‘Sometimes it is hot,’ I mutter, thinking of every single one of my favourite smut books.
‘Aaaand,’ Jools’ face gets thunderous. ‘We’ve got men around us who pretend to be allies, and then vote for men who would rather let us bleed out in a car park than have any ownership over our own bodies.’
‘That is depressing,’ I point out after a moment of silence. ‘This whole conversation is depressing.’
‘Either way, Liv,’ Sam says, brightening, ‘you deserve someone who thinks you’re brilliant. Not a person who merely tolerates your existence because you improve theirs.’
‘And on that note.’ Jools stands up from the floor. ‘I desperately need some more coffee. Do you have options somewhere in this building? Even instant would do.’
I nod back out towards the corridor. ‘There’s a machine in the staff lounge at the end of the hall. She heads out and I consider her words. Why would I choose to date someone – for over a year! – who didn’t like me?
I turn to Sam, who is doodling in one of my notepads. ‘Do you think it’s because my parents always seemed to dislike me? They barely tolerated my existence so then I thought that was normal?’ I sigh as she reaches for my arm, nicely. ‘I should probably stop blaming my parents for everything wrong in my life.’
‘They can take it!’ she says. ‘And, if it’s any consolation, I’m betting they didn’t really like themselves either.’ She turns to look me in the eye. ‘Plus, they didn’t even know you, so they don’t get to like or dislike you. I know you inside out and I think you are excellent. I like you a lot.’
I well up a bit. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ I tell her sincerely, then sigh. ‘There was a point back there when I really thought Edward liked me for me, too.’
‘I think he did,’ she says. ‘Honestly! Look, I’m not saying kissing him was a sensible choice, and I’m definitely not encouraging any repeat behaviour’—she raises an eyebrow—‘because that would be me falling back into bad habits and giving you bad, drama-seeking advice.’ We both smile, trying not to laugh. ‘But for the record, I think the chemistry between you was insane, and if not for the therapist thing, I’d have been rooting for you two.’
Jools re-joins us from the hallway.
‘What are we talking about now?’ she asks, and I cringe.
‘Edward,’ Sam says simply.
‘Edward?’ Jools blinks and Sam fills in the blank.
‘Edward the therapist.’
‘Ahaaa.’ She nods. ‘Of course.’ She doesn’t ask for more detail and I internally wince because I haven’t actually told her about Edward. How awful that she obviously knows all the details. She knows I was sent for therapy with Edward, by Spencer. I imagine the whole production team probably knows. I’m sure they’ve been gossiping about it non-stop since I was suspended. I can’t even blame them – I’d be doing the same – but the thought fills me with dread.
With my therapy time now up, it’s crunch time at the studio. I haven’t heard from Spencer, but surely there’s still hope for my job, isn’t there? There must be. They would’ve told me by now if I was actually sacked. And didn’t Spencer say, if I completed the therapy course with Edward, then I could come back? I’ve done it. I’ve done what they asked for, they owe me a shot at returning to my slot on the sofa.
I mean,technically, I only did five and a half sessions. But that wasn’t my fault, was it? Edward’s mum got ill, so we had to stop that one.
‘Your coffee machine is out of pods’—Jools shakes her head—‘so I’m off to find a Costa to buy us all a nice latte.’ She winks. ‘You get back to Edward the therapist chat.’
‘Hold on,’ I say, scrambling to stand up. ‘We’ll come with you. We need a break, and there’s a lovely coffee shop just a few minutes away.’ I glance at Sam who also jumps upeagerly. ‘They have the best hot chocolate ever. If your body can cope with an inhuman amount of whipped cream.’
Sam nods, then grimaces. ‘Let’s just hope it’s not being frequented by any exes today.’
We both laugh at this, filling Jools in on my Orla and Justin encounter as we make our way down to the café. We join the long queue, chatting easily as we wait our turn. I consider how different I feel from the last time I was here. Standing in a queue just like this one, next to my ex and his beautiful new girlfriend. It feels like that happened to a different person.
We step forward at last to place our order and a large human-shaped frame fills my vision. It’s a tall man with a large, expensive looking coat, and he’s just shoved his stupid self in front of us, blocking our way. He’s queue hopping! Who does that in this day and age?
‘What the hell?’ Sam mutters, as Jools and I exchange furious glances.
I open my mouth and then close it again.
I’m angry. Of course I am. And it’s okay that I’m angry. It’s understandable. This man just did something rude and hostile, and he should be called out.
But I’m realising in this moment that there is a certain amount of privilege that comes with getting angry. Sure, I am entitled to be angry about someone pushing ahead of me in the queue. I am entitled to tell this guy off. My sessions with Edward have convinced me of the righteousness and usefulness of anger. Womenshouldbe angry. It’s natural and important, and we have plenty of reason to be so. In fact, I’mincreasingly convinced it is actively dangerous to our health to be suppressing it. It’s damaging us.
And yet. It is also dangerous for us to let it out.
As a woman in a world where men are the biggest threat to our survival, getting angry is a privilege not all of us can risk. I could tell this guy off and he could turn around and punch me in the face. He could kill me. If I’m lucky, maybe he would just call me a bitch.Just.
It’s risky to get angry as a woman. But it’s also risky not to.
