‘It’s a saying!’ she cries.
‘Serial killer’s saying,’ I mutter.
‘Yes, fine, the Yorkshire Ripper came up with that and the one about curiosity killing the cat.’
‘So you know all about bird murder sayings, but curious cats confuse you?’ I query.
‘We fill in each other’s knowledge gaps.’ She smiles mistily. ‘And either way, dead birds work for this situation.’
‘What’s my situation?’ I ask innocently. ‘I’ve forgotten.’
‘You’re in therapy,’ she reminds me. ‘And I actually think you should take it seriously. It could be really useful.’
I throw myself onto the sofa cushions, feeling resentful. ‘Since when do you give me good advice? Your whole thing is leading me astray! You’ve been getting me in trouble for decades, ever since you persuaded me to hide under the arts and craft table at nursery.’ I sigh. ‘And I don’t need “useful” – I don’t need therapy!’ I whine, hearing and hating the tone of my voice.
I can’t help it though. I know I lost my rag at the restaurant that night with Justin, but it was warranted, wasn’t it? I didn’t physically hurt any patrons; I wasn’t even particularly rude to anyone but Justin. Apart from demanding pudding. Even then, I said thank you. And now I might lose my job and all my prospects because of a momentary loss of control. That is, unless I’m willing to go back to school and re-learn everything I already know; prostrating myself before a therapist work colleague I don’t even like. A man who has a Ken doll groin bump. Not that I’m looking.
I don’t understand why any of this is happening to me. And I hate how whiny I’m being about it all. Ugh, and my internal voice is even worse.
I sigh. ‘Look, sorry, I know I’m being stubborn, it’s just…’ I wave a helpless hand. ‘Can we talk about Justin and perfect, beautiful, amazing Orla instead of therapy and bird murder?’
‘She’s not perfect!’ Sam scoffs loyally. ‘I’m not saying she’snot pretty.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘We’re not doing the depressing noughties thing where we hate on her because she’s a rival, but c’mon,no oneis perfect, Liv.’ She picks up her phone, searching for Justin’s post and re-examining the photo. ‘You know, actually, she looks like you.’
I laugh. I spent the entire journey home from my session with Edward staring at this image. Orla does not look like me.
Okay, so on a very surface level, she looks atinybit like me. We both have dark hair and dark eyes. We look like we might be about the same height beside Justin. But everything else about this woman is just… better. Her hair is cut into a modern, sassy style. It’s cute, cut short around her ears. She has thick, arched eyebrows and a light smattering of freckles across glossy, perfect skin. She has make-up on, sure, but it doesn’t look like much; a little mascara here, a dab of clear lip-gloss there. She’s smiling sweetly in the picture, but without fear. She doesn’t look nervous or anxious – just happy. Everything about this woman is all just… perfect. I reach up to my neck to find the one stray thick, coarse hair that regrows there every week. I have a reminder on my phone to tweeze it on a Wednesday morning.
This woman on the screen is who I always wanted to look like. She’s who I’d be if I had some of thatDeath Becomes Herpotion Isabella Rossellini was peddling. Or maybe a sprinkling of that magical Sundrop flower Mother Gothel was obsessed with inTangled. She’s a Disney-ified version of me.
‘What do we know about her then?’ Sam asks. ‘ThisOrla. He’s tagged her on the post. Did you look at her profile?’
I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t get service on the train.’ I pause. ‘Also, my hands were so wobbly, I was afraid I’d end up tapping the wrong thing and hearting a family Christmas photo of hers from 2016.’ I shrug. ‘She’s probably got her account on private anyway.’
‘She does not!’ Sam looks up triumphantly from her phone. ‘I’m on her profile now.’ She looks down again, then makes a face. ‘Whoa. 152,067 followers – what the fuck?’ She scans the bio. ‘Oh wow, she hosts a podcast. She interviews renowned, powerful women.’ She glances up again, looking excited. ‘Oh my god, she’s interviewed Carol Vorderman, IloveCarol Vorderman!’
‘Oh my god!’ I scream unhappily. ‘I love Carol Vorderman, too! I met her once at a network Christmas party. This is awful!’
I yank the phone from Sam’s grasp. Every photo shows Orla smiling that stunning smile, looking happy and content beside an array of fabulous women. The photos are from every angle, too, because apparently Orla doesn’t even have a good side.Allher sides are good sides. What would it be like to go through lifenottrying to trick your way onto the right-hand side whenever a picture is being taken?
‘Miserable,’ I mutter. Sam takes her phone back, tapping the screen.
‘Hmm!’ she says after a moment.
‘What?’
‘I googled her. She’s older than us,’ she comments. ‘She’s the same age as Justin – forty-two. She doesn’t look it. I wonder what skincare she uses.’
‘I knew I should’ve started using wrinkle cream in my twenties!’ I cry, then slump back into the sofa cushions. ‘You know what the worst thing is?’ I enquire after a moment. ‘She hasn’t even shared that same photo of Justin. He’s hard launched her and she doesn’t even care. She’s not bothered about sharing him or showing him off. Clearly,he’sthe one who wanted to do it. She obviously doesn’t even care if he tells the world about her or not. Imagine being that self-possessed and unbothered about someone you’re dating.’
Sam shakes her head. ‘I can’t. It’s not normal.’ She taps her phone again, then gasps.
‘No way!’ she says, and I rush to her side. ‘I’m on her Wikipedia page. Her real name isn’t Orla, though sheisIrish…’
‘Of course she is,’ I sigh.
‘But her name!’ Sam says impatiently. ‘Her real name is actually Olivia Rachel Leah Andrews. As in… ORLA.’
I look at her with pure horror. ‘She’s called… Olivia?’ I swallow, feeling fury rising up my throat. ‘She even hasmy name? She’s got my boyfriend, my dream face, the coolest job ever and even MY NAME!’ The fury bubbles over and Sam raises her eyebrows at me. I nod angrily again and again. ‘Of course! Of course she does. Ofcourse!Offuckingcourse. I should’ve known. It’s ajoke– the universe’s idea of a joke. It’s mocking me. The universe has teamed up with the world’s daddy long-legseses to laugh at me. I’m sat here with my life in tatters, while Justin moves on with a new and improved Olivia. OF COURSE HE HAS.’
