Oh, we all know about the thing with Joseph, after that night. The ongoing flirtation. The blurring of the boundaries. The fact that Scarlett fancies him, and him her, and her marriage – I allow myself a moment of congratulations here, as I am almost solely responsible – seems done anyway.
It makes me angry though, how greedy she is.
Because it reminds me of how all this started in the first place.
Of how, most likely, she doesn’t even want that man we are both sleeping with. When I do, so desperately.
And the morals! So superior and judgemental to everybody else but then all it takes is a few vodka slammers to send her to lock-ins with the local hipster.
But Scarlett is, always, obsessed with men wanting her. With everyone actually, being interested in her, and impressed by her, and coveting her things and envying that beautiful face and clicking on her blog.
How can model-like Ed not be enough for you? How can you want more?
Often I am speaking and I glance at Scarlett and see her, staring past me across the room to see if anything else is going on, who else is there. I get it, Scarlett. You are too good for me. Making do.
That makes me feel so stupid that it pinches.
The worst thing is that she thinks we are all so oblivious. That we don’t realise her head is elsewhere. That instead we are just so grateful to have a fancy new friend like Scarlett that we’ll take whatever she wants to throw our way.
Except, she isn’t that fancy, not really.
Po-faced and pristine sometimes, but then very quickly she becomes drunk and vulgar, swearing like she is in an eighteen movie with lots of guns and not much plot.
At least I know who I am, even if it’s someone you often scoff at, Scarlett.
Do you know who you are really: the blogger, the city girl, the high-flyer, the country mum with her wellies on, the loyal wife, the hot flirt, with your working-class accent when it suits and your clipped one when it doesn’t?
No. Didn’t think so.
Your friend. How could I be your friend, when you’ve committed the ultimate betrayal towards me, and then sit with me, looking me in the eye and never speaking of it?
And when I think of it like that, I don’t feel bad about what I did at all. Or about what I am about to do to up, up, up the ante.