‘I went too far,’ I say. ‘Obviously. But in retrospect I was pushing the self-destruct button on that whole life. Taking it to an extreme so that I could get out of it and move on and start again.’
Again, he wouldn’t want to know that yes, that’s all true, but also it was the kind of crazy thing we did anyway; the kind of debauched time we had.
Best to focus on this part.
I give him a hint of a smile.
‘Start again with you, and our life.’
But this doesn’t please him. In fact, Ed’s face is contracted in discomfort. Of not having it in him to be compassionate, despite the fact that this is one of only a handful of times I have spoken to him about the baby I lost.
‘I knew Ollie and I wouldn’t come through that, not with the grief too,’ I say, voice catching now too.
I stare at Ed.
He looks like he would do anything to walk away from this conversation and exist anywhere but here.
Well, Ed, I think, I have to deal with this so you have to deal with this too. That was part of the vows.
‘So was it a mistake then?’ I push. ‘Because it brought me to where I am now. Sparked a change. Like things do in life.’
But Ed looks at me, incredulous.
‘You’re saying that doing … that on film wasn’t a mistake?’ he asks.
I stare at him.
To him it’s one plus one equals two, as life always is. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. If I wanted to leave the relationship and the life I was living, I should have left. I shouldn’t have got drunk and high and had sex.
I look at Ed again.
Did you ever go wild? I think. Did you ever go crazy?
He is staring at the floor.
It’s been less than a week since the video but the chasm that’s opening up between us is vast and that shocks me. It should be a moment we are pulling together, tight. Surely.
Hug me, I think again. But Ed walks out of the room. He pauses by the door as though to turn, but it’s like he physically can’t. I hear him go up the stairs as I stand with my arms wrapped around my own body. But you can’t hug yourself, no matter where you position your limbs.
9
Scarlett
10 May
Scarl, says a message from the only person in the world who calls me Scarl because there is no word he doesn’t shorten, first thing that Sunday morning. Can I come over? We really do need to talk about this.
I turn back to the bathroom mirror and tie a bobble in my hair. I glance at my puffy eyes in the mirror. Poke at a spot-cum-boil on my chin.
I look back at my phone and sigh. Everyone’s messages are difficult at the moment but this one is the worst.
Since I replied to my dad’s voicemail with a text, I’ve been avoiding speaking to him directly about the video. I told him I was consulting a lawyer, I was sorry he received it. He told me not to say sorry, never to say sorry, please would I answer his calls. I made excuses.
But I think I’ve run out.
He’s seen the video. My dad, who calls me Scarl and tried to plait my hair and be interested in my ballet classes after mum died, has seen the video. I struggle against the urge to be sick again.
Since I left work that day, a steady drip feed of friends has messaged to tell me they were sent the video too.
Some are concerned, some are disbelieving, some are angry, some send me links to revenge porn articles as though reading about revenge porn is now my hobby. Some, incredibly, act as though it’s something we should be laughing at. Come on, it’s hilarious, Scarlett. They’re generally the richer ones, to whom sex has always been funny. Sex hasn’t always been funny to me. It’s been grimy and embarrassing and a currency and a stain.
But yes, the pattern is set. If you’re a major part of my life, you’ve been sent the video. My family. Ed’s family. My old friends. My colleagues. Not the NCT girls, though. As far as I know – and Cora, for one, would be telling me if she had seen that – they’ve still not had it.
I think of the lawyer telling me that if I’m even going to think about taking this to the police, I need evidence first. Of Ollie denying it; Mitch too. Of the dead end I stand in front of.
Yes, Dad, I reply, weary. Come round. But there’s not much to update you on.
I turn to Ed.
‘My dad is coming over,’ I say.
He inhales sharply at the thought of being involved in that conversation.
‘I’ll take Poppy out,’ he says.
What’s the only thing more awkward than speaking to your dad about your sex tape? Your husband being in the room while you do it.
‘You go out,’ I agree. ‘But leave her here for protection.’
I give him a wry smile.
‘Will you be okay?’ he asks, gentle. In between his pragmatism and his pacing, there are moments of softness, of old Ed, and that is all that’s getting me through.
I nod, unconvincing. What counts as okay?
But surely there’s only a certain level of brutality that this conversation can reach if a nearly one-year-old is cruising along the sofa. She’s an unlikely defender, as she blows raspberries over and over and tries to eat her own foot, but she’s my best hope. ‘It’s
