Bloody wine. I never would have slipped up, if it hadn’t been for wine.
Is it a big enough thing, I think, the us?
Scarlett is sharp. But Scarlett is distracted lately, weighed down, more and more broken. I think of her face when she left the playdate the other day, haunted, hunted.
I delete the message straight away, hope for the best and walk through my silent, empty house to find more wine.
But then, flopping back down onto my sofa with a topped-up glass, I think. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing if she knows. Maybe this is where this is going, inevitably. Maybe I subconsciously wrote the us because I want her to know.
That wasn’t what I wanted at first. I just wanted to watch from afar as she was ruined; as she fell apart.
But now he has ended things, the goalposts have moved.
I can’t take it, him going back to her.
Not when I have lost him.
I start picking up toys from the floor but I need an outlet; a punchbag and I throw them one at a time at the wall. Some break, some begin playing songs that could drive you insane, even on a good day.
This isn’t a good day. I can’t imagine having a good day again. I need more.
I stagger back to the kitchen for more wine.
I need to stand face to face with Scarlett, and tell her what she has done to me.
And then I need to make sure she never goes near him again. Is incapable of going near him again. Ruin her.
I lie there on my sofa and fantastise about telling her.
It was me, Scarlett, it was me.
Gobbling up her shock. Watching her shrink, shrink, right down in front of me. Who’s the alpha now, Scarlett, who’s the alpha now?