Chapter Thirty-Three
The first week of the rest of my life flies by.
I have my meeting with the domestic violence charity, and it is beyond eye opening in a horrible and soul crushing way.
A nice woman named Harriet takes me around the centre and talks me through some devastating stories and statistics.
I get introduced to a couple of women staying there and they tell me survival stories that put everything I’ve been through over the last couple of months in the kind of perspective no one ever really wants or needs, goddammit.
I feel ashamed. But also invigorated. I realise immediately that I’m desperate to work here.
I want to work here, with these women, more than anything.
I want to help them. I feel excited about doing something properly important and useful for the first time in a really long time.
Sure, I loved working on Morning Tea, but this is on another level.
It feels like exactly what I should be doing.
Harriet says I can start the following Monday.
There is even talk of funding in the works that could enable them to create a full-time paid position for me in the near future.
Outside in the cool, summer sunshine, I skip along, my steps light.
I feel myself smiling at strangers as they pass, then find a bench to sit down on.
For a moment, I close my eyes, turning my face up to the sun and letting its rays perform some magic. I let it heal me.
Then I feel a little silly and re-open my eyes, hoping no one saw me trying to be spiritual.
I pull out my phone to scan through my emails, making mental notes to follow up on a couple of enquiries I’ve sent out.
I’ve been researching nearby therapists and am hoping to set up some meetings with a few to see who the best fit would be.
I’m determined to keep working on my mental health. Without Edward. Obviously.
I haven’t heard anything from him. Not a word. Not a text, not a WhatsApp, not an email, not even a bloody video on Instagram. Nothing.
It’s what I expected, to be honest, but it still hurts. More than it should.
But I’m about to email him. Along with Jamal, Fran and Arshiya – the whole therapy collective – and I know it’s long overdue.
I take a deep breath and type out the message.
I’m giving them notice for my office space.
I’ll pay up for another month and then they’ll have to find someone else to take over.
It’s the right thing to do and I probably should’ve done it months ago when I first got internet famous.
But I was too caught up in my own stuff at the time to worry too much about the impact my notoriety was having on my team.
Either way, I’m not practising privately anymore, and I can’t afford to keep renting the room – not without my TV work.
So, the issue has been forced. I gulp, thinking about how much worse off I’m about to make myself as I embark on this volunteer work. But I have a feeling it’ll be worth it.
The reply-alls come in quickly from Fran, Jamal and Arshiya. They’re very kind and sad, telling me they will miss me, it won’t be the same, and insisting I must continue attending the regular dinners.
Edward is last to respond to the group. He sends me his best wishes for the future.
I stand up, the sun not feeling so bloody healing anymore.
Best wishes for the future. Did he really just write that?
I head straight to a kickboxing class and pummel out the fury I feel, deep in my belly. The punchbag is Edward’s face and those words drive my fists. Best wishes for the future. Has anyone ever said anything so vile to another human being? Best wishes for the future. Ugh, what a piece of work.
As I leave the gym, sweaty and spent, Fabian tries to call me again. My poor, beleaguered agent has been trying to get hold of me for weeks now.
Riding high on the adrenaline of kicking stuff a lot, I finally give in and answer.
‘Will you – for the love of fuck – learn to fucking call me back once in a while?’ Fabian rages before I can even say hello.
‘Sorry Fabian,’ I say, not really feeling one bit of it.
‘Why are you ignoring my emails about the book, sugar lump?’ he demands, and I sigh.
‘Because I don’t want to go into the publishers’ office just to have an awkward conversation. I’ve had far too many of them recently. I’m spent, sorry Fabian. I’m trying not to put myself into shitty situations that make me feel rubbish anymore.’
‘You owe them money,’ he says sharply, and my stomach flips.
‘If we have any hope of them not asking for the whole advance back, we need to meet with them face-to-face and play nice. Maybe they can be talked around about Orange Flags. Or maybe just persuaded not to be arseholes about it. You owe them.’
The fear of this stabs through my bravado.
My savings are getting dangerously thin, and I’ve already seriously contemplated selling my car – an indulgent unnecessity bought with my Morning Tea money – to buy me some peace of mind.
If I have to return that money, I won’t be able to embark on this volunteer work for the centre.
And I suddenly really, really need to do it.
I can’t let all those people down. We have to talk the editor around.
‘Okay, fine,’ I concede, adding with some sincerity, ‘Sorry.’ I take a deep breath. ‘When do they want to meet?’
‘Can you do this afternoon?’
I check my watch. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I just spoke to them, that’s why I called again. Your editor wants a conversation ASAP. They’re sick of waiting around. They need this resolved.’
I feel bad then. It’s all very well putting myself first and prioritising my happiness, but it doesn’t mean I can just ignore anything I don’t like the sound of. I’ve been a child. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble again, and I really do mean it this time. ‘Yes, I can do this afternoon. I just need to shower.’
‘Good.’
We make the arrangements, and I dash home to get washed and dressed. I have just enough time to throw on some lipstick before rushing immediately back out the door to catch my train.
As I walk through the grand glass doors at the publisher’s, I try not to think about how much has changed since the last time I was here.
For that meeting I was arriving as a renowned TV relationship therapist with a boyfriend and my own therapy collective business, about to sign the paperwork on a halfway decent book deal.
I was fussed over, I was lauded. There was fanfare and excitement in the air.
There were assistants handing round glasses of champagne! There were cupcakes.
And today… well, things are certainly different, but maybe they’re not so bad. My life is moving forward in a new way. I still have my Sam, and I also have this new volunteer gig.
But I can’t say it feels amazing to be potentially leaving today with a cancelled contract, a massive bill to re-pay, and an indelible black mark against my name in the publishing industry.
I spot Fabian waiting in reception and he greets me coolly.
‘Liv,’ he says, offering only the merest hints of a double air kiss.
I am massively in the bad books if he’s calling me by my actual name.
Which is fair enough, given what a nightmare client I’ve been in recent months.
Or maybe this is just what you get from your agent when you’re out of favour with the world and everyone on the internet hates you.
Fifteen per cent of zero earnings doesn’t amount to a whole lot of commission.
The editor, Jenny, comes down to greet us personally, hesitating in the lobby.
For a moment I think we will have the whole meeting right here and now, in the middle of reception – with the added humiliation of the security team watching on with pitying eyes.
Quick and painful. But thankfully, she turns to usher us through the turnstiles, where we take a lift up to a glass-walled meeting room.
One side is lined with book posters; another features a display of recent publications.
I recognise a handful and fight the urge to ask for some freebies. Now is most definitely not the time.
We sit down and there is a strange silence.
‘How are things?’ the editor begins, and I clear my throat. I’m fighting irritation again. Did I really have to come all the way here for this? To be dumped like this? I sneak a glance around on the off chance there is a cake stand with tiramisu.
‘Fine,’ I answer simply, swallowing down the resentment as best I can.
‘Great, great,’ she says, her eyes darting left to right.
I almost feel sorry for her. This would be a horrible conversation to endure.
Especially with someone who is literally infamous for throwing huge strops.
‘So, look.’ She leans forward across the table.
‘I’ll get straight to the point. This hopefully won’t be too much of a problem…
but we’re hoping you haven’t got too far with the writing of Orange Flags yet.
’ She grimaces, and I stare down at the table. I shake my head.
‘No,’ I admit, preparing myself for what’s coming.
‘Oh, that’s good.’ She sounds relieved. ‘Phew! Because we actually think a slightly new direction might work better.’
I look up. I feel Fabian sitting up straighter beside me, too.