by Sophie White
Ali posted the video to her Stories and headed for the kitchen.
2
Liv was eating toast and frantically highlighting her notes when Ali slumped into the cramped kitchen. It was a heavily linoed space. Liv’s granny had apparently liked her orange faux-tile lino so much she’d not only covered the floor and backsplash with it but also the chair seats.
‘Morning.’ Liv paused her highlighting to take Ali in. ‘Can I just say this,’ she indicated Ali’s RuPaul’s Drag Race levels of make-up, ‘is somewhat at odds with this.’ She waved the same hand over Ali’s grotty PJs.
‘Yeah, well.’ Ali laughed. ‘You should see what I’m up against. They all look demented.’
Liv was still watching her and Ali suddenly felt conscious of the state of her pyjamas and her unwashed hair. When had she last washed it? Dry shampoo was a wonderful thing but you could become overly reliant. The pyjamas were white cotton, or at least they had been until relatively recently. Now, however, there was a yellowish tinge to them and several ominous-looking marks of indeterminate origin and one unmistakable stain. Curry sauce. Ali shifted slightly and tried to twist the stained cuff out of view.
‘Ali, eating curry chips in bed …’ Liv ventured, her tone deliberately light ‘… is probably a sign you’re hitting rock bottom.’
Ali laughed and smoothed her hair, then, noticing her hand, which was practically two-tone, the consequences of a mildly drunken fake tan application, she crossed her arms, hiding the offending hand from Liv’s scrutiny. There should be a warning on fake tan – something like ‘don’t tan when tipsy’.
‘Don’t be crazy, I’m grand. I’m better than grand, I’m great.’
‘Are you really, Ali?’ Liv looked concerned and she was doing her ‘real-talk voice’. ‘You’ve gone deep into this stuff lately. Fake tan and things. And, like, I can understand you wanting a distraction with everything with your dad …’
‘Liv.’ Ali cut across her, smiling a little too hard – she found it tough to cope with people bringing up Miles. Just the week before, she’d run into Marcus, her dad’s old business partner, in the street near where their restaurant used to be – two years ago Mini and Marcus sold Frederick’s, formerly a Dublin institution, and it had been converted into an artisanal coffee roasters. Just seeing Marcus, a person she so closely associated with her dad, had caused the now familiar unease to erupt in her belly.
‘Gosh, Ali,’ he’d begun falteringly, ‘you look so like him.’ Ali could feel the pressure behind her eyes then and she’d felt like running. Sometimes being faced with the sadness of Miles’s vast circle of friends and acquaintances was worse than being faced with Miles himself and the horror of his decline. Even with Liv, she hardly spoke about him anymore; it was easier to pretend that nothing was wrong.
Ali tried to shrug the thoughts away. ‘I love you, Liv, and I’m fine. I’m just having breakfast!’
‘OK, OK. I just don’t get why you’re so in thrall to the tiger people. You slag them but you’re also morphing into them – you see that, right?’
Ali reminded herself not to get so defensive. Liv just didn’t get the Insta thing. It was a bit of an out from all this trouble with Miles and it was hardly hurting anyone. It was true that teenage Ali had been vehemently opposed to fake tan, but people change. What’s a bit of fake tan and filler these days? She was hardly lying about anything important – it was just what it took to even be in the running among these girls.
Ali pulled a dark slate tray from the cupboard above the microwave and set it down on top of Liv’s notes.
‘Hey!’
‘Shhh, I won’t be a sec.’ Ali clicked on the camera on her phone and began arranging rose-gold cutlery, a mason jar of some kind of oat concoction that she had made god knows how long ago and a few stems of dried lavender on the tray. ‘I don’t slag them, and I’m not morphing! It’s a game, just a fun game. Insta is a viable career now. People make the jump from Insta to TV and modelling and all kinds of things these days.’
Ali grabbed a bag of spinach from the fridge, blended a few handfuls with water in the Nutribullet and decanted it into another glass jar, then added a red-and-white striped straw from her stash in the cupboard.
‘How are you going to get from Instagram to writing, Ali?’ Liv asked.
Ignoring her, Ali carefully lined up the shot and snapped about fourteen pics. Liv observed, silently sipping her coffee, until Ali had finished and then she burst out laughing.
‘For fuck! Will you please make a fresh oat thing for tomorrow? I don’t wanna know what’s growing in here.’ Liv gingerly examined the greying concoction. ‘Surely that doesn’t look good in the pics.’
‘I can fix the colour in post.’ Ali shrugged as she tossed the green ‘juice’ down the sink, while tweaking and captioning her post:
Wednesday power proats and a green juice for NAILING this day. Hope everyone is feeling as excited as I am for the coming week. I’ve got some amazing #secretprojects in the works and loads of #werk to get through before the #Glossies launch party tomorrow night
#getyougurl #healthyaf #proteinpow #proteinpowered #DiscoverUnder10K #DublinIger #IrishInfluencers
Ali hit Post, chucked the phone on the table and returned the tray and various accoutrements to the cupboard. As Liv smoothed her notes, Ali casually nicked her coffee and finished the cup. ‘I’ll make more.’ She laughed at Liv’s outraged face. ‘So what’s on the agenda today? Any chance of a lift to coffee with Mini? She’s down at something in the RHA Gallery and I said I’d come in on my way. I can’t be arsed bringing the car – there’s never any parking at work.’ No need to tell Liv that last night’s wine was probably a bigger problem than the lack of spaces. Ali filled the kettle and began assembling her customary breakfast concoction (stale croissant stolen from the work canteen, stuffed with a few slices of cheese, crushed flat and squashed into the toaster).
Liv glared pointedly at the breakfast ritual. ‘This is why we nail through toasters,’ she remarked, accepting the new coffee Ali proffered with elaborate mock deference. ‘You’re such a messer. And, yes, I will drive you in the complete opposite direction to where I’m going because that is the dynamic that has emerged in this friendship. I’m leaving in five, though.’ She started gathering her stuff as Ali began the daily process of extracting the molten hot croissant complete with lava-like melted cheese out of the toaster, burning herself in the process.
‘Every day.’ Liv shook her head, laughing.
‘It’s hotter than the fucking surface of the sun,’ yelped Ali as she finally managed to transport it (stringing cheese still attached to the toaster) to a plate. ‘Right, meet you in the car, two minutes.’
In the car, Ali fiddled with the heat. ‘Bloody freezing. Why can’t we just make a global decision about January – just axe it altogether, something like that?’ she muttered, then noticed Liv’s glum face. ‘Is it getting to you too?’
‘I’ve got the thesis-adviser meeting,’ said Liv as she merged lanes and joined the early-morning traffic heading south across the river. She drew in a breath and continued in a doom-laden tone, ‘With Emer, like.’
‘Oooh.’ Ali bit her lower lip. ‘Is that gonna be …?’
‘Insanely awkward? Fuck, yes, it is.’ Liv gripped the wheel tightly. ‘We haven’t spoken or texted since the whole Solpadeine incident.’
‘Riiight,’ said Ali. ‘I’m so sorry, darl. I still feel like that was all my fault.’ Ali had, after all, had the wine already open when Liv had arrived home from a disastrous party at Emer Breen’s house. The fifty-something Emer was an eminent member of the sociology faculty in DCU and was ‘the spit of Connie Britton’ according to Liv, who immediately fell for her. They began dating around Halloween but in secret as Emer was very concerned about appearances and had only recently divorced from her wife, also on the faculty. Liv didn’t mind them being low-key but then Emer had barely contacted Liv over the Christmas holidays and at this party, a week earli
er, Emer had pretty much ignored her and then ended things when Liv cornered her in the utility room.
‘No, no,’ Liv continued her lament. ‘I’m twenty-five years old, I should have known it wasn’t a good idea to mix Solpadeine and wine.’
‘Yeah, I’d say it’s a pretty significant red flag to be, like, actually dissolving it in the wine,’ said Ali, remembering trying to get the phone off a very sloppy Liv in their living room.
‘Why did I tell her I loved her?’ Liv moaned.
Ali felt helpless. At the next set of lights, she pulled Liv into a hug, patting her head. Liv kept her shiny dark hair cropped short and partially shaved on one side. It suited her dark skin and liquid eyes. Liv’s mum was Indian, which Ali’d envied as long as they’d been friends – Liv was gorgeous.
As Liv drove on, Ali remembered the dipshits in their year who’d put on a ridiculous Apu from The Simpsons accent whenever she’d raised her hand in class. It was probably because they all fancied her but it wasn’t easy being made to feel different, especially as a teenager. Liv once came in with her mehndi still on her hands after a cousin’s wedding and Simon Verdon had said horrible, ignorant things about Liv being dirty. Ali had always been quick with vicious put-downs, which shut them up, and Liv was far too proud to show how much it got to her.
That was the Liv–Ali dynamic all over, really. Ali could always be relied on for an emotional outburst and the ever-restrained Liv would hold back, reserving action until after she’d made about a million pro–con lists. This was why it felt strange to Ali to be consoling Liv about something stupid she’d done herself – it was usually the other way around. Though it wasn’t stupid to fall in love – it was Emer Breen’s fault for screwing around with her student and then freaking out and back-tracking.
‘It’d be bad enough just sitting in a room with her after I sent her that WhatsApp recording of the St Vincent song we used to love.’ Liv flinched at the memory. ‘But it’s gonna be an even bigger shitshow because the first chapters of my thesis are due in three months and I’m supposed to finalise the title today. You know, the thesis title that I haven’t even nailed the wording of. So maybe just murder-suicide us both right now, please.’
This had been a plan B between Ali and Liv ever since they’d first sat beside each other in Ms Devally’s form room on the first day of First Year and Ali had dropped a tampon which Liv, in her haste to pick it up, accidentally kicked into the middle aisle of the class.
‘Oh Jesus, you can just murder-suicide us right now,’ she’d muttered to Ali, who had unexpectedly broken into peals of laughter. Then Ali had sauntered casually right out in front of Sam Waters and Dave Keeling, the hottest guys (though admittedly they were thirteen at the time) in class 1DY, and retrieved the glowing white bastion of teenage embarrassment as the whole room watched in varying states of disgust, disbelief and, in Liv’s case, pure unadulterated awe.
‘I would genuinely be happier with a death pact than having coffee with Mini right now,’ Ali sighed as Liv pulled up around the corner from the gallery and put the handbrake on. ‘Look, you didn’t do anything wrong, Liv.’ Ali turned to hold her friend’s gaze. ‘Emer is the one who should be embarrassed. And she’s crazy to let a young hot bitch like yourself get away.’
Liv tried to laugh. ‘You better go – Mini will be waiting.’ Like clockwork, Ali’s phone roared to life with ‘Mini Calling’.
Ali grabbed her bag and hopped out of the car.
‘If you come across an idea for a sociology thesis title on your travels, send it my way,’ called Liv as she pulled away from the kerb.
The phone was still ringing. I’m two fucking minutes away, thought Ali, but when there was no let-up, she finally hit the green key and Mini Riordan’s forceful voice burst forth, per usual already mid-flow.
Mini didn’t really do conversational preambles – she preferred launching straight into the third or fourth sentence in any given conversation. ‘Hi,’ another person might attempt to open with, but Mini would already be miles down the conversational road, bitching about some idiot journo who’d gotten an artist’s name wrong or some such. It had a destabilising effect on whoever was on the receiving end. Ali suspected this was precisely Mini’s intention, as it meant keeping everyone on the back foot – most especially her one and only daughter.
‘I’ve got to get to my next appointment by 9 a.m., Alessandra, and I cannot—’
‘I am literally walking through the doors,’ Ali shouted over her, startling the older man behind the coat desk. ‘And I’m not even late yet!’ she added.
‘Well, I appreciate that,’ Mini replied. ‘It was more of an anticipatory “where are you”, I suppose! I’m down by the counter. Please hurry on now – we need to discuss a few developments.’
3
Shelly Devine was trying to stifle a giggle as she filmed a video of her husband sleeping, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets in their huge bed. He moaned lightly and turned over as Shelly hopped up to get a better angle.
‘What are you doing?’ he muttered groggily.
‘Oooohh, someone didn’t get home till late last night …’ said Shelly, narrating her video.
‘What the fuck! Take me off your fucking Instagram,’ Dan roared, realising what she was doing.
‘Relax – it’s a video on the internet.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s our lives all over the internet.’ He’d turned away, pulling the sheet around him. ‘I really am getting tired of the whole SHELLY thing. It’s embarrassing. You’re embarrassing me and you’re embarrassing yourself.’
‘Dan!’ Shelly didn’t know what to say. She was just trying to be playful, to get a bit of fun back into the equation. Though, truthfully, her social media analyst, Amy, had told her to include more of her husband on her Insta. (‘The plebs like the whole hot-husband thing so try and do more stuff with Dan in it, especially topless Dan,’ Amy’d advised, obviously thinking of the poolside snap of Dan in Speedos that had garnered 13K likes the previous summer.)
Dan rolled back over, checked the time on his own phone, got up and started getting ready. ‘I handle huge deals all day in work – how can I expect people to take me seriously when my wife is filming me doing funny noises for Georgie or trying to fix the dishwasher?’
‘Don’t be silly – no one is thinking about it like that,’ Shelly said soothingly and reached out to him, her gorgeous Mr Devine.
‘And I fucking hate that “Mr Devine” bullshit. You sound pathetic. If anyone knew the absolute BS you and Amy cook up in your “office” while I’m paying a full-time fucking babysitter for Georgie, making up a fake Instagram account for me so that I can leave sycophantic comments on your pictures, ugh.’ He shook his head. ‘How many followers does @DivineMrDevine have now?’ he asked stonily.
‘It’s 53,000,’ said Shelly quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘You’re doing some sponsored content with Toyota at the moment. Don’t call me pathetic, please.’
Dan looked down at his wife and his face appeared to soften slightly but he looked detached. ‘You’ve changed so much, Shel. When I married you, you wanted to be a serious actress. You had real ambitions. I can’t even believe that you take this shit seriously.’ He indicated the phone, clutched as always in her right hand.
‘Screw you, Dan.’ Shelly formed the words quietly but confidently. ‘You’re a snob – this just offends your Malahide sensibilities. I’m having fun with this and I enjoy it. And my followers need me. I get messages every day from the women I’m inspiring and empowering.’
At this, Dan did the worst possible thing: he laughed. He walked all the way out of the room laughing and that hurt. How had it gotten to this point? They used to be good together, didn’t they?
Shelly returned to the kitchen, her stomach roiling. She’d already been up at 6.30 quietly puking in their en suite, running the taps so Dan wouldn’t hear.
She posted the first video of Dan to her account just as Amy breezed in, breakfast roll in
hand. The smell was like an assault on Shelly’s already sensitive gag reflex and she immediately leaned forward and threw up in the kitchen sink (Belfast, naturally – it would have cost a fortune but she’d agreed a few #spon posts of Baby Georgie having her bath in it and the sink people had fallen over themselves to give it to her).
‘Eh, gross.’ Amy was clearly less than impressed with her boss’s gastric greeting.
‘Sorry,’ came a slightly echoing response – Shelly was still head-in-sink waiting to make sure there wasn’t any more to come. ‘I’m just feeling a bit sick.’
‘Yeah, I’m getting that,’ replied Amy, who had hoisted herself up on one of the high stools around the marble-topped peninsula (‘Nobody gets islands anymore – it’s all about the peninsula now – they’re so much more … London!’ as Shelly had enthused on her house-tour video commentary) and was surveying her boss impassively.
‘What?’ Shelly wiped her mouth and spoke carefully, still uncertain if she was finished puking. She saw her assistant’s pretty green eyes widen.
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ Amy said emphatically as she held up her hand. ‘You’ve been skipping your run lately. And you ate a pastry-based canapé at the Great Lengths Hair Extensions dinner the other night.’
Shelly knew she’d never stood a chance hiding it from her but, even for Amy, this was a fast rumble. She leaned in for another vom just as Amy gasped, ‘O-M-fucking-G, are you up the pole?’
Shelly had hired Amy two years before. She was a gifted manipulator of the various vagaries and whims of the Instagram algorithms. Shelly had created a good foundation when she began Instagramming just after Georgie was born, but by the time the little girl had turned one, the SHELLY brand had become a micro industry and more than she could manage by herself. Amy was also a far better strategist. Whereas Shelly had essentially stumbled into this strange new breed of success, Amy knew how to play the game, and since her arrival reach, engagement, opportunities and profit had grown exponentially. She was, however, not even remotely on-brand herself.