It’s not my style, really, loitering next to wheelie bins, ducking into the shadows just along from the tomato plants and the pergola; honeysuckle rampaging over it.
That, Scarlett, is what you have driven me to.
I have been drinking more these last few weeks. Days are blending into night. At home I watch the video, over and over. Study you. Hate you.
If your intent was to break my life, then it’s worked. All I ever wanted, gone. I can’t see a way forward. Can’t see sky above me.
An existence that was grey when I started this has, as time has gone on, edged darker and darker to black.
And so, I will do the same to yours. What will hurt most, Scarlett? You have already lost your job, your reputation, your pride, your blog. But they have nothing, do they, on what you prize most. Your family. Are you fit to look after Poppy, really? A woman like you? Will you even be able to, once this has finished? Ed certainly doesn’t think so any more, not after the things I’ve told him. Where did he say he had taken her this weekend? You sure he was telling the truth, Scarlett?
Now I have nothing to risk. It is all lost. He is gone. I am smashed into pieces. And you did that, Scarlett, you.
But when I see you there, you dart in and put your key in the door faster than I can act, as my heart hammers in my chest, as I think about what I want to do to you, as I hesitate just for that second and the lock is turned, the door bolted.
But it will happen soon, Scarlett.
I think you know that too, really.
Two women. Such good friends. Such bad choices.
It has become inevitable what will happen between us two.