He smiles back. ‘Nothing is ever as good as it looks fromthe outside. My family has its issues too, believe me. You should see the enmeshment and parentification going on with my brother and our folks.’
I blink at this tiny bit of new insight, seeing Edward in a different light. He’s a real person, I realise again. It’s starting to sink in. He’s more than just a two-dimensional walking suit. I don’t know if I like this new development or not.
Maybe a human version of Edwardcouldhave a little crush.
I gather my things as we finish up, my head spinning. ‘Are you doing okay?’ Edward asks me nicely, and when I glance up, I can see that he has relaxed into a different mode. Edward the therapist has gone. This is just him, just Edward.
‘It’s a lot,’ I admit quietly. ‘The whole thing. There’s a lot that I need to think about.’
He nods. ‘I know. And I know thinking about it can be difficult. But I really do believe it will help you in the long run – painful as it probably feels right now. You’re a good person, Olivia, you really are—’ He stops short, like he has remembered himself. He clears his throat, turning away, then turning back. ‘And I know you don’t want to, but we really should talk aboutMorning Teaat some point soon—’
‘Not yet,’ I interrupt, shaking my head, grabbing for my coat and yanking arms into sleeves. I feel angry with myself for wearing it. The July sun is too warm for a jacket.
As I leave Edward’s office I let his words wash over me. There was somuchthere; so much we talked about.
In general, I try not to think about my parents too often, but the feelings that came up in there, in Edward’s office,prove that maybe I haven’t processed as much of my pain as I thought. As I need to. But the stomach pain has gone, and the threatening migraine has receded a little.
I reach for my phone. I’m going to do it. I’m going to belatedly take Edward’s advice. It’s too late tonotstalk poor Orla to her place of work, but I can now start as I mean to go on. I open Instagram and look up both profiles. One by one, I block first Justin’s profile, then Orla’s.
Then I hold my finger down on the social media app, and I hit the magic words. ‘Remove App’. And then I let out the biggest sigh of relief.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s possible the joy I feel – the big, heavy weight that’s been lifted from my shoulders – is just temporary, but I’ve felt like a new Liv over the last few days.
Sure, I’m still opening my phone every few minutes to automatically check Instagram, but I have – at least for now – somehow managed to not re-download it. And sure, I know deleting social media is not the whole answer to all of this. It’s not even a big part of it. I also know that once I’m back onMorning Tea, I’ll have to start interacting with viewers online again, but with everything that’s happened in the last few weeks, there’s no point denying it’s become a bad place for me. A big fat cesspool of messy toxicity, encased inside an asbestos shed painted with extra layers of lead paint.
And I think it might be a big step that I’m takinganysteps at all. Maybe a tiny bit of me is realising that these therapy sessions can’t hurt. They might even help.
Before me, Jools picks up her large sandwich, taking a bite and speaking through crumbs. ‘… and it’s obvious nobody even likes him much and the viewers keep messaging the show to say they really miss you.’ Jools grins at me from across the table and I tune back into what she’s saying. ‘And Spencer is the same little creep as always, so you’re not missing much of anything. Same old, same old.’
‘Thank you,’ I tell her, smiling gratefully. I pick up my own sandwich, inhaling the smell of tuna mayo.
‘But never mind the show, how haveyoubeen?’ she asks pointedly, peering over sparkly frames. I cock my head.
‘Better, I reckon,’ I tell her, thinking again about my last meeting with Edward.
She eyes me sternly. ‘No more following your ex and his new girlfriend around, I hope?’
My face gets hot, thinking about that face-to-face confrontation with Orla. And how much the impulse is still there to find out more. Yes, I’ve been resisting the horrible little urge, but only just.
Jools clocks my reaction and sighs. ‘It’s really bad for you, sweetheart. It’s like an addiction. You get that momentary boost, then the massive low afterwards. Then you have to go even further to get the same high. You have to stop, completely.’
‘I know, I know!’ I tell her, staring at the perfect flicks of her eyeliner behind her glasses. How much practice does that take? ‘And I’m working on it, I swear. I’ve unfollowed them both on social media.’ I say thissoproudly, but she looks a little nonplussed.
‘That’s a good start, I suppose,’ she says, nodding. Then she makes a face. ‘God, I hate being so boring. Why am I always the voice of reason?! I used to be such a shit-stirrer when I was young.’ She giggles, running a hand through her short hair. ‘But there’s something about being in your fifties… you realise how painful it all was and how sad it is that so many young people – young women – put themselves through hell. For no reason!’ I try not to focus on the joy of being called young, and instead zero in on her words. She sighs. ‘I don’t want to see you go through more pain than you have to.’
‘You’re not boring, Jools, you’resowise!’ I tell her fiercely. She’s right, I need to hear this. She can be the super ego to my id. The angel to my devil. The Dec to my Ant. The Jools to my Sam.
She nods, taking the compliment. ‘I think every woman should have an older female friend.’ She takes a sip of her water. ‘I’ve got one – Sophia, she’s in her seventies and she’s effin’ brilliant. Having her around has always done me the world of good. It’s important, I think, to understand where women have come from and what they’ve been through. To have the perspective of a different generation.’
‘Whatisyour perspective?’ I ask curiously. ‘Were things so different for you?’
‘Oh god, the nineties and noughties were a rough time to be young and working.’ She breathes deeply. ‘You had all that ladette culture telling you the only way to be a feminist was to be like a bloke – a top bloke! You had to be frontof the queue to laugh at the sexist jokes, or go, “Hoi, look at the bazookas on her!” That felt like your only option as a woman,’ she snorts, ‘oh, apart from being a glamour model, Jordan wannabe, who got your tits out for the ladz and shagged everyone in the name of female empowerment.’ She widens her eyes at me. ‘You wouldn’t believe what went on in my first TV job. Everyone getting drunk together at lunchtimes, then heading back to the office to carry on drinking. Managers snogging the female interns, bosses getting blowjobs in the dressing rooms, celebrity sex tapes casually emailed around the whole team for everyone to laugh at, female staff members objectified or treated like a joke.’ She shakes her head. ‘Of course, they would select the odd, token woman to be promoted every now and again, but then she’d have her contributions completely ignored or stolen, while the men mocked her efforts behind her back. Meanwhile, she’d have to make sure she told everyone she was different from other girls and sabotage any other women, in the vain hope men might accept her.’
I deep breathe through this, the horror of it all travelling through my veins. It wasn’t even that long ago. At last I speak. ‘Did youreallycall them bazookas?’
She grins, looking amused. ‘Yep. Norks, knockers, rack, jugs, melons. You got double points as a woman if you were willing to be disrespectful about your own body.’ She pauses. ‘Although, at least we didn’t have iPhones or social media when we were kids. I thank god for that every day. Never mind the rest of it, I hate how synchronised we allare now – our watches are all linked to the bloody internet, you know? No one ever knew the real, proper time back then and everyone’s mum kept the kitchen clock at least five minutes fast. It was nice.’
