It takes me a minute to place the conversation point. It is just post-break-up; after Justin had generously told me it’s not me, it’s him. I’m shouting about my nails. My proposal-ready Shellac.
An image of this morning’s taxi driver hits me again. The words he said as I got out of the car. He complimented my nails. ‘Very Instagram ready,’ he’d said.
Oh my god. He’d seen this. That’s why he was being weird.
On the screen, they’ve zoomed in on me. I’m flouncing around the table holding a spoon, yelling at waiters. I tell Justin his boxer shorts are disgusting.
Honestly, I don’t remember it being this bad. Did I blank it out? Sure, I was upset, but this isn’t me. Is it? I don’t recognise myself at all.
I’m storming out now, screaming about Justin’s mother. The video cuts out and TikTok asks if we want to watch it again.
Oh god, no thank you, TikTok.
My eyes travel with horror across the numbers on the right-hand side. They look all wrong. Under the heart symbol, it reads 34,019. There are 2,550 comments.
No.
NO!
I realise I am crunching my phone in my palm and release it. Pain shoots through my hand and up my arm. Saliva fills my mouth. I’m going to be sick. My cheeks chipmunk and I cover my mouth as Spencer regards me with pure horror.
For a second, his repulsion grounds me and the nausea recedes. Okay, that worked. I try to find something else to focus on. To stop me from losing my mind. What would I tell a client to do in this moment?
Metacognition.
The act of thinking about my thinking. I must observe my thoughts with detachment to avoid this negative spiral of horror running away with me.
So, what am I thinking?
Basically?
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
What else?
I’m thinking that I’m screwed. That my life is over. There is a video on the internet of me being a proper mad person and thousands of people have seen it. My boss has seen it. My taxi driver had seen it. That reality star saw it. Maz at the front entrance had seen it. Clearly Jools and Andi on the beauty team had, too. I’ve been publicly humiliated – publiclyshamed. This is the end of everything. Everyone I’ve ever met or known has no doubt seen this, or will see it. Everyfriend, every ex-boyfriend, every single person I went to school with, every teacher, everyone I’ve worked with over the years; they’ve all seen me behave like this. They’ve all seen me being this awful, crazy, hysterical dumpee, screaming at a room full of people about an Italian dessert made of lady fingers. Me, a renowned relationship therapist.
I consider all the WhatsApp groups out there in the ether, all alight right now with acquaintances I’ve met across the years, all sharing this link and mocking me.
‘This psycho used to come to my coffee shop every day!! LOL! Good job I never got her order wrong!!!’
‘I snogged this girl at a balloon party when I was a uni student. Soooo glad I ghosted her!!!!’
‘I’m pretty sure I sit across from this woman on the train home, what a crazy bitch!’
Never mind all the people I actually care about seeing it and judging me.
And, oh god. All the clients I’ve ever seen or worked with will watch this and doubt everything I’ve told them. Because who would trust this awful, shrieking woman?
My head spins with the horror.
This is it. No one will ever love me again, no one will ever speak to me again, I will be a pariah in society.
I look up, making eye contact at last with Spencer. He looks grim as fuck.
And I’m clearly about to lose my job. The best job I’ve ever had. The only job I’ve ever really loved.
My life is over.
