Filter This

by Sophie White

  Ali chattered along to Miles as she unpacked the rest of her clothes. ‘The brief said “show your own unique flair”, which some Instagrammers have taken to mean “show your own unique flaps”! Anyway, I just need to do a gorge shot of my chosen outfit, and if I get picked I’ll get a wild-card entry to the Glossies’ Influencer of the Year award, which could be an amazing springboard career-wise.’ Not that Ali really knew what her career goals were anymore. She flashed on Terry’s kind expression of the day before – her script was too ‘mannered’. Ali pushed the thought away, things are depressing enough without dwelling on that. She glanced over at Miles. His eyes were staring slightly upwards and his mouth was hanging slightly open – it was a face that looked mildly mocking, which reminded her of the old Miles in a funny way. He would’ve been pretty amused by some of the more ridiculous Insta-antics.

  ‘Don’t scoff,’ Ali said with faux indignation. ‘It’s a big deal! The Glossies have the power to put an influencer on the map. It’s the launch tonight and then the wild-card nominee has two months to make their mark. Maybe even win. We could be talking tan brand ambassador, maybe a coffee-table book, cosmetic collaborations, seriously!’

  After trying a few different looks, Ali settled on a floaty midi navy dress covered in tiny stars and some perfectly battered ankle boots. She looked delicate and feminine. It wasn’t the most Insta outfit, but she reckoned the gamble might pay off – she would stand out from the crowd purely by dint of covering up a bit.

  She grabbed her phone, which was now playing Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Never Going Back Again’ – fitting, given her Stevie Nicks-inspired look.

  ‘I’ll be back – I just need to find someone to take my pic. No offence, but I’m not entirely convinced you’d manage it.’ She blew a kiss over her shoulder and slipped out the door.

  Ali headed down the corridor scouting for the right person. She passed lots of residents she recognised and then rounded the corner towards the nurses’ station. She toyed with the idea of asking one of the care team but it seemed inappropriate. Tabitha was there doing paperwork. She loved Tabitha – she was in her fifties and had three teenage sons at home in Manila and somehow, in the last two years of coming to Ailesend so often, her presence had practically become more comforting than Ali’s own mother’s.

  ‘Ali?’ Tabitha hadn’t even looked up. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yep, all good. Dad told me to tell you lunch was horrendous and he’s ready for his G&T whenever!’

  Tabitha laughed and continued with her work.

  Ali ploughed on down the custard-coloured corridor, the rubber floors squeaking underfoot, as she looked for someone closer to her own age who could be trusted with photography duties. She turned left down another corridor, which led to the courtyard with a little garden that hardly any of the residents on this ward were well enough to visit. Until about a year ago, Miles had been able to walk with help but now he was stuck in bed.

  The walls of this corridor were lined with child-like artwork that some of the more compos mentis residents had made during art therapy. The effect was weirdly reminiscent of a primary school. She often wondered if the Ailesend board was made up of sadists. Sometimes it felt like they were trying to compound the misery of the place. Her thoughts were interrupted by a feeble voice.

  ‘Help me … help me … help me.’

  Ali shivered slightly. She was outside John Mahon’s room – he was another early onset patient like her dad. Suddenly the door opened and a hassled-looking woman in her thirties rushed out, nearly colliding with Ali.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘No probs, I know the feeling.’ Ali smiled gently in what she hoped was an understanding manner but the woman’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh,’ Ali went on. ‘You know, when you’ve done your bit and then you’re all, like, “Wah, get me out of here!”’ Ali flailed a bit in an attempt to mime escaping, but the woman looked less than impressed with the insinuation that she was fleeing.

  Ali frantically started to backtrack. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that you’re dying to go – just me. Like, I love my dad but when I’m leaving I’m just so relieved, ya know?’ At this the woman’s face softened.

  ‘Sorry … I do know what you mean,’ she admitted quietly. ‘I’m Helen. I’ve just moved home from the UK. That’s my dad.’ She gestured back to the closed door. Another ‘help me’ came from within and Helen flinched. ‘The doctors say it’s a reflex – he’s not distressed. They think it’s more like a needle skipping on a record.’

  ‘Jeez,’ Ali muttered. ‘You got really unlucky in the Alzheimer’s lotto. Of all the things he could be stuck on saying.’

  ‘Yep.’ Helen sighed.

  ‘At least my dad doesn’t say anything.’ Ali laughed bleakly. ‘Imagine if they were all like, “Don’t you leave me here, you fuckin’ bitch!”’

  Ali had a habit of saying the wrong thing when she was nervous. And from the look on Helen’s face, this was the wrong thing. ‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry. When I was a kid, my mum used to say, “Some things are inside thoughts.” That was an inside thought.’

  To her surprise, Helen actually laughed a little. ‘That was the most inside thought ever! I know what you mean, though. Some days in here are just so shitty, if you didn’t laugh you’d cry. Or scream. Or throw something.’ Helen looked tired but a little more relaxed too.

  Ali smiled and frantically tried to think of how best to introduce the idea of the photograph without seeming weird. ‘Will you take my picture?’ she eventually blurted. Helen looked surprised. You need to give a reason, thought Ali. ‘For a … souvenir.’ Jesus, maybe not that reason. ‘Sorry, not a souvenir … what I mean is … my aunt sent me this dress and I want to send her a pic of me wearing it.’

  ‘O-K.’ Helen was clearly a little dubious.

  Ali edged past her towards the courtyard. ‘Maybe down here where it’s a bit brighter?’

  It was chilly in the courtyard as Ali quickly shifted an overflowing ashtray off the table and out of the way of the shot. She took out her phone and reapplied her lipstick in the screen then handed it over to Helen with a list of directions for the composition.

  ‘We really need to get all of me in shot here, and don’t be afraid to let me know if I should suck my tummy in or whatever. You tell me what’s working.’

  Ali arranged herself leaning back against the wall, one leg straight, one leg bent, revealing the thigh-high slit in the dress. She arched her back slightly and pulled her features into one of her practised pouts.

  ‘How am I looking, Helen?’ she called. ‘More leg?’

  ‘Well, maybe less, if anything. It’s for your aunt, you said?’

  ‘Don’t mind that. We need sexy but not too raunchy.’

  ‘Do we?’ asked Helen, looking baffled. She took what looked to be a couple of lacklustre snaps and stooped to gather her handbag. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I really need to be going … Eh, hope your aunt enjoys these.’

  ‘Wait, but I wasn’t ready!’ Ali glanced quickly down at the phone. The last shot was definitely not a goer – she was fixing her knickers, for fuck’s sake. She went after Helen, who had already headed back inside and was striding back up the corridor. ‘Helen, come on, just a couple more – I need to get the angles better.’

  ‘No!’ Helen wheeled around and looked reproachful. ‘Whatever this is for, I’m not into it. Frankly, it seems in bad taste posing here.’ She gestured around vaguely. ‘It’s really not the place.’ On cue, John Mahon started up again and Ali burned with embarrassment.

  ‘No, you’re right. Sorry, Helen. These are actually perfect. Gorgeous. Thanks for the help. Nice meeting you.’ She slipped past Helen and hurried back towards Miles’s room feeling Helen’s eyes on her the whole way.

  Back in her dad’s room, Ali slumped against the door. Miles hadn’t moved so much as a finger in the time she’d been gone.

  ‘Well, that was a shitshow,’ she huffed, flicking through the pics as she settled on the side of
Miles’s bed. ‘Oh god, I look like some middle-aged auntie drunk at a wedding in this one,’ she sighed, holding the phone out in Miles’s general direction. ‘It’d make you appreciate Liv. She complains about doing it but she actually makes me look good.’

  A quick search of the Glossies wild-card hashtag over on Insta threw up some of the other wannabes who’d been quick out of the gate with their entries – in the case of one poor unfortunate, so quick as to have apparently put the dress on backwards. Ali peered closer – the slinky strappy number was borderline pornographic. If this was the competition, she could probably go with the thong-extraction pic and do fine.

  A knock on the door startled Ali. ‘Yes?’ she called, chucking the phone on to the side table and grabbing Miles’s hand, attempting to look like a loving daughter. She hated being caught on the phone while visiting.

  ‘Ms Jones?’ A smiling face peered around the door. ‘It’s Dr Walsh. We met at the ward Christmas carols a few weeks ago.’

  Ali suppressed a shudder at the memory. It had been one of the more spectacularly grim afternoons in Ailesend. She had refused to put a Santa hat on Miles and after horsing into the mulled wine stormed – quite clearly completely plastered – out into the car park and cried. Not her best moment. And this greeting presented a further unsettling development – she did not remember meeting this woman.

  ‘Yep.’ Ali smiled tightly as Dr Walsh shut the door and settled herself in the chair across from Ali’s seat on the bed. ‘Great night that was. Juxtaposing crippling degenerative disease with festive cheer is always a winner.’

  If Mini had been there, Ali would have been getting a kick, but Dr Walsh just smiled vaguely and pulled a file from her bag.

  ‘So,’ she continued briskly, ‘your dad is responding really well to his treatment.’

  Ali raised an eyebrow and looked from Miles to Dr Walsh. The silence stretched on, the only sound being the grind of the pump for the air mattress Miles needed to ward off bedsores.

  ‘“Really well”?’ Ali’s words cut through the silence. ‘Is this what’s considered the clinical definition of really well?’

  Dr Walsh’s cosy smile dropped and she crossed her legs, slipping on her more businesslike veneer. ‘Ms Jones, my responsibility is to take the measures necessary to keep your father comfortable and minimise the risk of further infection. That last infection has weakened him considerably. He’s finished the last course of antibiotics and we are doing everything we can to keep him stable.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Ali muttered quietly. ‘I’ve heard this before. It’s just that … he has no life now. You wouldn’t leave a dog in this state. It’s just—’ Ali swallowed. She could feel her throat tightening as she strained not to cry – she hated to cry in front of people. Finally she got the words together. ‘It just feels so cruel,’ she finished.

  ‘I know, Ms Jones. But there’s nothing we can do. I have my responsibilities.’ Dr Walsh launched into a detailed report on how perfectly and exactly to the letter those responsibilities were being carried out. Ali nodded in all the appropriate places, trying not to give in to the urge to scream.

  The details droned on and Ali picked up her phone and started flicking before she even realised what she was doing. It was like a nervous tic. Thankfully, Dr Walsh, still talking, was leafing through her file and hadn’t noticed. Ali fumbled helplessly, trying to shut off the screen, which had frozen on the pornographic image of the strappy-dress wearer. Of course, this was the moment Dr Walsh chose to look up.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I was just checking the time … I just have a work thing on today,’ explained Ali, finally shutting it off.

  For the briefest moment, Ali toyed with asking Dr Walsh to do the pic, but one look at her disgusted face told her that would not be a good idea. All of a sudden, Ali felt a wave of defeat crash over her. It was hard enough coming here and feeding Miles and pretending he could hear her without some bitch making her feel bad for picking up her phone for two seconds.

  For the rest of the meeting Ali steadied herself and listened, even asking the odd question from Mini’s email. Finally Dr Walsh began gathering her things. Ali tentatively cleared her throat – she had one more question but it felt somehow stuck.

  ‘How long do people really stay like this?’ she asked, her eyes fixed on the floor, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. ‘How long can he live like this?’

  Dr Walsh sighed. ‘It could be weeks or months. He’s so young, maybe even years. I’m sorry, I can’t give you a better answer.’

  Ali slumped back on the edge of the bed and watched the doctor closing the door quietly behind her. One part of her felt guilty for asking that question in front of her dad, while another part insisted there was nothing of him left now. A tear hit the back of her hand and snapped her back to the present.

  She walked to the mirror on the opposite wall. No crying now, Ali. She gently wiped her eyes and took a long, slow breath. She had to look good for this pic. She stood back and considered the mirror; it was a large square full-length one. Maybe it would do? She could draw the curtains; they were a simple sheer fabric that would diffuse the light quite nicely. Her eyes came to rest on the figure in the bed. The bed would be in shot.

  Ali pursed her lips as she reviewed her options. There was nothing in the room to block him. The wardrobe was bolted to the wall. She caught herself considering the blanket covering the lower half of the bed. She could almost hear Liv’s voice inside her head. ‘That’s dark, Ali,’ she’d say. Ali dismissed the idea and turned back to the mirror to check just how much of the bed would be visible. Maybe a bit of FaceFix would do the trick? If she could remove a blemish or shave whole chunks off her body, she could probably fix the background easily enough.

  Opening up Insta, she could see a ton of DMs from her followers. The sight of the little glowing icon in the top right corner started a pleasant glow in the pit of her stomach that then radiated outwards. They were probably all wondering what she had planned for the Glossies. She felt a little giddy – it was the same feeling she got seeing the likes and comments rolling in on her posts. Checking the time, she decided to save them for later. It was good to draw out these little treats, and she needed to get a move on – there were only two hours to get home, spruce up and make it to the Glossies party. She ducked her head out the door of the room and checked the corridor. All clear. She took the pic, did some editing, covering the background as best she could, carefully added the #GlossiesWildCard and hit Post.

  8

  After a quick stop-off home, Ali’d spent the taxi ride to the Talbot fixing her make-up and chugging gin from a 7Up bottle and was only getting around to checking her DMs as she walked across the reception area.

  Oh my gawd … someone’s working on something exciting alright! Congratulations!!! @AndreaH

  Ali STOP! What IS this? Are you saying what I think you’re saying? @AnnaDelaney1

  I am so excited for you! I have three and it’s the best thing I ever did. @Sally_anne123

  Ali was baffled. She stopped just short of the red carpet leading into the ballroom, which was nearly as glammed up as its occupants. The ceiling was covered in a layer of gold balloons, the ribbons dangling a few feet above the guests. Waitstaff bearing trays of Prosecco and canapés were coming in a steady stream from the kitchen, though they rarely got more than a few steps into the room before being ambushed, their trays emptied in a matter of seconds.

  She was about to check her Stories to see what on earth they were all talking about when a photographer from one of the magazines waved to her.

  There was an accepted hierarchy of people who attended these events. At the lowest rung were the mid-level wannabe influencers all scraping to get their pictures taken and appear in the social pages of Hiya and Glossie Life magazine. Next up were the journos who were ostensibly there to mop up the free booze and finger food. The celebs (or Zee-lebs as the PRs called them) came next in the pecking order. Given there were really only
about six bona fide celebrities on the island, this set were a motley crew of reality TV stars, GAA players and the occasional British soap star doing a paid appearance. The PR people were top of the food chain, given that they organised the events, controlled who was sent the best freebies and generally had the most dish on everyone in the room. The photographers had a similarly impressive command of the gossip and generally strolled around looking amused at the proceedings, dispensing scandal to select favourites among the crowd.

  ‘Hiya, Ali,’ Davey, the photographer called out. ‘Will you do one on the red carpet for me?’ In Dublin, they got the red carpet out for pretty much anything – she’d walked a carpet at a Tupperware launch at Poundland last month.

  ‘Only if you take one for my Insta,’ Ali called back.

  ‘Sure, be quick.’ He grabbed her phone. ‘I think they’re about to start any second – they brought Shelly in a minute ago.’

  Ali scrambled onto the red carpet and fixed her dress, a black backless tulip-shaped mini – a choice that was backfiring, as the pic on her phone confirmed when Davey returned it. She frowned; it was bunching quite a bit on her tummy.

  ‘Yeah,’ Davey counselled over her shoulder, ‘if you’re doing a voluminous silhouette, it really works best in colour. In black it loses definition and you wind up just looking like a lump.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ali said, mildly affronted. ‘You’re a pro at this, I suppose.’

  ‘Ah, see it all the time – don’t worry, your legs look smashing.’ He grinned. ‘The hashtag is GlossiesLaunch, by the way. You’d better lash that up on Insta quick or they’ll kick you out – no such thing as free Prosecco.’ He winked, handing her a glass from a passing tray.

  Ali gulped about half of it back as she pushed through a crowd of girls all screaming, ‘You look ah-maz-ing’ at each other near the door. As she squeezed further into the crowd, she brushed against the upper arm of a tall redhead and became momentarily glued to her due to the sheer quantity of Mahogany Minx she’d applied. ‘Sorry,’ muttered Ali, unpeeling herself. Where was Kate?