I could have sworn I muted the video.
‘Hopefully this will show Paige and stupid Sara what I’m capable of,’ my voice begins. ‘They think I’m here because I have “no ambition”, because I don’t “work in a bank” or “run a PR firm” as if the corporate world is the be-all and end-all metric for success. I have dreams too! I want towrite, I want totravel, I want tolive, but it’s not that easy, is it? Especially on our salary!’
I bite my lip and look to Sara, who purses hers back at me.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I only meant . . .’
She lifts her free hand to hush me, tilting her phone higher as Jane and I continue to natter on.
‘“Get a real job! Go on a date! Stop using Tom as an excuse!”’ My voice is high-pitched and nasally as I mimic my sisters.
My cringe grows tenfold as we listen.
I could haveswornI muted it. I wouldn’t have forgotten, surely?
‘Have they ever considered that Tom is not an excuse, but a very real reason?’ video-me continues. ‘I don’t miss him like that, or at all if I’m honest. But Iamworried that the sex with whoever I meet next will be just as bad as it was with him. What then? I will be forced to conclude that I’m the problem and not Tom.’
I want to burrow into the ground as I listen to us break into raucous laughter at my crude remark. My eyes drill into the flooring.
‘How many views?’ I ask.
‘2.3 million,’ Sara says coldly. ‘And counting.’
I sink into the nearest dining chair as the conversation devolves into more and more filth. We get into sexual preferences – intense, detailed accounts and a four-minute straight rant about dating apps. The longer it plays, the more I find myself attempting to hide my face in shame. Sara says nothing and does nothing, except nab one of her papers from below my elbow as I melt into the table.
Eventually the conversation comes to an abrupt halt, mid-sentence, and I glance up to see if Sara’s decided to pull me from my misery. It doesn’t seem to be the case, given that her hand’s nowhere near her phone.
‘That’s where you reach the end of your coffee clip,’ she says. ‘Your fans are on there begging for you to upload part two.’
I stare back at her sheepishly. ‘I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean what I said.’
She raises her hand again dismissively. ‘Don’t want to hear it. Honestly, I’d say that part is theleastof your worries. Did you hear the rest?’
I nod sombrely. ‘I’ll delete it.’
She shakes her head. ‘There’s no point. Multiple tabloids have already reposted it to their socials.’
My spine straightens as she shows me.
‘Surely that’s illegal?’
She shrugs lightly. ‘Probably, but you know they don’t care.’
The comments on their pages don’t seem to be quite as kind, based on what I see as I risk a quick scroll through.
‘This is awful,’ I say, horrified.
I flick back to my own comment section in the hopes that people are a little nicer over there. It’s a mixed bag – some think I’m funny and spout truth, others think I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown. So many users claim I need therapy, half have diagnosed me with various ailments, and a few have gone straight below the belt and dissed my looks in a lot of detail. I run my hand through my messy knot of bed hair and take a deep, frustrated breath. Sara catches my expression and immediately swaps her irritation for pity, scooching her chair over and grabbing my hand.
‘It’s notthatbad. The majority think you’re super relatable and they’re sharing their own worst date stories in the comments. Paige thinks it’s hilarious.’ She rolls her eyes.
‘You’ve spoken to Paige?’ I ask.
‘She rang me the second she saw it. Has she not messaged you?’
I scroll through my messages, trying to scan past the barrage of rogue chats. Everyone I’ve ever known seems to have remembered my existence, from old colleagues to cousins to people from primary school. But there she is.
PAIGE:You are an icon.
