Anon
When I weep for a man who is slipping away from me, Scarlett holds on to hers. And that seems so bloody unfair.
I think she and her husband might even be getting back on track; she sent a message to the group the morning after Poppy came out of hospital saying things were good between them, that she thought they would be ok.
Greedy Scarlett, breezing around getting what she wants. Even now, after what I have done to her.
So I take matters into my own hands.
Ed’s number, I have, from a dormant NCT group chat we had set up, never used. Instead, the all-female one became the constant for questions, reassurance, pictures of your nipple up close in your baby’s mouth.
But his number comes in handy now. From my other phone of course; the pay-as-you-go one.
Hey, mate, I write, getting into my new laddish persona. What next? A chat to Ed about the footy scores? Oh wait, no. He’s a golf man. I’d need to do quite a bit of research to be up to speed on that; not my natural territory. Man to man, I thought you’d like to know that I’m sleeping with your wife.
He doesn’t reply, though I can see it has been read.
I’m kind of irritated. Craving something. Wanting to move things on.
Me again, I say, ten minutes later. If it helps you piece the dates together, we were together while you were away for work last Tuesday. She invited me round to your place.
Handily, I’m in the know on Ed’s schedules. A quick scan back through messages from Scarlett gifts an easy timetable. We share a lot of minutiae.
I nearly start to tell him things I know about his house – of course I’d spent enough time there – but stop. I don’t want Scarlett getting close to the truth by working out who has been to her house lately.
So I sit back.
Wait.
Told you I’m a lot more patient than Scarlett.
22
Scarlett
13 June
The house, in the middle of nowhere in the Peak District, is messy with clothes and food strewn everywhere, but we don’t care. For once, we’re not responsible. We’re teenagers again. It’s someone else’s problem.
Emma is shrieking, drunk on a few gin and slims as she is not a big drinker.
‘I thought we were going to go to a spa!’ she slurs, then giggles. ‘What happened to the spaaaaaa?’
I have my long legs propped up on a sofa that is not mine and am in old baggy leggings and bare feet. I have a glass of warm supermarket red wine in my hand. I am on my phone, posting a picture of Poppy I took yesterday, trying to keep up more regular traffic on Cheshire Mama’s Instagram.
I laugh at Emma.
‘Remember the spa you found was a bit … well, shit?’ I say, laughing. ‘We came here instead. I found it on Airbnb.’
Then, we planned to go walking but bad weather and being shattered made us abandon that too.
‘We could get the bus into town?’ says Emma, smoothing down frizz at her temple that keeps popping up ten seconds after she does this. It’s about the tenth time. ‘Have a potter around the shops?’
Everyone ignores her or rolls their eyes. That’s what happens to Emma when she suggests things like potters or cheeky pizzas.
There’s a Chinese takeaway menu floating around somewhere and Emma, perpetually dieting, is talking romantically about fried noodles.
Beyond that, we’re just going to drink and not think about anybody else, and that’s the point of being here.
Someone puts a Sonique song on I like on Spotify and I stand up to dance to it and wonder why no one is acknowledging that this is one of my favourite songs but then I remember that no one knows which songs are my favourites, yet. As I dance with my eyes closed, Cora says something about a group shot.
‘Yes!’ says Asha. ‘A group shot. I’ll get my phone.’
‘I meant tequila,’ says Cora, deadpan, and the next minute I am roaring with laughter and downing one tequila then a second from a bottle that I did not know anyone had brought.
After that, my memory gets blurrier.
A third slips down, I think.
I talk a lot. I know that.
Next thing, I’m waking up in a double bed next to Cora and my eyes are sticky with mascara. My mouth is claggy with a lack of water and the remains of a thick, spicy Asian sauce.
The usual thing happens.
Whereas before I might stir gradually, since the video I wake like somebody at war. I am on high alert, grab my phone, check what I’ve missed, if other disasters have befallen me while I slept. It’s worse when I’ve been drunk and have taken my eye off the ball for longer.
This morning, I grab my phone from this Airbnb’s shabby-chic bedside table.
As soon as I’ve checked my messages to make sure that Poppy is okay, I realise that what I am worried about, today, is not on a phone.
Instead, I think – what did I tell my friends last night? What did I share?
I glance at Cora, gently snoring with an expensive eye mask on and her make-up removed. Next to her on her bedside table sit a messy pile of five tubs of creams I know all cost over £100, two of which have the lids off. She was definitely drinking last night – even steering the shots – but from the evidence, clearly not in the state I was.
I get up and walk down the hall in bare feet on cold wooden floors. I shiver. I open cupboards and drawers and eventually find a chocolate cupcake with half a Crunchie on
