So I don’t say a word. Or reply at all. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and turn to Ed.
‘I wish the lawyer was a woman,’ I whisper, as we sit alone in the waiting room.
He looks up from his phone.
‘Why would that matter, Scarlett?’ he bristles. ‘The important thing is getting this done, as soon as is humanly possible. Jesus. Priorities.’
He goes back to his email.
I sigh and look down.
I have worn a high neckline today and a long, formless skirt to negate as much as possible of the image that I am convinced this lawyer has already formed of me based on what he knows from our phone call. When I gave the woman on reception my name, I try to mute my broad Manchester accent and sound like I grew up in Kent. Or at least the edge of Cheshire.
I open my mouth to explain the difference between talking to a woman about my sexual past versus a man and of knowing that they have seen my body but close it again when I realise there is no point. We’re here now and Ed’s right. We need to just get this done.
‘Scarlett Salloway?’ asks a short man in his fifties. He pumps Ed’s hand and then mine and leads us through to an office.
‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ he says. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
We both shake our heads, eager to get on. Our hands are clasped to each other’s.
‘Okay, thanks for explaining to me on the phone what’s happened,’ says Mr White. He looks at his screen.
‘We just appreciate you seeing us so quickly,’ says Ed.
‘Handy cancellation,’ he says. ‘So here’s the situation.’
I’m glad he’s brusque, at this hourly rate brusque is ideal. And I really don’t want to go over the whole story again.
‘You can report this to the police, but that would make whoever has done this alert to being investigated, which means evidence could be deleted or destroyed.
‘So first, I would suggest that you try to obtain strong evidence on who did this – and I’m presuming in this situation you have a good guess – yourself.’
I nod.
‘I’m meeting Ollie – the man, one of the men – tomorrow,’ I say.
Ed’s whole body cringes next to me. His fingers loosen in mine.
‘And the other?’ asks Mr White.
I try again to remember Mitch’s proper name.
‘Working on it,’ I mutter, head low, mood lower.
‘And what about in terms of getting it down?’ asks Ed, letting go of my hand altogether and leaning forwards. I sit beside him, meek, playing with my wedding ring.
‘Yes.’ Mr White nods. ‘Obviously important. Must be traumatic for you and your wife and everyone close to you.’
I think about my dad. I still haven’t called him back, despite his multiple attempts to get through to me. Ed has his head bowed. I think of his parents, and how eventually I’ll have to see them too.
‘What you want to do is contact the operators of the website that it’s on directly,’ he says. ‘Some will remove it, some won’t on the basis of freedom of speech.’
I see my legs begin to shake beneath my skirt.
‘What if this one won’t?’ I ask. ‘What then?’
‘Well, it’s a more complicated process but you can make an application on the basis of privacy law. You can also make an application to Google to delist all videos from search results. It’ll be easier if it’s a UK website operator.’
Ed is nodding seriously.
‘There’s only one,’ I say. ‘That I know of.’
Mr White nods, matter-of-fact.
‘Yep and hopefully it’ll stay that way but don’t be surprised if it pops up elsewhere,’ he says. ‘If that happens you’ll just have to go to them individually.’
Ed looks at me, checks I’m getting it all. I nod but I’m shaking harder now. More websites. The video spreading wider. Further. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.
‘So you will sort this?’ Ed says, turning back to Mr White. ‘One way or another?’
‘Yes,’ says Mr White. ‘It may take time but there is only one video. In many cases there are hundreds, posted to different websites. This should be simple. The most important thing though is finding out who did it.’
I nod at Ed and at Mr White and think that the situations aren’t too different, right now and in the video.
Me, with two men, longing to be anywhere but here.
We leave then, but not before Mr White hands me a glass of water, concerned that I look faint.
5
Scarlett
6 May
Early Noughties house music plays loudly in the car and the window is down. My head doesn’t nod rhythmically, automatic, like it would normally do. This has taken even that away from me. Shocked my urge to dance into stasis.
I push my sunglasses up a touch on my nose. Notice that the guy in the car next to me is staring.
You think I’m somebody else, I think. You think I am Scarlett 1.0, the girl in the video. Ollie’s ‘bird’, party hard, probably high, definitely drunk, life and soul. I won’t sleep with your boyfriend but I’ll probably flirt with him. If you have a proper job, I’ll roll my eyes and call you a sell-out.
I am doing it.
I am on my way to meet Ollie.
I shove my hand in a giant bag of Haribo that I bought at a petrol station earlier in the journey and shovel them into my mouth.
We met, Ollie and I, when we were both twenty. I worked in a pub; he drank in the pub. I had spent the years since my pre-teens careering through life, unloved, unloving. My dad, at capacity with his young child, believed me when I said I was fine and didn’t push me when I turned down invites to come for minty lamb or a cup of tea or to build a sandcastle with my sister as we shivered on the beach in Blackpool.
I had friends. But they were really drug dealers
