Page 25

‘I threw it away,’ I said, feeling a cold sweat trickle down my arse crack. I couldn’t concentrate.

She froze. ‘You what?’

‘Yeah, I panicked!’

‘Harri,’ she said carefully, ‘that phone could’ve paid off your mum’s mortgage. Well, if she had one. It could have bought her council house! That phone was custom-made by Swarovski! Weren’t you, like, selected to post it?’

‘Yeah, me and Mrs Hinch,’ I said. ‘Fuck, I guess I wasn’t thinking,’ I admitted.

She shook her head. ‘At least you could’ve taken it up the Barras instead of chucking it. That’s just disrespectful.’

I reached for both her hands. ‘Claire, you can’t tell anyone I’m here.’

She shrugged. ‘Obviously. But you can’t stay here forever – this is just sad. You are so much better than this place.’

‘What’s Instagram like?’ I asked.

‘Oh, same. Hashtag #WheresHarriette is trending. Also, I’m pretty sure Kim Kardashian put it on her story.’

‘She does follow me.’ I sighed heavily, shaking my head at the strangeness of it all. ‘I’m just not ready to sit down with Rupert,’ I said. ‘He’s completely humiliated me. But the worst part is I don’t know who I’m meant to be anymore.’ I laughed, sharp and bitter. ‘The perfect wife. So perfect I couldn’t stop him fucking my assistant. I’m a laughing stock. He’s made me into a viral joke!’

‘No! He’s the fucking laughing stock,’ Claire said, shaking her head animatedly. ‘Not you. Like, why would he give you up? You’re literally perfect.’ She paused, squinting at me. ‘OK, maybe not right now. You’ve gone and done a full Britney with the hair. A bob. Really? But still . . . It will grow.’

I laughed despite myself.

She tilted her head, looking at me with those thoughtful eyes of hers. ‘Maybe,’ she said slowly, ‘you should be the perfect wife to someone who actually appreciates it?’

My face fell. The very last thing I wanted to think about right now was another man. ‘No. I just need time,’ I said. ‘Time to process, to get my head straight. Then I’ll deal with all of this properly.’ I pushed back my shoulders, not sure if I was convincing Claire or myself.

‘Whatever! OK, so—’ she said briskly, shifting a gear and now pointing at my hands. ‘Nails. BIAB or acrylic?’ She leaned in, squinting. ‘They’re a bit outgrown, but honestly? You’ve got good shit on them.’

She wasn’t wrong. Rupert and I had a manicure every other Saturday at a salon in London. Watching Claire rummage through her wee portable kit – scratched, stained and clearly held together by sheer grit – really hammered home how different my life was now.

‘BIAB’s fine,’ I said.

‘I could add a wee nail art design, maybe a Christmas tree? Or a snowman. Get you ready for the big man coming down the chimney?’

‘No way.’ I shook my head. ‘A French polish is enough for me,’ I replied, really not wanting a constant reminder of Christmas every time I lifted my hands. My brain was still replaying the TikTok hunt for missing-in-action me like a Netflix trailer.

Claire started filing, nodding towards my blue-nosed bear. ‘I remember you letting me hug him when my mum didn’t come home from the pub that night to watch a film with us, like she said she would.’

I smiled briefly. Sharon had always been ambitious with her promises.

‘Lucy Williams got me him,’ I said.

‘Aye. Saw her the other week,’ Claire said, still filing. ‘Walked past me with two wee kids.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said, thinking of my old best friend. At one point, we’d been inseparable. She was the one person who never judged me for what my dad did. ‘We lost touch years ago.’

Claire stopped filing and stared at me. ‘You lost touch with everyone,’ she said. ‘My mum would say you’d forgotten your old arse. But I get it. I liked watching your videos. Your big fancy life. At least someone from here finally made it.’

That one landed heavier than I think she meant it to. A brief silence settled between us.

‘My dad was proper rude to your mum today,’ I said, breaking into a grin. ‘Like absolutely brutal.’

Claire snorted. ‘Was he slagging her weight? She says she’s on Mounjaro, but I’ve never seen the woman eat more kebabs.’

We collapsed into quiet laughter, whispering and giggling like teenagers so my parents wouldn’t hear.