Maybe I should have taken more time before I shared so much.
The panic starts to submerge me again.
I grab Poppy from the playpen.
She protests and wriggles away from me but I insist, though my forearms shake.
Everyone looks at me. Can they tell, I wonder, what’s going on in my insides? It feels so huge that it would be impossible for them not to, but maybe that’s just how it is for me. Perhaps everyone else is thinking about their own insides instead.
‘We’re going to leave as well,’ I say as Asha bundles Ananya into her clothes and her face burns with embarrassment or rage or both.
Cora looks up at me, questioning. She has no idea I think that what she did was so inappropriate. Ananya’s mum was right there. But the last thing I want is a confrontation, especially on somebody else’s behalf.
I throw Poppy into the buggy and head off quickly down the road with minimal goodbyes.
At home as Poppy sleeps in the buggy, I go to log on to Cheshire Mama, to consume myself with something practical. To stop thinking about the penthouse. To stop me from messaging that number back. Then I remember. Cheshire Mama doesn’t exist any more, like all the other things that don’t exist any more. Fuck, my world is small.
Instead, I message Flick.
Could we meet up? I write. Maybe outside of the office to talk without me worrying about everyone watching?
I hate how pathetic I sound when we used to be equals. When I used to pitch to clients and Felicity would walk past the room and see them smiling and catch my eye. When I knew that if she trusted anyone to pull together a strong proposal, I was that person.
I reread the message and delete the last part; I don’t need to spell out why I’m avoiding the office. Plus, we have a friendship that transcends work; it’s not unreasonable for me to suggest that we try and hold on to that even while our working relationship is struggling.
Although really, what is the point of Felicity’s friendship and all of my other old friendships – also limping on with only the odd message linking us now?
I delete the message. Instead, I message the person who texted me. The person who hates me. Yes, I know, Jonathan. But something has to give.
Who am I meant to leave alone? I write.
You know, comes the reply.
I really don’t, I type, then: Why are you doing this to me?
But they don’t reply, other than one line telling me not to bother trying to trace the phone, as it’s pay-as-you-go anyway.
Anon
It looks to everybody else like my life is normal.
I turn up for the playdate; I drink the coffee. I go through the motions. I smile at her, at the same time I think about how I would like her to be dead.
Over and over, it hits me what’s happened to me, to my life, and I hold on to a surface to stay upright. Carrying on doesn’t seem possible.
Then I regroup and plough on.
The reply Scarlett sends gives me a boost. An adrenalin rush. You can’t trace me, I remind her, then I whisper into my phone, ‘Hey. It’s me,’ and grin and love my secret. I’ve never had one this big. Life’s never been this exciting. I’m getting into this. It’s why I don’t want to confront her on a text message. It’s a waste. No. I’ve decided now. We will do this in person when I can see her eyes avoid contact and her cheeks flush red and then I will know, absolutely. And once I do, I will break her. Just like she has broken me.
30
Scarlett
11 July
‘I couldn’t be prouder of you,’ says my dad. Not to me, obviously, I’m the daughter whose breasts are splashed across the worldwide web. God no. He’s speaking to a different daughter.
My half-sister Josephine, next to him, is other-worldly. Straight-without-electricals brown hair that goes all the way down her long back adorned with a flower headdress that says ‘beach in the Caribbean and no shoes’ but is actually being paired with a buffet in Greater Manchester, late summer drizzle and some heels from the Selfridges sale. Still.
She’s young, Josephine, all peachy-cheeked and innocent like brides used to be. Twenty-six, now I think about it, but she seems younger. Her husband Rafe, grey around the temples, is older by what looks like a decade and a half and I suspect wanted to lock this down before his luck ran out. He’s fine, Rafe, but my sister is a goddess.
I smile at her, even though she isn’t looking at me, and I soak her in. Josephine deserves happiness and kindness and love.
Her and Rafe’s set-up is old-school: Rafe earns the cash; Josephine ‘has a little hobby’ according to him even though her greetings card business is growing into a lucrative operation.
‘And,’ says my dad’s voice, cutting into my thoughts and staring, like me, at this goddess, ‘anyone would be utterly lucky and blessed to have you in their life. You can put that in one of your greetings cards, if you like, Jos. Ha!’
He raises his glass. ‘To Jos and Rafe!’
I raise my champagne and neck it quickly as my dad looks around the room and we make eye contact over the top of our glassware. I look away before he can; the contrast between pure Josephine and sullied me too much to acknowledge today.
‘She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?’ says Aunt Denise, interrupting my thoughts. She is a distant aunt, only seen at weddings and funerals. There are a lot of cheeks suddenly and kisses and pleasantries. And then.
‘So, how are you?’ she asks, head on the side, hand on my arm. Why the wrong emphasis?
But I look at her eyes, which are searching.
She’s seen the video.
‘Good, thanks,’ I mutter then show her pictures of Poppy in her flower girl paraphernalia from earlier – Ed’s parents have taken her home now while
