I take a deep, wholesome breath, trying to steady the thump-thump-thump in my chest.
See how helpful metacognition is?
Spencer takes a deep breath of his own and I steel myself for his words. I know what’s coming.
‘I don’t want to fire you,’ he says at last, and it is so unexpected that I can’t understand the words. It’s a jumble of mess that sounds like he’s…notsacking me? He sighs heavily and continues, ‘Not yet anyway. The viewers really like you. So do people here.’ He turns his computer away from me while I stare at the back of the monitor, still seeing my wild, furious expression as I scream at Justin for not proposing. Like a mad-woman version of the bright sun seared into the back of my eyelids.
I stare down at my lap. The humiliation doesn’t just burn, it’s molten lava in my chest, making its way into my lungs and on throughout my whole body. Red, hot, liquid shame.
But I’m not fired?
Spencer begins speaking again and I try so hard to listen; to take in his words. ‘We’re going to give it a few days – you’re obviously not going on air today – and we’ll issue a public apology on your behalf. And then, if this has all blown over by Wednesday, we’ll get you back to your regular schedule.’ I breathe out heavily and he hastily adds, ‘If!If, Liv! If it hasn’t blown over – if people don’t move on to the next big humiliating thing,’—I wince at his words—‘then we’ll have to…revisitthis.’ He gives me a second to take all of this in, looking at me with an expression I’ve never seen from himbefore: pity. ‘Get one of the assistants to book you a car back home, okay? Get some rest. You look terrible.’
So much for Jools’ hard work. Although, to be fair, she didn’t get to my eyebrows, and I feel like my eyebrows do a lot of heavy lifting for my face.
I wander out of Spencer’s office in a daze, my mind racing. I pass a few familiar faces in the corridor, and they all look away awkwardly. I feel my way to one of the bathrooms and just make it into a cubicle before I sink to the tiled floor, my head in my hands.
I sit there for a few minutes, everything spinning around me.
And then I look at my phone.
I stare at the screen. It looks ten thousand miles away and I briefly wonder if I’m having a panic attack. My fingers look tiny and delicate holding the device, as I swipe it open. Part of me hopes Face ID won’t work, but it clicks open. Just about every app is lit up with notifications. Multiple notifications. Multiple messages. I ignore them all and open TikTok instead.
Shakily, I search ‘tiramisu girl’ and there it is. The video. There are hundreds more likes and comments now, though it’s only been a couple of minutes since I left Spencer’s office. I scroll through people’s opinions, my horror increasing with every LOL and every unimaginative millennial calling me a Karen. I let the video auto play over and over, until it doesn’t feel like it’s me anymore.
I put my phone face down in my lap for a second and try to rationalise.
Okay, so maybe this isn’t that bad. I haven’t lost my job, after all. Maybe this will end up being a funny story I tell my kids.
I think of Justin again – has he seen this? Sure, he saw it happen in real life, but has he seenthis?
In my lap, my phone vibrates and I turn it over. The video disappears, replaced by caller ID. It’s Samira. I want to sob at the sight of her name and quickly hit answer, bringing my phone to my ear. It’s not even 6am, she must’ve just woken up – but she sounds alert and worried.
‘Liv?’
The sound of my own name, said by a person I know loves me and cares, is enough to push me over the edge. I start crying, tears rolling down my cheeks as she shushes me nicely. ‘Babe, it’s okay, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.’
‘You’ve seen it?’ I ask through sobs.
‘Yeah. Like, fourteen people have already sent it to me this morning.’
‘Fantastic,’ I say sourly.
‘Why didn’t you say anything earlier?’ she asks. ‘In the bathroom this morning?’
I shrug helplessly. ‘I hadn’t seen it! I didn’t see it until my twat-head boss pulled me into his office and showed it to me. Everyone was acting weird, and I didn’t know why. I thought my taxi driver just really liked my nails.’
I can hear her shake her head. ‘No, I mean the break-up, dude. You didn’t tell me about Justin – that he’d… ended things.’
‘That prick can sod off and die,’ I bark, the anger rushing back in. ‘He’s stolen my thirties from me.’
‘You’re only thirty-one,’ she points out, then something occurs to her. ‘Wait, you said your boss called you in? You mean boy child Spencer himself? Are you in trouble? They’re not…?’
‘I think it’s going to be all right,’ I breathe out. ‘He says as long as the internet moves on and this all quickly blows over, my job is safe.’
‘Well, shit, that’s almost halfway decent of him.’ Sam sounds relieved. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to kick you out of the flat for being an unemployed layabout.’
‘Me too,’ I laugh.
