by Anna Bell
I almost choke on my tea. I remember Roger Davenport all right. I went to school with him and I used to chat to him sometimes because I thought he was funny. It wasn’t until years later that I learnt that Roger had told all his friends that he and his fingers had got very friendly with me one night at a party.
‘I remember him,’ I say through gritted teeth. I’d love to give him a piece of my mind.
‘Apparently he’s single, recently divorced, has a nice big house just outside Basingstoke. He runs a call centre.’
She’s not exactly selling him to me.
‘I’m not really interested in meeting anyone at the moment.’
Dad shakes his head at Mum.
‘So it’s OK for you to give our daughter life advice, and not me?’ she snaps at him.
There’s an edge to her voice that I haven’t heard before.
‘I’m trying to get her to fulfil her potential at work by moving on to a better job, not to get her a boyfriend so she stays in the area.’
‘That’s not what I was doing,’ says Mum, pursing her lips.
‘Of course it was.’
‘Hey, hey,’ I say, thinking that I can’t keep up with of all the fighting on the ice, let alone having to keep up with it off it, too. ‘Look, I’m fine, really. I’m happy being single and the Instagram account is going well. I’m getting sent free products and I’m really close to getting a paid deal.’
My stomach sinks as I think of the email I got last month but I’ve got to stay positive – there are plenty of other companies that are looking for micro-influencers like me. Plus I’m off to hear the wisdom of Small Bubbles next week and I’m hoping that I’m going to become instant BFFs so that we can rule Instagram, or at the very least she offers a little nugget of advice that’ll make my follower numbers rocket up.
Our team scores and the player who scored does a speedy lap round the ice to cheers and whistles.
‘I just don’t get why you do all the funny phone stuff and you won’t go back to an agency,’ says Dad.
‘But I’m on the cusp of getting paid for it. This way, I’ll get to run my own business.’
Mum and Dad exchange a sceptical look and I’m pleased that they’re at least united in something, even if it is that they think I’ve lost the plot.
‘Some influencers make a lot of money and they do it as a full-time job.’
‘I just think you should give Ned a call. I bet he’d be pleased to hear from you,’ says Dad.
‘And Roger’s mum gave me his number, just in case you wanted it.’ Mum passes me a piece of paper.
I take it, only because now I can send Roger an abusive text whilst drunk telling him where he can shove his fingers. And spoiler alert: it wouldn’t be anywhere near me.
Mum smiles like it’s a victory and I almost wonder if I should go out with Roger as it’s so nice to see her looking happy.
A player slams into the wall before falling back and hitting the ice. ‘Holy shit,’ I say. ‘This is brutal.’
‘We’ve not even made it through the first period yet,’ says Dad, laughing. ‘More chocolate?’
‘Always,’ I say, needing a sugar hit.
I thought this evening would be stressful because of the charity connection to Ben, but I hadn’t factored in my parents trying to meddle in my life, the underlying tension that’s appeared in their marriage or all the fisticuffs on the ice; my nerves are practically shot. If only I could make my Instagram career take off and then my parents would have one less thing to worry about. It would show them that my life’s not such a disaster after all.
Chapter 5
If Marissa doesn’t get a move on we’re going to be late for the Small Bubbles event. I hastily dial her number and scan the street whilst it’s ringing, hoping that I’ll see her hurrying along to meet me.
‘Hey, don’t kill me,’ she says as she answers. My stomach sinks. Nothing good can possibly follow that phrase. ‘But I was at a Bumps and Burpees class this morning and I pulled a calf muscle and I can’t put any weight on it.’
I knew those baby classes were a bad idea.
‘Is the baby OK?’ I ask in concern.
‘The baby is fine seeing as she’s nowhere near my calf,’ Marissa says, laughing. ‘Tim was the same, he wanted to take me to A&E as a precaution. Could you imagine, A&E on a Saturday morning when all the football and rugby injuries are piling in? I’d be there forever.’
‘Well, as long as the baby is fine, that’s the main thing.’
‘Yes, and the calf will heal apparently, might take a bit longer with the weight of the bump. Are you already there?’
‘Uh-huh,’ I say, looking up at the imposing hotel front, wondering if I’m brave enough to go in by myself.
‘Take a selfie with Lara for me! I wanna hear all about it when you get home.’
‘Of course,’ I say, feeling nervous. ‘I hope you get on OK your end.’
‘Don’t worry about me; Tim’s waiting on me and I’ve got the Amazon Fire Stick controller. Speak to you later,’ she says, hanging up.
I’m not usually one to mind going places on my own; I often go to the cinema and I’ve been to local Ted X talks, but it’s not every day I get to go to a masterclass with Lara McPherson, aka Small Bubbles, aka the Queen of Instagram, where there is massive potential for me to totally fangirl. If Marissa was here she’d keep me in check and make sure I didn’t do anything stupid to jeopardise the future where Lara and I become BFFs.
I still can’t believe I managed to get tickets to the event in the first place; they were limited and sold out within minutes. I’m guessing that we’ll get loads of one-on-one time to talk and for me to make a good impression.
I head towards the revolving door and my phone beeps. I look down whilst walking and smack into someone.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, holding up my phone as a way of apology.
The man I bumped into holds up his too and laughs.
‘I guess it’s inevitable, right? You come to an Insta-event and everyone’s walking with their heads down, looking at their phones.’ He smiles, and his teeth sparkle with their perfect whiteness.
Hang on. I’d recognise that quiff anywhere.
‘Oh wait, it’s you,’ I say, amused.
His eyes light up and he smacks his lips together.
‘You know me?’ he says in a Joey Tribbiani voice, his eyebrows raised.
‘I do,’ I confirm.
He gestures for me to walk in front of him through the revolving door. He’s giving me such a deranged look that I’ll quite happily go inside where there are people rather than be left outside on the street here alone with him.
‘Thanks,’ I say, stepping forward.
‘I can’t believe this has happened. I hoped it would but it’s totally unexpected,’ he says, following me, his hand clutched over his chest like he’s giving an Oscars acceptance speech.
‘Because we’re both here?’ I ask. I always find it weird bumping into colleagues outside of work; I seem to forget they have actual lives too, but if I’d really thought about it I should have guessed Luke and his selfie stick would be here.
‘I just never thought I’d get recognised in real life!’ Luke says, still gushing.
‘What? Oh,’ I say as the penny drops. Now it’s awkward. He thinks that I know him from Instagram, which is slightly offensive that he doesn’t remember who I am at all.
‘Do you want a selfie with me?’ he says, leaning in closer.
‘Have you got a big stick?’ I say, unable to resist.
A smile breaks out over his face and he pulls out his telescopic selfie stick from his trouser pocket.
‘I never leave home without it,’ he says with a wink.
‘Perfect,’ I say as he slots the phone into the stick. ‘Has anyone ever told you you look like Channing Tatum?’
He looks at me again and does the stomach ripple move. ‘All the time.’
He holds the stick out and leans into me.
‘Shall we do “Blue Steel” pouts?’ I say.
His arm drops and he turns to look at me, narrowing his eyes.
‘We’ve met, haven’t we?’ he says, lowering the stick and taking his phone off.
‘Yes, we met in the stairwell at McKinley’s a few weeks ago.’
His face falls.
‘You look different.’
‘More make-up.’
He nods his head. ‘You look good. So are you looking forward to this?’
He smiles at me as if there’s been no misunderstanding. How does he do that? I’d have been mortified and would have been halfway back to the train station by now. But there’s no hint of redness in his cheeks or flash of embarrassment in his eyes.
‘I’m Luke,’ he says, holding his hand out and I shake it.
‘Izzy,’ I reply, in disbelief. He has got to be the most self-assured person I have ever met.
‘Do you think we should find where this event is, then?’ he asks, scanning the lobby.
I glance round too. There are a few people sitting on comfy-looking, egg-shaped chairs reading papers or scrolling through phones. I join the queue to speak to the receptionist, who’s busy leaning over the large desk annotating a map for some guests.
‘Ah, back there,’ Luke says, pointing to a board spelling out the name of the event. ‘There it is.’
He holds up the selfie stick and takes a few photos of himself next to the light box.
‘Would you mind?’ he asks, handing me his phone. He leans his arm over the sign and poses.
‘Of course not.’
I snap away, trying not to laugh at his pout, which could give Victoria Beckham a run for her money.
‘I guess these will be OK, for stories,’ he says, looking through, and I bite my tongue.
We make our way to the queue to get our tickets scanned at the door.
‘What kind of content do you post?’ I ask.
‘Sort of urban male lifestyle – you know fashion, city living, fitness.’
My eyes sweep over his body and a shirtless Channing Tatum with all his ripped muscles pop into my mind.
‘Do you blog as well?’ I ask, trying to get those kind of thoughts out of my head.
‘I vlog on YouTube.’
Of course he does.
Tickets checked, we step into the room and it’s not quite the intimate setting I was expecting. It’s a huge ballroom with row upon row of seating and nearly every one is filled. I’d have expected a sell-out crowd if we were in London but I hadn’t expected it in Reading. Especially when I’ve paid £65 for the privilege. Maths isn’t my strong suit but even I can work out they’ve made a killing.
‘There’s two seats together over there. Shall we?’ he says, as if it’s a given that we’re going to sit together.
‘Sure, that would be great. I was supposed to be coming with my friend but she’s pulled a muscle and she’s pregnant,’ I say, drifting off.
‘Does she Instagram too?’
‘Yes, although she can’t work out what she wants to do. First she started off with pictures of her dog Bowser, but with his tight black curls it was impossible to tell his bum from his face. So she bought a cat called Molly McMittens and her feed became cute pictures before she found out she was allergic and had to give her away. Then she got married and she focused on weddings,’ I say, taking a breath. ‘After that she did a food thing – comfort food versus unusual ingredients thing – and now she’s pregnant so it’s a baby feed.’
‘Sounds like she can’t settle into her niche. It’s hard to find your calling.’
I try hard not to laugh.
We shuffle down a row of chairs where everyone sighs loudly and squeezes in their legs as we pass. None of them make eye contact, they’re all too busy on their phones.
‘So what’s your niche?’ he asks.
‘Lifestyle with an affordable living slant to it. I felt too many of the influencers have a London bias and the clothes and accessories they feature are too expensive for normal people. So I tend to focus more on high-street brands.’
It still feels weird saying that out loud. It’s how I’m now pitching myself to brands – pretending that was always my intention when I started my blog and my Instagram account, when really I’d started going for cheaper products because I couldn’t afford the designer price tags.
‘How many followers have you got?’
‘Just over 15,000,’ I say a little proudly.
‘Nice,’ he says, ‘I’ve got 18,000.’
Of course he has more. He holds his phone above his head and snaps a selfie without flinching in embarrassment like I would.
‘I’m working on ways to get it higher,’ he says. ‘I want to reach 30k by Christmas.’
‘That’s ambitious,’ I say, shocked. That’s a huge undertaking.
‘I’m hoping Small Bubbles will help.’
‘That’s why I’m here too,’ I say, pretending that it’s not to try and make Lara my new BFF.
‘So do you get much free stuff?’ he asks, taking photos of the room.
‘I get a few clothes, mainly from smaller companies, homeware like candles and photo frames and beauty products. I have enough mascaras to last me a lifetime.’
‘I see you make good use of it,’ he says, laughing for the first time.
I feel a little stupid that I put on extra make-up today like I would for my Insta photoshoots, in the unlikely event that Lara might have seen my feed and recognise me.
‘I once read this article about Claudia Winkleman where she said that she’s almost unrecognisable without her eye make-up and I thought it was a good idea, you know, so that I can go out incognito without being hounded when I become a mega influencer.’
‘Important to prepare for these things. I’m the opposite though. I want to be recognised wherever I go.’
Of course he does. I secretly like that he’s more of an Instagramwanker than I am; it means he doesn’t judge me. I remember once trying to explain my eye make-up strategy to Becca and she was not impressed.
‘What’s your Insta name?’
‘This underscore Izzy underscore Loves.’
He types, clicks and swipes.
‘I’ve followed you,’ he says, raising an eyebrow.
‘Oh right,’ I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket. I open up my app and click on the hearts to see that Lukeatmealways has just followed me.
‘Luke at Meal Ways? Where’s Meal Ways?’
He doesn’t look impressed.
‘It’s Luke at Me Always,’ he says with added emphasis.
‘Oh, right,’ I say, wondering if he could be more vain.
I turn my attention back to my phone. I’ve already mentally pictured what his content will look like. Moody photos of him and his smouldering good looks against beautiful backdrops. I tap ‘follow’, feeling smug as I scroll through his photos – I was right. I have to hand it to him, though; it’s a beautifully curated feed.
There’s a sudden ripple of excitement in the audience as the lights start to dim and music starts to play out through the speakers.
‘I guess this is what we’ve been waiting for,’ whispers Luke.
I give him a smile and sit on my sweaty hands as I’m beginning to have palpitations. I’m sure Luke would like to think it’s because he got so close that his aftershave worked its pheromonal magic, but it’s actually because Lara has just glided onto stage. She strikes poses to the beats of the music until it dies down. Everyone whoops and claps and there are camera flashes everywhere. I watch Lara basking in the attention. She’s lapping it up like this is what she was made for.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ she says when the adoration dies down and she steps up to the podium. ‘Now, who’s ready to become an influencer?’
The whole audience raises their hands. I sit up a little straighter just in case she’s going to pluck one of us out of the audience to make our dream come true.
‘Well, you’re not the on
ly ones. There are over 23 million Instagram users in the UK alone and one billion worldwide. Not everyone is going to become an influencer, and it’s certainly not going to happen overnight. It’ll take hard work, time and perseverance. But that’s how I did it – and now I have over 6 million followers.’
She pauses, and there’s an applause that she laps up again.
‘So, let me take you on the journey of how I became Small Bubbles…’
‘Wow,’ I say as the lights go up.
Luke nods next to me. ‘That was quite a show.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
I’m even more in love with my idol now than when I came in. And given the amount of time I spend watching her on Instagram stories, I didn’t think that was possible. I might not have the blueprints to Instagram stardom like I’d hoped but I do feel enthused that it is possible to go from zero to hero.
We stand up and we head towards the aisle.
‘So are you going to queue up for a selfie?’ he asks.
I look at the line already gathering down the aisle. Lara’s standing in front of a table, leaning against it and the first audience member goes up and beams away with her as she has her photo taken.
‘Well, I thought I might as well, as I’m here. You know, it might boost my followers.’ I try and keep my voice casual as if I hadn’t given it much thought.
‘Me too,’ he replies nodding, and we make our way over to the queue.
‘So have you been working at McKinley’s long?’ I ask as we shuffle slowly forward.
‘About six months, I was an estate agent before.’
I know I shouldn’t stereotype but he lives up to it, being over-confident, over-styled and over-aftershaved.
‘I bet you were good at that.’
‘Absolutely, I was so good I could have sold an igloo to an eskimo.’
‘Yet you still left?’
‘The sales weren’t fast enough,’ he says, shrugging. ‘How about you?’
‘I’ve been there two years. It was only supposed to be a stop-gap.’
‘Isn’t that what everyone says? But let me guess, the dream is to become an influencer, quit your job and live happily ever after.’
‘Pretty much,’ I say, nodding. I’ve always known it was a ridiculous dream but seeing a whole ballroom of people trying to do it too has really hammered that point home.