.
I roll over in bed, wondering how to fill yet another day of not looking at Instagram and not having any work to do.
I should go and do some therapy homework.
Having insisted – bullied – Edward into continuing our therapy and then having strong-armed him into giving me a session right there and then, I am eager to make the most of these last couple of weeks.
After some initial awkwardness, with Edward being scrupulously professional and po-faced, we ended up talking a lot more about my family again.
We discussed ways of processing my repressed rage and I told him about the kickboxing – about how good it made me feel.
He loved that, and made it my homework for this week.
I’m to make a list of other ways I could experiment with releasing my anger in a positive and healthy way – and then I’m meant to try at least two of them out.
I pick up one of the pillows propping me up in bed. I press it to my face, and I scream and scream and scream. Like I did last week after my fight with Sam. I keep pressing and screaming until I realise I can’t breathe. I pull away panting, then try to do that self-scan thing Edward told me about.
I feel better.
And I also definitely feel like that pillow needs washing and/or urgently Febrezing.
I perk up. At least that’s something I can do today – some washing!
I pick up a notebook and pen, adding, ‘1. Screaming into a pillow – YES MATE LOVE IT’, and then underline the words. Beside me, my phone beeps with a new email. I casually pick it up and my heart briefly stops when I spot it’s from Fabian.
It is, as ever, short and straight to the point.
‘Babe, publishers want a meeting f2f, when can you do?’
I drop my phone back on the bed and consider picking the pillow back up. I know what this means. It means they’re formally cancelling the book. It’s nice of them to offer to do it in person, but really, I’d much rather have an email I can weep loudly over in my own time and space.
What if they want the money back? I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. What will I do?
In my hand, my phone pings with another email. I open it, trying to comprehend its contents. It takes me a full minute before it clicks.
It’s from a women’s domestic violence charity. They’re responding to my application to become one of their volunteer counsellors. They want to meet with me.
Volunteer? God, I really wasn’t concentrating when I sent off my CV the other day.
I hit reply, ready to type out a speedy brush off, but then pause. What if this is the purpose I need right now? Sure, it wouldn’t solve the money problems I’m about to face, but it could give me something else.
I think of Jools’ female rage at our lunch.
How women are turning on women, just when we need each other the most. Listening to her speak inspired something in me and I want to help.
I think of kicking the shit out of that punch bag during the kickboxing class, side by side with a room full of sweaty women. It felt good.
I want to do something. And this is a really important charity with an amazing mission. This could actually be… great.
I gather my stuff and head out the door.
I need to get out of the flat, so I’m heading to my favourite independent café to buy a ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate.
I’ll sit in my usual spot in the corner where I can find some peace and quiet to properly read the job advert.
I’ll look over the charity’s website, do some research, consider it over a croissant and then respond to their email.
This might not solve my looming financial crisis, but it could help with something a lot bigger and more important.
As I enter the café, I almost barrel straight into someone as they reach for the door at the same time as me. My mutters of apology are interrupted by—
‘Liv?’
I look up with surprise at the single syllable, and there I find the last face in the world I expected – or wanted – to see.
Justin.
And Orla!
They’re here, together. At my favourite coffee shop.
I look between them in a panic. How is this possible? How are they here? Just when I’d given up on stalking them – just in my darkest hour – they’re both here. Perfect. This is the last thing I need right now.
‘Er, good to see you,’ Justin says, and the look in his eyes says the opposite.
He turns to Orla, who somehow looks stunningly beautiful even with a slightly sunburned nose.
The freckles are out in full force. ‘Um, Liv, this is Orla,’ he introduces us awkwardly.
‘Er, Orla, this is Liv, my… ex.’ I watch in slow motion as she automatically smiles broadly, then falters.
Her eyes narrow as she takes in my face, trying to place me.
And then I watch in horror as they light up with recognition.
She remembers me. She remembers me from that fucking podcast event I went to with Sam.
She’s going to out me. She’s going to tell Justin how I turned up with a friend at her podcast recording and quizzed her about men.
This is the most humiliating experience of my life. I can’t believe this is—
‘Nice to meet you, Liv,’ she says carefully, reaching out to offer a friendly hand to shake.
We regard each other. I stare at the hand, then take it.
I can see on her face that she knows me, that she knows exactly what I was doing when I came to see her that day.
And – by some kind of miracle – she’s not going to say it. Not out loud.
God, she’s great. I think I actually fancy her more than I ever fancied Justin. Could I steal her from him? Would that be possible? And would it be even more fucked up than kissing my therapist?
‘Hi,’ I say, swallowing hard. ‘Great to meet you… Orla.’
‘We were just going to grab a hot chocolate.’ Justin nods at the counter, acknowledging the long queue snaking around it.
‘Me too,’ I squeak. ‘But actually, I think I’ll just… um, I don’t fancy one anymore really, so I’m going to…’
‘Oh no, don’t run off on our account,’ Orla says so nicely. ‘I know this is a bit weird and awkward, but it doesn’t have to be. We can all queue together like grown-ups, right?’ She grins cheekily and I smile back, my knees weak.
‘I guess so.’ We move to take our positions, the sound of coffee shop noise filling the air around us.
‘I’m guessing this coffee shop was your recommendation at some point, huh, Liv?’ Orla says playfully after a tense minute.
I glance at Justin, and he looks embarrassed. ‘Yeah,’ I admit. ‘This is my favourite place for hot chocolate. They add so much whipped cream and marshmallows, people go into diabetic comas all the time.’ I sneak another look at Justin. ‘But I don’t think you ever came here with me, did you?’
He bites his lip. ‘No, but you always brought me a hot chocolate when you went. I remembered how amazing they are.’
I feel Orla’s eyes on me and wonder if she’s remembering my question that day – the one about washing a partner’s underwear. What must she think of me?
We move up the line at last and a harried woman takes our orders. Justin offers to buy the drinks, something he’s never, ever done before, and I accept with some surprise. It’s the least this douchebag owes me.
We exit the café and hover awkwardly outside with our hot cups.
‘Well,’ I mumble, trying to casually move off.
This encounter might not have been quite as bad as it could’ve been, but it’s still something I desperately want over.
‘Thank you for the hot chocolate, Justin. Um, nice to meet you, Orla…’