‘Girls, I’m going to have to head off too,’ I say, as soon as Scarlett leaves. ‘I’m feeling rough as well. Bad noodles?’
The other girls laugh.
‘Sure, sure, the old “it was the takeaway.” Not the eighteen wines.’
In truth, my stomach has been edgy since Scarlett went. Nothing to do with noodles though, or even wine. I know she has figured something out.
She was different suddenly. Her eyes were alert, bright, and they didn’t look at us properly.
She was edgy. Not like the night before when she had danced barefoot with her hands in her own hair like she found herself irresistible, lids drooping.
I looked at her then and felt any latent guilt shift – well, it didn’t hurt you too much, did it, this video? And you clearly don’t feel bad about what you did to me. Even if you don’t realise I know about it.
She buried her hands in her hair, sang along quietly.
I stared at Scarlett in those minutes and imagined having that self-belief, imagined having that body.
I remembered seeing that body – all of it – just before I had clicked send. Watching the video again and again. Imagining the hurt it could cause. The adrenalin rush. Send. The panic. The buzz. The sense of righting a wrong. The nausea. The horror. The pride. The euphoria.
I had sat quietly that weekend we were away together in the Peak District as she posted pictures of her daughter on her blog again. Saw her smiling to herself across a room as she was self-effacing in her replies to all the hundreds of comments online that told her how pretty she is, even though she knows that, that’s why she posted it, that’s why she is always posting, posting, posting.
And in those moments, I had realised something.
The video hadn’t been enough to ruin her.
Even my messages to Ed hadn’t been enough to ruin her.
But that didn’t matter. Because there was more, Scarlett, still to come.
I drive home wondering what she knew and how.
And think about whether that means I have to speed things up. To deliver the next blow sooner than planned. Imminently.