It’s clear he fears the wrath of Tiramisu Girl and underneath the embarrassment, it gives me a small boost to feel his terror. Until the humiliation rushes back in. I reply quickly, before I can get too sad, telling him I’m around all evening if it suits.
The second text is perhaps even more crushing and alarming. It’s from Jamal, one of my colleagues at our therapy collective. He’s reminding me of our group dinner this week. And that it’s my turn to host.
After we set up the collective four years ago, me, Jamal, Arshiya, Fran and, of course, Edward, all decided to have a semi-regular dinner to celebrate our partnership. It gives us a chance to re-bond every four or five months; to catch up socially as normal human beings, as well as chat about work and the office. We all appreciate it, but we also all need it. It sounds strange, given so much of the job is about talking to other people, but sometimes being a therapist can be a little isolating. We go off into our own individual offices and rarely interact or overlap. Our dinners have become an important tradition that gives us that chance to properly catch up. I’ve always really loved them.
But so much has changed since our last one. I’m single again. I’ve been suspended from my TV job. I’ve lost a dozen clients. And I’m infamous on TikTok in the worst possible way. Even Celeste Barber recreated my tantrum video.
Not to mention how odd it will be to have my own therapist, Edward, over to my flat for a social event. At previous dinners, we’ve barely interacted. What will we do at this one?
I can’t do it. I won’t. I’ll tell them I’m ill, they’ll understand.
I’m reaching for my phone when Sam arrives home.
‘Ugh!’ she yells, slamming the front door, ‘I hate my job.’
This is our daily routine.
‘Come and tell me all about it,’ I call out and she appears at the living room door.
‘I don’t want to,’ she pouts. ‘It’s the same list of frustrating things it always is and I’m sick of the sound of my own complaining.’ She flounces past, throwing her bag down onto the sofa, then wheeling around on me. ‘Okay, since you insist. My boss is a letchy old Eton boy who thinks I’m his PA, not a highly trained and qualified legal secretary. I hate him.’ She slumps down onto the sofa beside me. ‘Today he asked me to fetch his dry cleaning. When I told him I was working on some urgent contracts for a client, he told me to give it to one of the “other girlies”.’ Her eyes bug out as she looks over at me. ‘That’s what he refers to the female legal secretaries as –other girlies. We have plenty of men working with us, but no, he’d never ask any of them to do his chores. They can have the real work and join him on his golfing trips, while usgirliesdo the household shit and fetch office birthday cake.’
‘God, what a prick,’ I sigh.
‘He’s a narcissist,’ she shouts into the room, then tuts. ‘Actually, no, he’s not. I’ve decided that calling people a narcissist is over, it’s lost all meaning since everyone started saying it.’ Her eyes widen with emphasis. ‘It’s become such a cliché – everyone is a narcissist: exes, bosses, co-workers, overbearing parents. That curious cat who knocked over a vase. We’re all narcissists, it’s become a normal state of being.’
I nod. ‘I think maybe it’s just being a human. We’re all narcissists.’ I sit up taller. ‘And maybe being one can be good! I’ve met a hell of a lot of women over the years who coulddo with walking into a room believing they’re the star of the show and no one else matters.’
‘I try to channel that energy.’ She nods. ‘I’m the star of my movie. I’m the main character. I’m no one’s funny, sassy sidekick.’
‘Quite right,’ I say. ‘I love narcissism for you.’
She grins. ‘Although, I’ve never felt more like a side character today, what with my dick boss stealing everyone’s MC vibes. It didn’t help that I was hungover after my date last night.’ She looks outraged. ‘I only had one glass of prosecco, what’s happened to me since I turned thirty?’
I grimace. ‘Ugh, how embarrassing. Less prosecco, more amateur-secco, am I right?’ I am delighted with this joke and Sam snorts gratifyingly. I beam, then add, ‘Was the date any good though?’
‘It was…’ Sam searches for the right word. ‘… fine. She was sexy and nice, but we had nothing in common. Literally nothing.’ She shrugs. ‘The trouble is, all the men I meet want to hit it and quit it—’
‘Are we still saying that?’ I murmur but she ignores me.
‘—and all the women I go out with immediately want to move in with me after one date.’
‘Who can blame them?’ I ask, feeling pangs of jealousy, though I know she’s joking. Only one woman has ever tried to live with Sam apart from me, and to be fair, they’d been dating for six months at that point. I’m happy to report my best friend still ran a mile though, because I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Sam smirks, and I add, ‘You’re not going to move in with anyone else though, right? You’re not moving in with her or anyone else? Because you belong to me, remember?’
‘God no!’ she says, laughing. ‘She spent a full hour discussing whether marine collagen is better than bovine collagen.’
‘Ooh!’ I cry, genuinely interested, ‘And what did you decide?’
‘What we decided was that we would not be having a second glass of prosecco,’ she says solemnly.
‘Amateur-secco,’ I mutter my joke again, but it doesn’t get a laugh this time.
Sam pulls her shoes off beside me, making animal noises with the relief. ‘I think the problem with dating is that I don’t really want a partner. I’m only dating in the hopes that someone will be mega rich so I can quit working. I want to be a trad wife but without doing literally any of the wife stuff.’ She pauses. ‘Including the actual wife bit because marriage – ew. Do you know that heterosexual marriage makes women much less happy and men much more so? There’s actual research proving men suck the life out of you.’
I think of my client, Wendy, with her husband and two grown-up sons. All annoyed with her for finally finding her own life and not solely serving them. She has predictably ‘postponed’ her last few sessions with me after seeing my TikTok videos and it makes me sad. I felt like I could’ve helped her.
I reach across to squeeze Sam’s shoulder. ‘I hate that your job is so rubbish.’
