I open the call log, noting Fabian’s number in there on five separate occasions in the last forty-eight hours. Things must be bad. He usually takes the whole of June off to summer in France, never mind working on aSunday, trying to get hold of me. I don’t give myself time to think – or listen to his voicemails – and quickly tap his name.
‘Liv?’ he answers after half a ring. ‘You absolute diva,why have you been ignoring me?’ Fabian always addresses me thusly, even when I’m not on the verge of career suicide.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him, meaning it. ‘I’ve been hiding all weekend.’
‘Darling,’ he sighs, ‘this kind of mess is exactly why you have an agent. It’s what I’m here for. It’s why I take so much of your money from you.’
‘Sorry,’ I say again pathetically. ‘I was hoping it would all die down on its own.’ I pause, feeling a tiny bit hopeful. ‘Do you think it will?’
‘Not without you doing something,’ he replies sharply, and the hope fades. ‘I spoke to that odious little man atMorning Tea– what’s his name again, darling?’
‘Ugh, Spencer,’ I supply.
‘Yes, Ugh-Spencer. He’s told me the plan.’
‘Plan?’ My stomach sinks.
‘We’re sending you to anger management.’
‘Oh, it’s anger management now, is it?’ I say hotly. ‘On Friday it was just plain old straightforward therapy.’
‘Tomato, potato,’ he says. ‘Who cares? It’s about what plays better for the public.’
‘But that’s why I can’t go, Fabian!’ I cry. ‘The public will never trust me again if they think I’m a therapist who needs therapy.’
‘Nonsense darling,’ he says, and I can picture him waving his hands about. ‘It’s relatable.’
‘I don’t need anger management, Fabian,’ I say, my voice all reedy and thin. ‘What happened in that restaurant was aone-off. An aberrance.’ I leap on an example. ‘Like, yesterday! My flatmate, Sam, said I had to stop reading internet comments and she dragged me to the cinema as a distraction. We were sandwiched right next to these horrible little teenagers, who were making out right next to us the whole way through – and I didn’t say a thing. Then they started wanking each other off –right next to us, Fabian– and I still didn’t lose my rag. I kept all my lovely, bubbly rage buried deep down inside me where it’s meant to stay. I didn’t even lose it when I realised Sam wasn’t actually watching the film. She was trying to order stuff off Temu and they wouldn’t let her check out without the ten thousand free gifts and prizes she’d ‘won’, so that had taken up the entire first half of the film. Apparently, she hadn’t even noticed the teenagers being disgusting.’ I pause but Fabian says nothing, so I continue, ‘Oh! And as we were leaving, the teenagers spotted me in the foyer and one of them screamedTiramisu Girlat me – and Istilldidn’t say anything. I just smiled and gave them a thumbs up. Even when Sam told them not to call me that and I thought she was defending me, but then she said I go byCheesecake Woman, which wasn’t funny at all. So, you see, Fabes? What happened with Justin last week was just an anomaly; it wasn’t really me. I don’t need therapy. I have an excellent,secureattachment style.’
There is more silence down the phone.
‘Fabian?’
He’s suddenly back, his breath loud down the phone. ‘Sorry sweet cheeks, I didn’t catch any of that. Michael’strying to talk to me about the new coffee machine. This is life or death stuff – we’ve been waiting months for a new one in the office – let me put you on hold.’ Fabian doesn’t know how to put anyone on hold, and for the next two minutes, I listen to him berating his boss. ‘I don’t care if the coffee machines cost a thousand pounds or fifty thousand pounds,Michael!That piece of trash isn’t even plumbed into the wall! You cannot expect me to keep refilling the water, it’sinhumane! This is why I should’ve gone to France last week after all, this is unacceptable.’
I tap my foot impatiently, wondering whether to just hang up. I don’t want to have this conversation anyway. Because I. Am. Not. Going. To. Therapy. They can’t make me, and I don’t need it.
Fabian is back. ‘Darling, I’ll call you back in five. Absolute emergency here. You wouldn’t believe the coffee machine Michael bought for the office, it’s a travesty. A war crime in pod form. I am on the verge of throwing it – and Michael – through the window.’
‘Sure,’ I sigh.
‘You better answer when I call,’ he threatens, not waiting for my reply before hanging up.
I breathe out for a second, staring at the wall, trying to gather my thoughts. I’m interrupted by a knock at the door. Edward’s face appears in the frame.
‘Have you got a minute, Olivia?’ he says formally. ‘I saw your last client leave and there doesn’t seem to be anyone waiting to see you now.’ I bite my lip and he continuesblithely. ‘I know you said you’re busy today but I just need five minutes.’
I suppress a huge sigh. I might have five minutes – I might have five hours or five days – but not for Edward. I don’t have the emotional or mental energy to sit across from someone this exhausting.
Even though Edward and I have known one another since university – and worked in adjoining offices for the past four years – we’ve never exactly been friends. He’s just not my bag. He’s too… frigid. Too cold and distant; a little sneery, like he thinks he’s better than everyone else. He walks around this building, all broad shouldered and freshly washed, with this jaw that is aggressively square. Like, there’s no need for anyone to be that square-jawed. It’s just unnecessary. There’s something grating about how together he is, too – how self-sufficient and organised, like he knows all the answers. It’s why I call him Ed, even though I know he doesn’t like it. It’s just my small, petty way of bringing him down a peg or two. An Ed or two.
For the record, he doesn’t have much time for me either. He’s always made his dislike pretty clear. I can practically hear the disdain dripping from his voice when my TV work comes up in conversation during our supervision sessions. It’s obviously not proper orworthyenough for the likes of Ed and his three-piece suits.
I hate that he’s our clinical supervisor, tracking our work and expecting us to get his – I don’t know –approvalon our sessions. Maybe that’s why I’ve been skipping out on them lately.
‘Um, my next client…’ I begin breezily but trail off. I can’t say she’s about to arrive – his office is across from mine, and there’s a good chance he’d be able to see anyone coming or going. But I can’t admit she’s cancelled on me, he’d think I’m a terrible therapist. On the other hand, I don’t want to lie and say I’ve cancelled on her, that makes me sound unprofessional. ‘Erm… my client is… she’s running late,’ I tell him.
He nods and settles into the chair across from my desk. It’s clear he’s taken this as permission to stay. Must be nice being a man. They don’t need to bother learning social cues like women do.
