When I weep for a man who is slipping away from me, Scarlett holds on to hers. And that seems so bloody unfair.
I think she and her husband might even be getting back on track; she sent a message to the group the morning after Poppy came out of hospital saying things were good between them, that she thought they would be ok.
Greedy Scarlett, breezing around getting what she wants. Even now, after what I have done to her.
So I take matters into my own hands.
Ed’s number, I have, from a dormant NCT group chat we had set up, never used. Instead, the all-female one became the constant for questions, reassurance, pictures of your nipple up close in your baby’s mouth.
But his number comes in handy now. From my other phone of course; the pay-as-you-go one.
Hey, mate, I write, getting into my new laddish persona. What next? A chat to Ed about the footy scores? Oh wait, no. He’s a golf man. I’d need to do quite a bit of research to be up to speed on that; not my natural territory. Man to man, I thought you’d like to know that I’m sleeping with your wife.
He doesn’t reply, though I can see it has been read.
I’m kind of irritated. Craving something. Wanting to move things on.
Me again, I say, ten minutes later. If it helps you piece the dates together, we were together while you were away for work last Tuesday. She invited me round to your place.
Handily, I’m in the know on Ed’s schedules. A quick scan back through messages from Scarlett gifts an easy timetable. We share a lot of minutiae.
I nearly start to tell him things I know about his house – of course I’d spent enough time there – but stop. I don’t want Scarlett getting close to the truth by working out who has been to her house lately.
So I sit back.
Wait.
Told you I’m a lot more patient than Scarlett.