And yet, I haven’t told them about this thing that consumes me.
About the sex tape that almost everyone in my life was sent just over a few weeks ago.
I saw it, first, in the boardroom at work on my first day back from maternity leave.
The film played, bad quality from a second in time just before the world was viewed through flattering filters and cute effects.
I stared at the screen.
A woman; two men.
My ex, Ollie.
A friend of a friend of ours, Mitch.
The woman: unmistakably me, albeit a different me.
In that room in central Manchester, I looked down at myself: cobalt blue midi, large diamond on my ring finger, nails painted carefully in two layers of black. In the mirror opposite, long legs crossed, bright white trainers. The resting bitch face I’m told intimidates people. Big brown eyes, hard eyes.
I looked back at the screen.
The me on there wasn’t the one that commuted in from the countryside with bags under her eyes. Not the one that buys gender-neutral, organic brands for her baby girl. Not the one who puts the broadsheets in the recycling bin and runs 10k for fun at the weekends.
But the old one.
Party Scarlett, who if she by some miracle had money in her bank account, spent it all on drugs. Harder drugs, more drugs. Party Scarlett didn’t feel fear; there was nothing to be scared for.
Party Scarlett flitted between jobs in pubs and got sacked for not turning up. She spent summers working in clubs in Ibiza. She slept all day and eye-rolled about fidelity and marriage and people who had sensible jobs because none of that was fun. She stayed out later than you, partied harder than you, was more, more, more than you, but felt less than you really, so much less.
The Scarlett I had tried so hard over the years to bury.
I glance again now at my friends, alternating between analysis of Cora’s affair and the placating of their babies.
That Scarlett, they have never known.
And they never would have.
Except that now, that Scarlett has been exhumed.
I don’t know why or by who but I know something: bringing old Scarlett back from the dead like this is about to smash my carefully curated world apart.
1
Scarlett
Before
4 May
Fourth of May, Pay Day, my husband Ed and I have nicknamed it. Today is my first day back at work after almost a year of maternity leave and the day our finances, even if they’re still less stretched than most people’s, stop taking the battering of being one salary down.
Leaving my eleven-month-old daughter will be torture; not having to ask my husband for pocket money won’t be.
This morning I have been awake since 5 a.m., fuelled by worry and newness and the running through of which items are going in which of Poppy’s bags like I am on an excruciatingly dull quiz show.
At five thirty Poppy joins me, sitting in her highchair and grinning with her new top teeth on show as I spoon-feed her Weetabix. I feel my stomach lurch. She slaps her lips together for a kiss and I lean in, coating my face in slobbery cereal mush.
‘Love you, Pops,’ I tell her. I wipe my mouth though. It’s still gross, even with the love.
As I carry on feeding her breakfast, we listen to Noughties dance mixes like we always do when we’re alone and Poppy shrieks with delight at the familiarity of ‘Lola’s Theme’. I am too tired to dance, but I smile at her as she tries to and I’m glad that she loves it like I love it. The beat has always soothed me. It’s even helping a little this morning.
‘Right,’ I mutter, to Poppy or maybe just to myself. ‘What next?’
This process of breakfast takes fifty-five long minutes, during which one person poos (not me, as if I have time for such luxuries) and I pay an overdue payment for Poppy’s sensory class and order new baby sleeping bags.
As Poppy gums on a banana, I take out the pile of washing that’s in the machine, hang it up and put on a load of baby vests. I try to have a conversation with my daughter as I walk around the kitchen because I read that that was crucial for speech development, even if she responds with babble. I pronounce my g’s when I do it, in a way that isn’t natural for me and my Manchester accent but in a way I am determined to do because I want better for Poppy, more.
I dash back to my phone on the table to chase up the date for Poppy’s one-year check then I walk around the room trying to identify a weird smell I eventually place as tuna in the food bin.
‘Shit,’ I mutter, as I drip bin juice on the floor taking out the bag, then keep my fingers crossed that swearing doesn’t count towards speech development.
I open the front door, do a quick scan then Usain Bolt it to the outside bin in my dressing gown. As I mop the bin juice up back in the kitchen, I hear the shower turn on upstairs.
‘Take your time, Ed,’ I mutter, about my husband who is just getting up when I am on task number 345 of the day.
I think about how I’m about to leave my funny, bright Poppy all day with the childminder and feel like I can’t breathe. I think about remembering how to do my job, and feel similar.
Turning the radio volume down and flicking over to Radio 4, I switch the day to Ed mode. Ed can’t bear dance music and I gave up trying to persuade him otherwise long ago.
The radio presenter informs me that it is 6.45. I look up from the mop as though she has personally offended me.
Now I am in a panic that I will be late, which is ridiculous, since I have been up since 5 a.m.
I calculate.
To get to the childminder then the station and be at my desk in central Manchester on time from my home in Sowerton, our small village in Cheshire, even if the normally fuckupable train line fucks up, I need to leave the house at 7.05 a.m.
Right.
Okay.
Twenty minutes. That’s doable.
‘Morning, darling,’ says Ed, walking into the kitchen. He kisses my head then pours out coffee from the pot I’ve made for him. He holds it up. ‘Thanks for this.’
He takes a gulp.
‘Fourth of May, Pay Day.’ He smiles.
‘Don’t talk to me about it,’ I snap. ‘I’m too nervous.’
I look over at my own coffee – made far earlier – that sits uncupped by human hand and chilly on the kitchen table.
I have been waiting for the holy grail of a window when it is hot enough to comfort but cool enough not to burn my child, causing social services to take her away and my life to be lived under a cloud of horror and guilt. It’s a difficult balance to nail. There’s no time to drink it now.
I glance at the clock.
6.50.
Oh God.
I still need to shower, whack some eyeliner on – the rest I can do on the train, but my eyeliner requires a proper mirror especially when I am out of practice at looking like a human existing in the real world – and get dressed.
I shove Poppy at Ed, pause, then come back for an extra kiss and crazy mum smell of her head.
‘Don’t drink that coffee while she’s near you,’ I shout, flying upstairs into the bathroom. ‘And have you seen my coat?’
Ten minutes later I am back downstairs and shouting. ‘You must have moved it!’
‘Calm down a second,’ says Ed, putting a hand on my arm from where he sits at the kitchen table drinking his second coffee as I pass.
I stand still.