by Sophie White
At the far end of the room, a small purple stage backed by silver curtains had been erected. Flowers flanked the stage, which supported a podium and three small plinths where shortly Shelly’s chosen nominees would take their places, ready to battle it out for the wild card.
Ali finally saw Kate at the other side of the room and mimed texting on her phone. She quickly WhatsApped ‘See you after, good luck’ to Kate and found a spot on the left just as the lights in the packed function room dimmed. The crowd hushed as the music amped up. A spotlight found Blake Jordan, flanked by two male dancers, at the back of the room and followed him as he strutted towards the stage to Lizzo.
Ali quickly flicked back to her red-carpet snap and filtered the pic. It wasn’t the greatest but social media managers took note of people who didn’t hashtag the fuck out of every event and were known to blacklist for the slightest oversight or infraction. She hesitated briefly over the wording – maybe she should acknowledge the bad angle? – before settling on the caption: ‘Please excuse what is apparently MATERNITY wear Wish me luck in tonight’s #GlossiesWildCard comp’ and hit Post.
The editor of Glossie Life magazine was by now welcoming Blake Jordan to the stage: ‘Ireland’s answer to Graham Norton everyone …’ The room erupted in applause. Isn’t Graham Norton Ireland’s answer to Graham Norton? wondered Ali. Blake grabbed the microphone and with breathless, reverential tones began to explain the genesis of the Glossie Digital Influencer Awards.
‘We all know it’s the biggest event in the Irish social media calendar – oh, except maybe when Gemma McCarthy gets the puppies out for a rare sighting. Hi, girls!’ Blake wiggled his fingers at Gemma – a well-endowed influencer, looking stunning in a plunging evening dress – who pretended to scold him then laughed and blew him a kiss.
‘The Glossies is an incredible opportunity,’ he continued emphatically, ‘for the brightest lights in our industry to celebrate their stellar successes across digital campaigns, product development and charitable works and to showcase their unique skills. Categories will include Best #Nofilter Selfie, Best Insta-Stories, Most Gas, Most “Authentic”, Best Weight-Loss Journey, Best Couples Goals, Most Inspiring Influencer and Best Brunette Influencer … LOL, that’s a joke – sure I know ye’re all “blondes”.’ Blake smirked while doing air quotes as the crowd laughed appreciatively.
‘Of course the most coveted award on the night will be Influencer of the Year – last year it was a close race with the Divine Ms Devine beating the gorge Ms Gemma by only a tiny margin.’ The spotlight found Shelly just off-stage who, prepped for the moment, was smiling and clapping in Gemma’s direction.
‘Our reigning queen, Ms Devine, joined the board of the Glossies, who, as you all know as of this morning’s little announcement, devised an incredible new element this year to help springboard the career of one lucky mid-level Irish influencer.’ Blake paused to let the drama of the moment play. Hundreds of expectant faces were trained on the envelopes he now produced from inside his tux jacket.
‘The brand new Glossies wild-card entry competition is an opportunity for a relatively unknown influencer to be plucked from obscurity and given a chance in the big leagues.’ He was carefully enunciating each word, looking meaningfully into the tense faces in front of him at the foot of the stage. ‘The chosen wild-card entry will be supported by Glossie Life magazine to reach a wider audience. But it’s not just a case of a few shout-outs and reposts and wham, bam, spank you, ma’am – no!’ He was becoming more animated with every word. ‘The wild card must deliver on the content to have any chance in this race.’
The crowd – most of whom were holding phones aloft to capture the moment – held their breath. The lights dimmed until all but a tiny spotlight illuminated the first wild-card envelope.
‘In this envelope, I have the name of the first nominee on the wild-card shortlist hand-selected by none other than Shelly Devine herself. She’s been tirelessly trawling the GlossiesWildCard hashtag – that’s right, Fidelma, she was looking at your manky bathroom.’ Blake pointed at a blogger to the left of the stage. ‘Who takes an OOTD in the bathroom, I ask you? Only joking – I loved your dirty knicks on the towel rail in the background. Penneys, hun?’
The blogger gave him the finger and laughed uproariously. ‘Three for a fiver,’ she called out, giggling.
Turning deathly serious again, Blake continued. ‘If I call your name, come up and take your place in history – aka one of the three platforms to my left.’ He winked. ‘Don’t take a selfie or call your mam.’ He gave a little wave to his own mother, Teena, just off to the side of the stage – a bit of an Insta-celeb in her own right, thanks to her son. ‘Shelly will join us to announce the wild-card finalist. Then we’ll all skull some bubbles and be up for our proats and 5 a.m. power Pilates … 2019 – would ya be well!’
He produced a small rose gold letter-opener and carefully opened the envelope.
‘Oh. My. Gee. Our first wild-card nominee is Grace O’Mahoney!’
The crowd clapped as warmly as they could muster, hair extensions whipped in every direction as the assembled looked for the lucky nominee. The spotlight found Grace crying and hugging her friend – who only began to reciprocate when she noticed all eyes were suddenly on them. Grace was wearing a floor-length shimmering green leopard-print dress and enormous Gucci earrings. Ali knew Grace vaguely from Instagram – she was in PR foremost but also had amassed a pretty big following on Insta in the past year.
Grace took her place on the most prominent, centre plinth. ‘Well played,’ thought Ali.
Blake gave a run-down of Grace’s myriad social media achievements (‘We love your clean-eating posts, Grace – who knew you could, or would want to, make a Snickers out of dates, bee pollen and coconut water?’) and then turned back to the crowd, who immediately fell silent.
‘Our next nominee is a major up-and-comer on the Insta-fashion scene. She regularly styles the covers of our fave mags, including Glossie Life magazine – but no nepotism here,’ he quickly added. ‘Dara Stoney, you big ride, get up here!’
Whoops and whistles rang out as Dara Stoney made her way through the crowd blowing kisses and took the plinth on the right.
Ali began to feel a bit glum in the face of so much confidence and body contouring. She didn’t stand a chance, she thought bitterly, and downed the rest of her glass, already scanning for another tray-bearing waiter.
Her outfit-of-the-day pic was a pretty poor effort if the scrolling images being projected on the back of the stage were anything to go by. Snap after snap of the other entries, all perfect shimmering bronzed legs and abs, were playing on a loop and, sure, some of the FaceFix work was a bit heavy-handed but, still, Ali’s own pic was infinitely worse.
As Blake Jordan chatted on about Dara Stoney’s talent with a selfie, Ali slipped her phone out to confirm just how shite it was.
The outfit was good but given that everyone else had gone for quantity over quality in the flesh stakes, maybe the Stevie Nicks hippie vibe had been misjudged. It looked like she was trying to hide a ‘problem area’, as Mini would say. She had also done a sloppy job editing the background to hide that she was in a care home. She could just about make out the ghost of her dad’s hand in the frame behind her right elbow. FFS. The DM notification glowed red, showing thirty-six unread messages – she still hadn’t had a chance to check her Stories to see what they were all on about. Thirty-six was a lot for Ali.
She tuned back in to Blake Jordan long enough to ascertain that he was in the middle of an anecdote about a mishap involving himself, a well-known and volatile Irish panto star and her pet iguana and not about to announce the third nominee just yet. She opened her DMs and began flicking through the messages.
Oooooh, I see those pee pots, are you in Holles St, missus? @MaggsieLolz
Oh my god, Ali, are you in the Holla?! How far gone are you? @ClodaghH
When’re you due, hun? You’re gonna love it. @SlimminWorldHun
I
’d know those toilets anywhere LOL! I have the best antenatal Pilates instructor, you HAVE to go. @JennzerOD
Ali felt the kind of potent panic that starts in your toes and sweeps up and through your entire body – what the fuck were they on about? They seemed to think she was pregnant. Sketchily she glanced around and then opened her last few Stories.
There in the background of her last Story were enormous stacks of urine sample containers and nappies and her smiling away, shiteing on oblivious. Ali raised the volume just enough to catch what it was she’d said.
‘Hey, lovelies, thanks for the DMs. A few of you guys might have gotten the wrong end of the stick there. I’m not getting anything done and I’m totally fine – I’m just working on a little surprise coming in a few months. Big kisses!’
Working on a little surprise … uh oh. That did sound a bit off in the context of what looked like a hospital bathroom with piss jars in the background. Feck, feck, feck.
She’d have to fix it the second they announced the winner. Shit. What a crappy fucking day. A waiter passed and she swooped in for another Prosecco. Tilting the glass to her mouth, she was suddenly aware that Belle McGinnley, a brand consultant who had a fashion blog on the side, had appeared by her side, smiling.
She leaned in. ‘You’ll have to go easy on the old bubbles, I hear,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘I saw the Story and I was, like, “Is she hinting at something?” I wasn’t sure but then I saw the post! Congratulations, mama!’
‘The post …?’ Ali lowered the glass and brought up her feed on her phone. The red-carpet pic with the stupid quip about maternity wear had more than five hundred likes and a ton of comments congratulating her. Ali gasped. Jesus, this was loads more engagement than she usually got.
Spying the phone over her shoulder, Belle murmured, ‘Oh yeah, they love a good pregnancy journey. When I was expecting Emmerdale, I doubled my following.’
At this Ali, who had been about to explain the mishap, stopped. ‘Doubled?’ she repeated.
Belle nodded emphatically. ‘Best thing I ever did.’ She smirked. ‘Well, I mean, obviously Emmerdale is the best thing that ever happened to me. But she’s also the best thing that ever happened to my Insta!’ She winked and then clamped her mouth shut, realising the final shortlisted wild card was about to be announced.
Blake Jordan, clearly revelling in his duties, waved the final envelope. ‘I’ve just learned from my Insta prowling that our final wild-card wannabe has had a pretty big day already today …’ He paused, pressing the envelope to his pursed lips. The silence seemed to intensify with each passing second. Every girl in the room wanted to be on that final plinth. Ali was feeling jangly – she wanted to neck the last of her Prosecco but Belle was still right beside her and thinking she was up the duff. As Blake wrung every last bit of tension from the moment, Ali consoled herself. It was just some people on Instagram – she’d be able to smooth it over and then just go quiet for a few days and nobody would remember.
At last, Blake exhaled dramatically. ‘Phew, sorry for that pregnant pause there! Though our next nominee knows all about that … Please welcome Ali Jones and her “little surprise” to the stage!’
Ali felt the blood drain from her face. What the holy fuck was going on? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. The spotlight found her and the crowd had turned as one heavily-contoured-and-not-entirely-friendly-looking entity to look at her. Ali flung a wide smile across her face and swiftly shoved the Prosecco glass into her tote bag.
The crowd applauded dutifully – they seemed sapped of their enthusiasm now that the last spot had been nabbed.
She made her way forward, trying to quell the storm of anxiety rising with every step. Maybe no one had noticed. Maybe she could just gloss over it. Maybe he wouldn’t mention it again.
As she reached the stage, Blake boomed, ‘Someone help her up, for god’s sake – a woman in her condition can’t be leaping about.’
Two waiters rushed forward to manhandle her awkwardly onto the plinth, one somehow managing to pull up her skirt in the process, while the other knocked the bag from her hand – out of which naturally fell the hidden glass, sloshing Prosecco everywhere. This was not quite how Ali had imagined this moment of glory would play out. While one waiter smoothed down her skirt, the other passed her bag back and dumbly held the glass out towards her. She smiled coldly at him until he finally got the message and withdrew the incriminating evidence. Ali wanted to kick them both. Absolute fucksticks.
‘So, Ali, you’re having a big day!’ Blake mimed a pregnant belly, winking.
‘Yeah,’ said Ali, feeling her cheeks starting to burn.
‘Are you excited?’
‘Yep.’ She nodded, staring out into the crowd and wondering what the actual fuck she was doing. Belle’s voice seemed to be whispering in her ear once more: ‘They love a good pregnancy journey. I doubled my following.’ Doubled. Double!
‘Double …’ Shit, she’d said that last one out loud.
‘What?’ Blake was clearly exasperated with her monosyllabic answers.
‘I’m … ehm …’ Ali felt like she was teetering on the edge of something momentous. This was a bit more than lopping off chunks of her arse with FaceFix or lying about #DateNight and #proats. But then again, she deserved this. Things had been sucky and look at how many people had liked her maternity-wear post.
The silence had gone on for too long – it was now or never. The whole place was staring at her, waiting for her to speak.
‘Ali, Ali?’ Blake clicked his fingers in front of her face and then shouted at her crotch. ‘You dilating, hun?’ The room erupted in hysterical laughter.
‘Sorry, sorry! I was saying I’m gonna … ehhh … double in size, LOL!’
Blake looked irritated at her lack of cooperation on the bantz front and was clearly unimpressed with her belated and poor effort. ‘Yes, well, anyway, we have our fab finalists and now to select our wild-card winner and the micro-influencer who’ll get the chance to become a mega-influencer, please welcome our favourite mega-influencer herself, Shelly Devine!’
Ali’s heart was thumping. What the fuck are you doing, Ali? screamed Rational Brain. There had to be two hundred people in the room – any one of them could find out she wasn’t pregnant. On the other hand, pregnancy content would be about a million times better than sitting-around-the-depressing-home content, which was the way her life felt like it was going right now.
Shelly hugged Grace and Dara, then when she came to Ali, she gave her an extra squeeze and whispered, ‘It’s such an exciting time,’ giving her a kiss on the cheek.
For a split second Ali pictured bump shots and packing the hospital bag and really did feel a warm glow of excitement in her tummy. Almost without thinking, she placed her hand on her belly and smiled back at Shelly. ‘You’re glowing, ya know,’ Shelly enthused.
She took the microphone and began a long account of how hard it had been to narrow the list down to these three ‘extraordinary women’.
Ali looked around, finally taking in that she had made it to the stage. So many times she’d been in the crowd at – or worse, not even invited to – these events and now here she was on the other side. The niggle of anxiety was still scratching at her. ‘It’s a very big lie’ that prick of a Rational Brain insisted. It was a lie that was underway now, reasoned Ali. It wasn’t her fault everyone took her up wrongly.
‘And the wild-card finalist of 2019 is … Ali Jones!’ The room erupted. ‘Follow Ali’s Glossies wild-card journey on her Instagram account, @Ali_Jones, and we can follow her journey from bump to baby there as well.’
Shelly went to hug her new rival but stopped upon seeing her face. ‘Wait, are you OK?’ She looked concerned.
Ali had blanched at the mention of the word ‘baby’. Oh god, somehow with all the pregnancy talk she’d forgotten that key element. A baby.
Shelly peered at a pale-looking Ali before turning back to the crowd. ‘Well, enjoy the bubbles and the nibbles and t
hanks for joining us for this gorgeous evening.’ Shelly hustled Ali off the stage. ‘Are you feeling alright? When are you due?’
Ali was still reeling from the B-word. ‘Ehm … yes, I need to figure that out still,’ she replied, slightly dazed.
Shelly looked bewildered but before she could answer, an excitable PR burst into the conversation.
‘Ali!’ She hugged and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Mags McEvoy. I rep Baby Got Bump, a gorgeous new maternity-wear line. Have you got any ambassador deals in the works yet? We’d love you to consider us for your maternity wardrobe – how does a lunch meeting sound?’
Ali’s anxiety began to recede at the mention of ‘ambassador deals’. ‘Well, it’s all still pretty new,’ she began. Ali could see Kate just beyond, trying to get to her through the throng.
Just then another PR swooped in. ‘Congratulations, Ali! I’m Penny from Classy Communications. One of our clients, Baby Bazaar, would love to set up a meeting to discuss how best our two brands could coalesce, integrate and define a mutually beneficial goal.’
‘Eh …’ Ali was still sorting through the individual words of that rather baffling sentence when she was spirited away by two official-looking women.
‘We need some shots for the social channels and then Emily, our social manager, will do a bit of chat for the Instagram, OK?’ said the taller of the two, steering Ali towards the red carpet.
Ali turned back, trying to find Kate in the crowd. ‘Sorry! Call you later,’ Ali mouthed when she finally spotted her friend, an oddly sour expression having invaded her heavily made-up face. Kate just nodded and disappeared back into the throng.
As the crowd parted before her, Ali could feel envy radiating off the girls she passed, girls with more followers than her but it was Ali about to be interviewed. Being at the centre like this was intoxicating – though maybe that was the Prosecco on top of all the taxi gin. Ali snuck a look at her phone and gasped at the rate that messages, comments, likes and new followers were pouring in.