Ever since Sam started having therapy a month ago, she’sbecome a bit of a know-it-all when it comes to trauma. ButI’mthe therapist here. I know plenty about exposure therapy, thank you.
She pauses, then looks excited. ‘Ooh, or we could both take a month off and travel to the daddy long-legs’ country of origin – probably the Amazon or something, right? – where we could camp out and become as one with the insect life there. That would cure you.’
‘I’m not sure getting into debt to upend my life just so I can bond with mosquitoes and beetles would be a sensible choice,’ I point out, before adding fiercely, ‘And Ihaveread about the daddy long-legseses. They’re evil little bastards. They tear their prey apart with just their mouths.’
‘Their prey being?’ She raises an eyebrow as she pulls up her pants. I look away.
‘Mainly grasshoppers and slugs.’
Sam snorts as she flushes and moves to the sink. ‘They don’t bite, they’re not poisonous, they don’t even spin a web or do anything annoying like that. They’re mostly just… sort of…silly?’
Silly?
For a moment I consider telling Sam what happened with Justin last night. I could tell her how I got brutally dumped in a public place. That would make her feel bad for calling my very legitimate daddy long-legs terrorsilly.
‘I’m going back to sleep,’ she yawns again, drying her hands.
I open my mouth to say the words, to tell her about Justin, and then I shut it again.
I’m not ready to say out loud that I got dumped. I don’t want to see the pity that I know will be there in her eyes. Yet another relationship Liv couldn’t close, how sad. Sam’s pity might dim my anger and I need to hold onto it right now. It’s all that’s keeping me standing upright.
Plus, it would seem that my best friend is not all that sympathetic at this hour of the day.
‘Night night,’ I call out, as she trudges back to bed. ‘And thank you for saving me, I love you loads.’
‘Whatever, loser,’ she responds, as per our friendship protocol, slamming her bedroom door and laughing.
I glance out of the bathroom window. It’s pitch black out there. My taxi will be here to take me to the studio in a few minutes. I have to be at work for 5am and I haven’t even showered yet.
I turn on the water and start to strip, feeling adrenaline zigzagging through my body. I can’t be late.
Justin’s taken my romantic hopes away from me, the evil flappy daddy long-legs has taken my home from me – my work is just about all I have left. I’m not going to mess that up on top of everything else.
I climb into the shower, trying not to think about Justin – about myex– and my ever-so-slight overreaction to the break-up last night. It wasn’tthatbad, was it? Sure, I was a little bit upset, but who wouldn’t be a little bothered by getting dumped like that? I’m sure the diners at the next table understood if I raised my voice a little. I mean, I could’ve gonereallypostal. I wanted to flip the table and puncheveryone in the room. So what if I hid under the table for a while, eating cheesecake? Is thatsobad?
I put my face under the warm water, letting any doubt drain away along with the overpriced bodywash I bought off TikTok. I just need to get through my segment this morning – I need to focus on other people’s problems – then I’ll have the whole weekend to process this break-up; to decide what I’m going to do next. Two solid days to let go of all this anger bubbling away inside me and have a big old cry. I have the training for this very thing, for god’s sake. I’m a relationship therapist! I know exactly how to handle this break-up with appropriate poise and grace. Mindful and demure, that’s what I’m all about. Cool, calm, collected Liv Carpenter, that’s what they call me. It’s one of my many mottos. It’s who I am.
And it will aaaaaaaall be fine.
CHAPTER TWO
The weirdness starts before I’ve even arrived at theMorning Teastudio. The taxi driver – usually morose and silent at 4.30am like any sane human would be – is twitchy and watchful. I keep glancing up to see him looking at me in the rear-view mirror, looking faintly amused. I check my compact three times for errant bogies and decide he’s probably just alarmed by how exhausted I look.
Blame Justin and spindly-legged arsehole insects, I silently instruct him.
When the driver at last pulls up outside the cast and crew entrance, he grins as I thank him.
‘You’re welcome, Ms Carpenter.’ He pauses, as I inelegantly clamber across the backseat. As I go to shut the door, he adds, ‘Your nails look lovely, by the way. VeryInstagram ready.’ I laugh nervously and thank him again.
Weird.
Especially since one of them is broken and scuffed.
A member of the production staff called Maz is waiting just inside the building entrance. She’s holding a clipboard and is deep in conversation with a guy I vaguely recognise as being a breakout star – slash narcissistic villain – from a recent reality show. He’s probably one of today’s guests on the sofa. Maz glances up as I enter, surprise registering on her face. I give her a quick wave and she returns it after a moment’s hesitation, her expression confused.
The reality star looks up, clocking me. ‘It’s you!’ he says, looking excited.
‘It’s… me!’ I confirm, because how else is a person supposed to respond to that? I hear it a lot and always have to resist the urge to reply, ‘Yes, it is me because I am me. And it’s also you, and aren’t pronouns fun?’ I’m not famous-famous, but I am on TV three mornings a week – Wednesday through Friday – handing out relationship advice to the country’s broken-hearted women. People do get like this from time to time. Although, I note with interest, this twenty-something bronzed triangle isn’t my usual type of fan. They tend to be shy young betas who’ve been shat on from a great height by everyone for most of their lives. Often by men like this one, actually.
