We fall silent because I don’t know that I agree with her. I can make excuses for him covering the job initially, I can just about understand him not telling me, I can even accept him taking the full-time position. But the fact is, he wouldn’t have done any of it if his feelings for me were stronger than his ambition. He wants success more than he wants me.
I think about how I came on so strong both times we kissed. I made all the moves. It seems clear enough now that I was doing all the running. Maybe he liked me a little – enough for a couple of really great kisses – but not enough to overcome all of the other life stuff. Not enough to choose me.
And after a year of half-hearted crap from Justin, I know now that I deserve someone who would always pick me, over and over.
It’s time to put all of this behind me. All of this questionable bullshit, all the job drama, all the Justin stuff, all my confusing feelings for Edward – all of it.
I lie back down on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
‘It’s been such a mad few months, Sam, such a strange summer,’ I whisper into the semi-darkness. ‘So much has happened; my whole world got turned upside down. I think I just need to focus on me for a while. It’s time to move onwith my life and forget about all of the craziness I’ve been through. I’m done bringing the drama and making space for men who don’t deserve it – on and offline.’ I give her a sad smile. ‘So, I’m done. It’s going to be all about me from here on out. It’s the Liv Show now.’
Beside me, Sam nods. ‘Good for you.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The first week of the rest of my life flies by. I have my meeting with the domestic violence charity, and it is beyond eye opening in a horrible and soul crushing way. A nice woman named Harriet takes me around the centre and talks me through some devastating stories and statistics. I get introduced to a couple of women staying there and they tell me survival stories that put everything I’ve been through over the last couple of months in the kind of perspective no one ever really wants or needs, goddammit. I feel ashamed. But also invigorated. I realise immediately that I’mdesperateto work here. I want to work here, with these women, more than anything. I want to help them. I feel excited about doing something properly important and useful for the first time in a really long time. Sure, I loved working onMorning Tea, but this is on another level. It feels like exactly what I should be doing.
Harriet says I can start the following Monday. There is even talk of funding in the works that could enable them to create a full-time paid position for me in the near future. Outside in the cool, summer sunshine, I skip along, my steps light. I feel myself smiling at strangers as they pass, then find a bench to sit down on. For a moment, I close my eyes, turning my face up to the sun and letting its rays perform some magic. I let it heal me.
Then I feel a little silly and re-open my eyes, hoping no one saw me trying to be spiritual.
I pull out my phone to scan through my emails, making mental notes to follow up on a couple of enquiries I’ve sent out. I’ve been researching nearby therapists and am hoping to set up some meetings with a few to see who the best fit would be. I’m determined to keep working on my mental health. Without Edward. Obviously.
I haven’t heard anything from him. Not a word. Not a text, not a WhatsApp, not an email, not even a bloody video on Instagram. Nothing.
It’s what I expected, to be honest, but it still hurts. More than it should.
But I’m about to email him. Along with Jamal, Fran and Arshiya – the whole therapy collective – and I know it’s long overdue. I take a deep breath and type out the message. I’m giving them notice for my office space. I’ll pay up for another month and then they’ll have to find someone else to take over. It’s the right thing to do and I probably should’ve done it months ago when I first got internet famous. ButI was too caught up in my own stuff at the time to worry too much about the impact my notoriety was having on my team. Either way, I’m not practising privately anymore, and I can’t afford to keep renting the room – not without my TV work. So, the issue has been forced. I gulp, thinking about how much worse off I’m about to make myself as I embark on this volunteer work. But I have a feeling it’ll be worth it.
The reply-alls come in quickly from Fran, Jamal and Arshiya. They’re very kind and sad, telling me they will miss me, it won’t be the same, and insisting I must continue attending the regular dinners.
Edward is last to respond to the group. He sends me his best wishes for the future.
I stand up, the sun not feeling so bloody healing anymore.
Best wishes for the future. Did he really just write that?
I head straight to a kickboxing class and pummel out the fury I feel, deep in my belly. The punchbag is Edward’s face and those words drive my fists.Best wishes for the future. Has anyone ever said anything so vile to another human being?Best wishes for the future. Ugh, what a piece of work.
As I leave the gym, sweaty and spent, Fabian tries to call me again. My poor, beleaguered agent has been trying to get hold of me for weeks now.
Riding high on the adrenaline of kicking stuff a lot, I finally give in and answer.
‘Will you – for the love of fuck – learn to fucking call me back once in a while?’ Fabian rages before I can even say hello.
‘Sorry Fabian,’ I say, not really feeling one bit of it.
‘Why are you ignoring my emails about the book, sugar lump?’ he demands, and I sigh.
‘Because I don’t want to go into the publishers’ office just to have an awkward conversation. I’ve had far too many of them recently. I’m spent, sorry Fabian. I’m trying not to put myself into shitty situations that make me feel rubbish anymore.’
‘You owe them money,’ he says sharply, and my stomach flips. ‘If we have any hope of them not asking for the whole advance back, we need to meet with them face-to-face and play nice. Maybe they can be talked around aboutOrange Flags. Or maybe just persuaded not to be arseholes about it. Youowethem.’
The fear of this stabs through my bravado. My savings are getting dangerously thin, and I’ve already seriously contemplated selling my car – an indulgent unnecessity bought with myMorning Teamoney – to buy me some peace of mind. If I have to return that money, I won’t be able to embark on this volunteer work for the centre. And I suddenly really, really need to do it. I can’t let all those people down. We have to talk the editor around. ‘Okay, fine,’ I concede, adding with some sincerity, ‘Sorry.’ I take a deep breath. ‘When do they want to meet?’
‘Can you do this afternoon?’
I check my watch. ‘Are you serious?’
