by Naomi Joy
The news anchor speaks again and a blown-up picture of Emelia’s face – less flattering than the ones they usually show – shines like an out-of-date mirror from the screen in front of me. I pause the image again, stare at it. Her face is thin and sunken, hairless grooves replacing the lines where her eyebrows should be.
‘This press conference, though much anticipated, is unlikely to shed any further light on the motives behind Emelia Thompson’s blog, but it is an important development nevertheless. We are yet to hear from her family and, at the moment, it’s unclear whether they’re standing by their daughter or seeking to distance themselves from the story altogether.’
Cameras fire and flash and time slows as I watch Emelia’s mother walk into the crowded press room with her head held high. She is clad in a lemon yellow skirt suit and wears a thick coat of plum coloured lipstick.
Her father follows a step behind, his eyes glued to his feet, walking in a grey suit that doesn’t fit him. He looks as though he’s been hung out in the rain and something about the way he holds himself today makes him look so old. A wave of self-loathing takes hold of me. So much for thinking I was doing the right thing by telling her story, seeking justice; I can’t believe it’s come to this.
Her mother bends down to the microphone before her.
‘My husband and I want to make a short statement this morning,’ she begins, as though addressing a school assembly.
‘Firstly, we want to thank the public for their support.’ They are deliberately distancing themselves from the police. They must be on her side. ‘And to make a plea today for anyone who has more information about Adam Long to come forward with it as soon as possible. Our daughter was not behind this blog, though a lot of her life has been documented in it. These aren’t her words, we know her, this isn’t how she speaks. If anyone, anyone at all, has anything they need to share, please make it known.’
Her hands shake slightly, but the rest of her is stock still. By Emelia’s mother’s standards, she’s surprisingly stoic.
‘At this difficult time, we won’t be taking any questions. As you can imagine, it was hard enough to deal with our daughter’s cancer diagnosis, then to hear she was accused of being behind this blog, then arrested. It’s been a lot.’
Emelia’s dad’s eyes are glassy, and I can’t keep my gaze off him as her mother speaks for them both, addressing the press as though she’s acting a scene in a crime drama. It’s different to what you’d usually hear: We just want our daughter back. Help us – we want her home.
‘Thank you for listening to our statement today.’
She looks at her hands. ‘That’s all we have to say.’
Flashes strobe the room and I watch her exhale, a weight lifting from her shoulders. I sit back against the divan base of the double bed in the room and try to steady my breath. I am running out of time to save her.
I scramble from my position on the floor, decision made. I cannot just let Emelia rot in a cell somewhere. If she’s going down then I want to go down with her. I dial 999. Is that what you’re supposed to do in this kind of scenario?
‘What’s your emergency?’ the operator asks.
‘I have information about the Emelia Thompson case that I want to share.’
‘Hold please.’
I click my fingers by my side as I’m transferred, probably to some lowly junior who’s going to screen my call, make sure I’m not mental, that I’m not faking it.
‘Hello?’ a man’s voice asks on the other end of the line.
‘Hi, I’m Holly Madison. I’m an ex-partner of Adam Long’s and I want to come out publicly against him in support of Emelia Thompson. He poisoned me, he tried to kill me. She’s not lying. She shouldn’t be in prison right now – she’s done nothing wrong.’
Stunned silence at the end of the line, then a click, probably homing in on my location.
‘Holly?’ he asks. ‘Can you come down to the station to give this report in person?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, as he gives me the address.
I know that if I don’t, they will find me anyway and, besides, I am ready to help.
I am the only one who can save her.
11
Holly
Skyscrapers roll into view through the train carriage windows and the blue sky of London invites me in and welcomes me back.
The city is sticky, the tube crowded as I board, and my head is forced beneath the underarm of a fellow passenger, clutching the railing too high for me to reach. I flit up the escalator and out onto the familiar pavements that line the way to the police station.
A few minutes later it comes into view: the station where I watched Emelia get arrested a few days ago. I look up at the enormous glass windows and imagine her cell beyond, cramped, a cardboard-thin mattress on the bed, a spoiled toilet in the corner. Poor Emelia. I charge for the front door, emboldened, and check in with the receptionist.
‘I’m Holly Madison,’ I announce, grandiosely, as though I’m expecting some sort of fanfare to accompany my arrival.
The receptionist looks at me. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘And who’s that?’
I don’t know how to respond and she stares for a while, dead faced.
‘Sit over there,’ she says finally.
I take a seat, plastic, pick at my cuticles nervously and shoot feverish glances at every officer who appears. And then, one does, and I am turned to stone as I see Adam approach alongside.
I stand quickly and push my body up against the wall, shivers snaking down my spine, fear looming large overhead. This isn’t right. I keep my eyes focused intently on him. I haven’t seen him in person for so long. He’s wearing a black polo neck which morphs into the dark of his stubble. It’s grown since I saw him on TV, bushier now. He folds his forearms across his waist and smiles knowingly at me.
My hand scrapes against the rough brick as I go to steady myself. I turn to leave. Why is he here?
I take a deep breath, cold. Ready, now, I think, to go forever. I’m sorry, Emelia, I cannot do this if he’s here.
As I get up, the sounds of the station loom larger than life and the world turns black around me. I get the unshakeable feeling that I am in danger. But, before I have a chance to run, out of nowhere, officers descend: hands grip tight round my wrists, pressure builds on the back of my neck, and my body bends as it’s wrestled to the floor. My ears ring in deafening high pitch, drowning out the noise of the commotion surrounding me. I close my eyes and try to escape from this indignity, but I can’t ignore the new hands that twist and constrict round my body, under my shoulders now, pulling me up.
This was a trap.
My chest moves as though someone’s pumping air into me and, as my breath quickens, my body turns limp. The officers either side of me grab me once more, forcing me to stand straight, holding me in place and, at that moment, through the uniforms, the limbs, and the armour, I see Emelia. Her dress blows in the breeze, her pristine white skin glowing against the greyness that surrounds her. She squints at me and peers through the glass to take a good look.
The complete calm of her expression tells me she must have known all along.
All of this was a show to sniff me out: the TV appearance, the arrest, the press conference. Everything.
She knew I would save her. She knew exactly what I would do, kept one step ahead, ensured her survival ahead of my own.
And, you know, I don’t even blame her.
I would have done the same if I were her. Sometimes I think that I am.
One Year Later
Four o’clock.
In the communal garden behind my new home, families have gathered in the winter sunshine. Playing, laughing. This time of year the garden is sparse, the trees are bare and the lawn is brown. But still they come and still they play, taking turns to slide down the faded red helter-skelter, swinging from tree ropes and jumping from climbing frame to floor. Children don’t have a care in the world; it’s why I like coming here.
Behind me, the playground gate squeaks open and I turn to see a man and his small child enter the park hand in hand. We make eye contact for a moment and he gives me a look, a nod, then a sideways smile. He draws closer, just a few paces away, and I’m about to say hello when his head recoils into his neck and he catapults a thick hunk of saliva onto my trainers.
‘Fuck off back to where you came from. We don’t want you here,’ he snarls. ‘Sick bitch.’ My face falls.
This is how my life is now, since my public unmasking, following my crucifixion-by-media. Even though Adam is going on trial for the ex-girlfriends who died in his care, what I have done has eclipsed his coverage. It wasn’t enough for me to say that I’d learnt my lesson. It wasn’t enough for me to explain that I only did what I did because I wanted Adam to pay for what he’d done. It wasn’t acceptable that I’d impersonated Emelia, an innocent woman. It wasn’t OK that I didn’t pay the money I raised via my blog to Cancer Research. But what irritated the media the most was that I wasn’t held accountable enough, by their standards at least, by the justice system. I spent a morning in court at which I was handed a two-year sentence, suspended, and a promise to complete thirty-five rehabilitation days. I also wear an electronic tag and obey a curfew, but I do not have anything – no home, no money – so they could not pursue me for the donations money and they could not order me to pay a fine. I avoided jail time based on a number of factors – first-time offence, early guilty plea, remorse, sorrow, white skin.
As a result, my public trial has been unrelenting and unforgiving and no matter where I go in this country I cannot seem to escape from myself. I’ve had windows smashed, front doors covered in obscene graffiti, my post stolen. I’ve endured numerous break-ins, back-to-back friendship failures, not to mention relationships. If I could afford to run away, I would.
I wonder how long my life will be like this for, for how long I’ll have to live in the shadows and avoid the light.
My eyes sting as I hold back the sadness and walk away from the shrieks of laughter in the park. My favourite part of the day done. My phone vibrates in my hand and I get ready to face another barrage of abuse.
‘Hi, is this Holly?’ The voice on the other end of the phone is BBC-posh and feminine.
‘Speaking,’ I croak.
‘I’m a producer at The Evening News show.’
I recoil. ‘No, I’m not speaking to anyone—’
‘It’s OK, please, Holly, this is off the record. I’m not recording this and no one will know we’ve spoken if you don’t want them to.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘I can’t tell you that,’ the lady says. ‘But listen, please hear me out. I want to make you an offer. You’ve received a lot of negative press coverage throughout the past year. I was wondering if you were interested in putting across your side of the story in your words? You haven’t done that yet. Atoning for your sins and coming out with a public apology would go a long way towards redeeming you. And, if that’s not enough, it would also come with a fifty-thousand-pound paycheque.’
I stop walking, clench my free hand at the amount she’s offering. Freedom.
‘It would be an hour of your time. That’s it.’
I can see the way out and I’m tempted. I want to take it, to trust her.
‘When would it be?’
‘As soon as you could make it… We’d pay for your expenses and everything, of course, on top of your fee.’
I latch only onto the hope she is offering me.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it.’
*
I am sitting in front of bright white lights in a hot studio wearing a black shirt and blue denim jeans. I have been loaned a pair of heels that the producers wanted me to wear. Their in-house glam squad have done my hair and make-up. I do not look like myself. I look more doll than human, but I didn’t say anything to the team because I don’t want to be accused of seeming ungrateful. The people in that room were already judging me enough as it was.
I shuffle on my seat, full of nervous energy, and I’m introduced to the woman who will interview me. She smiles and shakes my hand before we start.
‘What do you want me to call you?’ she whispers from her chair as someone counts down from ten.
I stutter. Her question throws me off – is she suggesting that I would answer to Emelia? The opening credits play, my face scrunched in confusion, thrown by her remark. I imagine what the scathing voiceover might be saying about me as I sit here shaking.
Holly Madison, the woman behind the worst fraud of the year, is sitting like a psychopathic robot in our interview studio, hands folded across her lap, eyes glazed and faux-fearful. But what will she have to say for herself one year on? What has she learnt from her deception? And has she apologised for the people she hurt? The lives she ruined?
The lights go up and my interviewer’s face turns steely as she speaks to camera. Her make-up is perfect and her hair sits in a loose bob finishing just under her strong jaw line.
‘Joining me today is infamous blogger, Holly Madison, AKA Emelia Thompson. Holly stole Emelia’s true life story – a battle against cancer and lifelong cardiac problems – and used it to dupe followers out of thousands of pounds. She tricked the world into believing her fight by posting pictures of Emelia in chemo wards without her knowledge, and even went as far as pretending to commit suicide to escape detection. So, here she is, to tell her side of the story. Welcome, Holly.’
‘Hi,’ I reply nervously.
I spot my reflection in a screen that’s playing the interview in the studio behind. My hair is scraped back from my face and I smile gently but, lit up on the screen, it looks almost clown-like. I realise then why I have been styled like this, with the intention of amplifying every expression, every nod, smile, eye-roll and eyebrow raise. I think how much Adam would hate my hair like this. I wonder if he’s watching.
‘Do you promise to tell the truth today, Holly?’
I shuffle uneasily and lean forward in my chair.
‘Yes, of course,’ I reply. And then I do something stupid. I laugh. A nervous chuckle. It is a natural instinct, a badly trained need to convince people that I’m a loveable person, that I’m not who they say I am, that I’m nice despite what I have done. So, there it is, reflected at me on the screen, no stopping it, the flash of my teeth above the headline of the story:
Fake cancer blogger comes clean.
A big, stupid smile. Like I’m proud of myself. As though I think what I’ve done is funny.
‘We know you have an interesting relationship with the truth, Holly,’ she says, eyebrow raised. ‘So that’s why I wanted to ask you that at the start of our chat.’
‘Right.’
‘Do you know the difference between telling the truth and telling a lie?’
‘Well, the truth is a fact and lies are, well, the opposite—’
She cuts over me. ‘Are you prepared to sign a legally binding form that states you are telling the truth today?’
‘If that’s what you want me to do.’
She moves on, not interested in the form, just doing it to scare me. I realise too late that the promise of a nice, sympathetic interview had been a lie. This woman is a shark.
‘Emelia Thompson was a successful character, wasn’t she? A likeable woman with a plight far more serious than your own. You managed to elicit sympathy for her from your legions of followers online over the course of several months. They trusted your story and wanted to help. Do you agree?’
I mumble an agreement.
‘What’s that, Holly. Is that a yes?’
I hold up my hands and try to take control.
‘Can you just stop for a second and slow down? I want to start from the beginning. You are starting at the end and it doesn’t make sense. People won’t realise what happened to me, why the blog came to be in the first place, why I did what I did.’
‘OK, Holly, the floor is yours… tell us.’ She parts her hands an
d waits.
‘Emelia Thompson and I, cancer diagnosis aside, are the same person. Everything that happened to Emelia, happened to me and, can I just say, I was open about Emelia not being my real name on the blog. Everyone’s angry about that but I said it, plain and simple, in the About Me section. I know it was her real name, and I feel bad about that, but everyone knew it wasn’t mine.’
The interviewer looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind and I realise that I probably shouldn’t have argued that point. Pick your battles, I say to myself.
‘Anyway, that doesn’t really matter. For months, I was trapped in a loveless and controlling relationship with Adam Long and, during that time, Adam isolated me, cut me off from my friends, my family… He poisoned me and had me sectioned.’
‘He says you were mentally ill.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
‘We have pictures, Holly, of you at his wedding day. You turned up in a white dress all cut and bleeding.’
She hands me some images of a woman I don’t recognise but who I know is me.
‘I was there to warn Emelia. I wanted her to know what he was capable of.’
‘Emelia herself says you terrorised their relationship for months, that you left threatening notes, followed her, broke into their home. She didn’t think you were trying to help her, but that you were waging a campaign to get Adam back. Each time they changed the locks, you found a way to get back in.’
‘Like I said, I wanted to warn her. That was my only intention and I’m sorry I scared Emelia. I was desperate.’
The interviewer guffaws.
‘Adam tells his side of the story differently, too.’ She turns to the camera. ‘Let’s reiterate: Adam Long is awaiting trial to decide whether he had any involvement in the suicides of his ex-partners.’