Page 53 of Mad About You

Lorna held her phone up and Harriet inspected Scott’s profile photo – him and Leeds’ answer to Reese Witherspoon. They were in bowler hats, holding handlebar moustaches on sticks up against their upper lips, at some fancy-dress party or wedding photobooth.

‘Yup, that’s her.’

Nevertheless, the larky image gave Harriet a moment’s doubt. What if theywerehappy? She told herself: were the photographs online of you and Scott representative of any private truth? If they’re happy, Scott can spend an unpleasant evening owning up to his past, and they’ll move on. If nothing in the letter rings a bell for her, it’ll have hugely diminished impact.

Lorna frowned and did some more tapping. ‘Let’s see how much Marianne has set public …’

‘Remember not to accidentally Like anything,’ Harriet said, nervously.

‘I’m not going to accidentally Like anything, I am not a nana … Oh you are IN LUCK. Or completely unlucky, depending on the wisdom of your barmpot plan to contact her. She’s a senior stylist at Estilo. That new salon up on that side street by Waterstones, isn’t it?’

‘I think so … Roxy will know.’

‘I guess you book in for a style consultation and say, never mind choppy layers to create a sense of movement, your boy’s a cunt?’

They both laughed, and then Lorna’s face fell to deadpan.

‘Seriously though, I still think this is mad.’

‘You know what’s most likely to happen? Absolutely nothing.’

‘Believe it when I don’t see it.’

24

You know what’s most likely to happen? Absolutely nothing.

Ya reckon, babe? Fuck around and find out, drawled a phantom Scott Dyer.

Harriet was clinging to her own words, as she stared into the cocoa-powder dusted heart on her cappuccino in Waterstones café. They rang increasingly hollow. After all her pugnacity with Lorna, on the brink of going through with this, she was doubtful.

Harriet was reminded of a tactic of her grandparents, when she harangued them relentlessly to get her way – there was nothing so humbling as getting her way.

She’d told Lorna it wasn’t revenge, but perhaps that wasn’t the case. She hated Scott with a force she’d never known. It was his denial of responsibility that was so hard to stomach. You could forgive many things, if the person looked you in the eye and said sorry. Scott’s refusal to acknowledge his damage, his arrogance, and most of all, his way of placing the blame and shame back on her: it was enraging, it was disgusting. It was so deeply unjust. It made her feel like she was in one of those nightmares where you scream and no sound comesout. Harriet never had her day in court, metaphorically or otherwise. He got the last word. More people believed his version than even knew hers.

Yes, she was angry. She hated him so much it was practically cardio. Harriet wasn’t over it. Without seeing Scott again, she could live in the patched-up, halfway house of her imagination, where he was suffering in some way. Seeing him swaggering around tore it all open again.

Harriet looked at the envelope in her hand with ‘Marianne’ written on it, and the haphazard Sellotape on the back. If Marianne slung it on a shelf while she finished her working day, Harriet didn’t want it drifting open, pages falling out, having the whole team at Estilo passing instalments round on their afternoon break. ‘Give me the bit you’ve got, I think she’s broken up with him in mine.’

But such notions of modesty and privacy were ridiculous, Harriet knew, like the doctor who’s been inside you up to the elbow leaving the room while you put your clothes back on. Harriet was throwing herself on the mercy of a total stranger, who could do with this information whatever she wished.

Of course, if she chose to use it against Harriet, she’d also be indicting Scott. Harriet had weighed up Marianne publishing it to the world, on some platform, and thought it wasn’t for her to fear the abasement of the contents. If Marianne did that, so be it. Harriet would stand by it.

She accepted she wasn’t going to drink this now-tepid coffee, pocketed the envelope, got up and walked, drenched in trepidation, to Estilo.Argh, what if Scott had come to meether or something, and she bumped into both of them? Then she’d be going to book a haircut. That’s right. How would she know where Marianne worked, after all?

Harriet wrenched open the heavy glass door with the name etched in cursive font, and inhaled the aroma of a salon. Scented mousse and serums were carried on the warm wind of a half a dozen hairdryers and the standard loud RnB was playing.

‘Is Marianne working today?’ Harriet asked the woman with a mop of Pop Art sapphire-blue curls at reception.

‘She’s with a client right now. Do you have an appointment?’

‘No. I wanted a quick word …’ Harriet tailed off, tense with having no better way to phrase it. The woman blinked at her, while chewing gum.

‘She’s with a client, she’s doing a colour. She won’t be done for forty-five minutes,’ she looked up at the clock. ‘Come back then?’

‘What is it?’ said a voice to their right, and Harriet saw Marianne from the wedding, without the make-up or the heels. She looked much younger and smaller, bulldog hair clips attached to the arm of her t-shirt and a paddle brush in one hand.

Harriet was momentarily speechless.

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