Filter This

by Sophie White

  ‘OMG.’ She stopped dead, her head still buried in the phone.

  Amy Donoghue, Shelly’s assistant who had been following behind, caught up with her and leaned in to check out the screen. ‘That’ll be the baby boom.’ She smirked, falling into step with Ali as they resumed walking towards the red carpet.

  ‘Jeez, hardly,’ said Ali, disbelieving.

  ‘No, seriously,’ insisted Amy, glancing back to make sure Shelly was following them. ‘I’ve seen this before – they just love a baby bump. Between this and the wild card, I’d say you’re poised for big things in the next few months. If you play it right.’

  Ali chewed her bottom lip nervously as they reached the red-carpet area where the two organisers were arranging the photographs and beckoning Shelly forward.

  ‘We’ll do you after, Ali. Then everyone together,’ called the taller one.

  ‘Why the face?’ Amy whispered. ‘What’s the problem?’

  Ali, frankly, didn’t know where to begin. ‘Well, it’s … eh, the news … is very new … I haven’t exactly told anyone yet.’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Amy waved away Ali’s concerns. ‘Believe me, I know how this thing works.’

  ‘How?’ It was well known that Shelly’s genius right-hand woman eschewed every platform herself. ‘You don’t even do social media.’

  ‘A doctor doesn’t have to be sick to treat people.’ Amy grinned and Ali caught the subtle implication. Apparently, Amy reckoned they were suffering a sickness. Jeez, she doesn’t know the half of it, thought Ali. Or maybe she does. She glanced at Shelly, wondering for the first time if everything in the perfect camp Shelly was exactly as it seemed.

  ‘The main thing,’ Amy carried on, ‘is to eke out every last #bumpshot and #pregnancyjourney and #blessed moment of this thing.’

  ‘Yeah …’ Ali felt buoyed by these words – she could almost see all the cute posts arranged in a montage in her mind. It would be so nice to have something, well, nice to put on Instagram. Her thoughts returned briefly to the grim task of photoshopping her dad out of her Insta-post earlier, the pic that had won her a place on that stage, but quickly she shook herself free of the unpleasant memory. You do what you have to do. This pregnancy was gonna be fun, she resolved.

  ‘Oh and Ali?’ Amy had her phone out and was now snapping pics of Shelly being photographed, gesturing impatiently at Shelly to adjust her head. ‘Find the light,’ she called, then turning back to Ali she added, ‘Can you do something about Shelly’s call times? They’re very early. I know she’d really appreciate it. You can do that, right?’

  ‘Sure, of course,’ Ali said quietly as she felt a little squirm of angst in her tummy. Was that why she’d picked her? Everyone was now absorbed in Shelly, who was turning this way and that so the photographer could capture every perfect inch of her. A group of Insta-fans were gathered, held back by a velvet rope, phones in hand to capture the divine Shelly.

  ‘You look ah-ma-zing, Shelly’ seemed to ring out on repeat. What must it feel like to be loved like that? It suddenly struck Ali as incredibly unfair. What did Shelly have?

  ‘Ali, is it?’ The photographer was sizing her up and beckoning her forward.

  She carefully stepped onto the red carpet. She saw the faces of the girls frantically posting every second spent basking in Shelly’s presence.

  Thinking of Mini and her date with Marcus and the blank eyes of her dad earlier that day, she thought, Fuck it, suddenly feeling defiant, maybe even a little reckless. I’m gonna make the goddamn most of this chance. I deserve something good to come my way.

  She slipped in beside Shelly, placed one hand where her supposed bump was going to be and smised for the camera.

  9

  Shelly felt deflated the day after the wild-card announcement. It was nearly 8 a.m. when she woke up to find the house quiet. Dan must’ve left as soon as Marni arrived – she came early on Fridays so Dan could hit the gym before work.

  Shelly seized the moment to snuggle further down into her pillows. This is what counts as a lie-in in my life, she thought ruefully. It was a rarity. Georgie favoured the scream-in-Mama’s-face 6 a.m. wake-up call. Dan must’ve gotten up with her. Shelly tried not to dwell on this but the thought immediately made her edgy. She could never tell with Dan if the lie-in, if you could call it that, was given out of consideration or if he was actually off somewhere raging because he’d had to get up with Georgie. Even if she did do her fair share, Dan always seemed to act like the martyr.

  Was everyone’s marriage never-ending one-upmanship over who was doing the most parenting? Shelly was convinced Dan had a leader board in his head to keep a running tally of how many trips Shelly went on, how many early calls she had to do for Durty Aul’ Town and how many bedtimes she missed because of launches she needed to attend. It drove her crazy. Suddenly she became aware of a shadow in her peripheral vision.

  ‘Jesus!’ Shelly started at the sight of Carlson, her personal trainer (his name had definitely been Carl at some point – he was from Ringsend, for god’s sake – but he’d adopted the ‘son’ to stand out on Insta), standing at the bedroom door with hands on hips.

  ‘What the eff is this doing here?’ he brayed, brandishing a banana peel.

  ‘I needed a snack,’ Shelly said defensively.

  ‘A snack, a snack. What have I told you about thick-skinned fruit? Why not just stuff a Mars bar down your neck?’

  ‘I came in late last night and was a bit hungry …’ Shelly attempted to defend herself.

  ‘Late? Late!’ Carlson was getting extremely red in the face. ‘First you eat a fucking banana, and now you’re telling me it was a post-6 p.m. banana feast! Shelly, I cannot work with someone who is not committed. You’re wasting my time, you’re wasting your own time.’ He flung the banana peel on the carpet. ‘You can drag your ass out of bed, pick this up with your teeth and give me a three-minute plank while you’re down there.’

  Shelly had eased the duvet up to conceal her smile during Carlson’s rant. She attempted to nod in a serious fashion.

  ‘Are you laughing under there?’ he roared.

  Luckily, at this moment Amy appeared behind him.

  ‘Sorry, it was me.’ She had a hand raised in a gesture of culpability. ‘I let him in. But I didn’t know he’d mainlined 10 grams of creatine already.’ She pretended to give Carlson a soothing shoulder massage as she added, ‘And I did not tell him about the banana.’

  Carlson shrugged Amy off and clicked his fingers at Shelly. ‘She did tell me you’re duffed up again, though, and just so you know,’ Carlson pointed an accusatory index finger in Shelly’s direction, ‘I’m not accepting that as any class of excuse for skipping training or gorging on thick-skinned fruit. Now up – we’re doing legs and arms today.’

  Carlson stormed downstairs towards the second-floor weights room and Shelly slipped out of bed reluctantly. Her lie-in had been cruelly snatched from her, meaning she was not in the mood for anything right now. The early pregnancy tireds had begun in earnest and she felt like she was trying to walk underwater while wearing a suit of armour. She also felt pissed off with, well, everything.

  ‘Maybe don’t tell any more people about my little situation?’ she sniped at Amy, who handed over her morning glass of lemon water and followed her into the adjoining bathroom where she perched on the bath while Shelly washed her face. She didn’t look even remotely concerned that she’d pissed her boss off.

  ‘Carlson had to be told.’ Amy shrugged. ‘He’d be screaming at you for not doing all the core moves. Anyhow, it’s not safe to not tell your trainer you’re preggers.’

  ‘Still, I can do it myself, Amy.’ Shelly could feel the low-lying rage that had plagued the early months of her first pregnancy returning and taking up residence. What was with her? Even Carlson’s ridiculous tirade hadn’t cheered her up for long. Sometimes she was like this after big influencer events. Being around all the fans could be draining – not to mention chatting to the other influencers: t
hat was another game of perpetual one-upmanship. She always came away feeling like she wasn’t doing enough for the SHELLY brand. Hazel was doing an app, she’d said. Do I need an app? wondered Shelly.

  Also, she’d felt almost jealous at Ali Jones’s news. Which was crazy. She was bloody pregnant herself – there was zero reason to be jealous. Still, she envied the uncomplicated life Ali probably led. It was all so easy when you were young and didn’t have so many people relying on you. Ali probably wasn’t endlessly second-guessing herself or wondering if she was doing the right thing. Or if she’d married the wrong person. The thought stole across Shelly’s brain unbidden and she quickly tucked it away, filing it under ‘Things Not To Be Dwelt On’ deep in the recesses of her mind.

  Amy was already tapping away on her phone, going through the schedule for the day, while Shelly pulled on her workout gear.

  ‘Today is swag day,’ Amy said in a bored voice. ‘So I’ll be getting on with unboxing and what not.’

  Swag day used to be a major slog in the early days of SHELLY. It had been amazing when Amy had first come on board and taken over unboxing the daily onslaught of freebies. On swag day, while Shelly did her workout or ran lines for Durty Aul’ Town, Amy would repaint her nails nude, ditch the industrial-looking rings she favoured and put on Shelly’s wedding and engagement rings. Then she’d film her hands unboxing everything, so all they needed were generic reaction shots from Shelly and a few bits of ooohing and ahhhing audio, and Amy could cut it together for Instagram. It was the perfect solution – there was, after all, only so much Shelly to go around and, a couple of minor continuity glitches aside, it worked perfectly.

  ‘We have a beauty lunch in the Dax,’ Amy droned on. ‘And then it’s on to that charity afternoon tea. I have your speech in Drafts – I’ll forward it to you to familiarise yourself. Amanda will be here at eleven for hair and make-up so you can cast the eye then. I’ve also pencilled in some park time with Georgie at 4 p.m., which will be perfect for that #realmom campaign we’ve got running next month with the VitaPro supplements.’

  Shelly nodded along as she texted Dan:

  Hey Boop, I’m sorry I missed you this morning. What do you think of trying for a little break away just the two of us? How’re you fixed workwise? We could head away Monday for the night? My parents would love a couple of days with Georgie …

  Shelly carefully read over the wording and took out the apology, changing it to thanks for the lie-in this morning. Amy was still hectoring about various commitments coming down the line as Shelly reconsidered ‘Boop’ – it was a pet name that dated back to their early days, but maybe in light of their run-in yesterday morning, he’d see it as manipulative.

  ‘So as I was saying,’ Amy continued, ‘I think it’s paramount that we bump the pregnancy reveal up as soon as possible.’

  ‘Wait, what? Amy, no. We agreed we’d wait. I’m asking Dan to pencil in a night away right this second.’

  ‘Well, sorry, Shelly, that may have been all well and good yesterday but that Ali Jones thing was big news last night. Brand managers are already putting campaigns together for the year and, frankly, she is a pretty exciting prospect for them. She’s young, she’s new, she’s fresh. I’m concerned she’s gonna clean up in terms of partnerships. All that’ll be left for you will be some haemorrhoid cream sponcon.’

  ‘She has a fraction of my following, Amy. I really don’t think she’ll be much of a threat.’

  ‘Well, you’re being naïve in that case.’ Amy remained infuriatingly blasé, absorbed in tapping away on the phone. ‘She may have a fraction of your following but she’s also a fraction of your age.’

  Shelly rolled her eyes. ‘Nine years, Amy.’

  Amy shrugged. ‘Also the micro-influencer thing is becoming a much more attractive option for brands – the engagement is higher with a smaller following. Shelly, you know that.’

  She glared at Amy, who serenely held her gaze, raising her eyebrows and looking completely unruffled. The most annoying thing was that she was right – she always was. Shelly felt mutinous, Am I being bullied by my own assistant?

  ‘When were you thinking?’ Shelly finally asked peevishly.

  ‘As soon as you sign off on the post, boss.’ Amy flicked through the phone and brought up a picture of Shelly taken at an event a couple of days ago. It was an #OOTD pic, and she looked good. Amy had captioned the pic:

  Dress by @HouseOfFermina; shoes by @louboutin; bag by @Zaraofficial and BUMP (that’s riiight, Shell-Belles!) by the one and only @DivineDanDevine. #HereWeGoAgain #pregnancyjourney #instabump

  ‘Cute,’ said Shelly sullenly. ‘Look, I know we need to get this out there, I just –’

  ‘Can’t tell Dan?’ offered Amy.

  Shelly bristled. They never talked about Shelly’s marriage but she could see Amy meant no malice – she had a look that was hovering about as close to sympathetic as was possible for Amy to muster.

  ‘Look, I’m saving the post in Drafts so it’s ready to rock as soon as you sort your shit out with Dan,’ said Amy in her best I’m-trying-to-be-reasonable-and-you’re-not-making-it-very-easy-for-me voice. ‘But I am strenuously advising that you launch this sooner rather than later. Now you’d better get down to Carlson before he fully gives himself an aneurysm.’

  ‘Fine.’ Shelly left Amy to her unboxing and jogged downstairs. She paused outside the door to the weights room and could hear Carlson griping away inside.

  ‘Now she’s fucking late. Thinks she can maintain an Instabod with a few acai bowls, a bit of Barbie foot and FaceFix – she’s starting to believe her own bullshit.’ He sounded breathless and Shelly figured he was lifting while bitching – his Lift ’n’ Bitch method, which most of the influencers swore by. He was completely mad but he was also discreet and had a good understanding of what the Insta-life demanded.

  ‘You can’t shift a mom gunt with a few green juices,’ he carried on. ‘“Oooh, Shelly, how do you stay in shape? What’s your secret?”’ He mimicked the daytime TV host who’d asked her this very question last week. ‘“Oh gosh,”’ he’d switched to his breathy Shelly impression, ‘“I don’t do anything. No diets or training. I’m just running around after Georgie all day, you know.” Ha! Laughing my fucking ass off.’

  He’s batshit, thought Shelly as she pushed the door open and prepared for some light torture.

  10

  Waking up late the morning after the Glossies launch, Ali momentarily forgot what an insane time she’d had the night before. She fumbled for her phone, groggy and confused. And queasy. It was 9.20. Work in two hours. Ugh. They were starting late to shoot late. At least it was Friday – Durty Aul’ Town rarely shot on weekends and she and Ruairí, the other PA, took turns doing any bits required. He was up this week, TG. Ali flopped back and tried to sort out the blur of the previous night.

  Queasy was her normal morning sensation but it wasn’t the usual anxiety queasiness – usually inspired by garage wine, late-night Insta-scrolling and ill-judged Mystery Bags (her local chipper’s take on the ubiquitous Spice Bag). Instead this was an excited queasy, Ali realised. It was surprisingly pleasant.

  The launch party came rushing back to her in a series of thrilling flashes. The fug of so much fake tan and hair product combined with body heat incubating in a poorly ventilated room. Ring-lights, selfie sticks, Proseccos, her name being called and then scanning the sea of bitter-looking Instagrammers as she stood onstage while Blake Jordan, the Blake Jordan, interviewed her. Shite. The excited queasy was rapidly being supplanted by the more familiar anxious queasy.

  Something … not brilliant had happened that was tempering the excitement.

  Suddenly the memory of Blake Jordan miming a pregnant belly veered into her head. She’d had a bit to drink but she hadn’t been drunk drunk. Surely not drunk enough to tell everyone she was …

  ‘Oh my god,’ she whimpered as the worst Fear of her life hit her like a battering ram.

  She launched herself under the covers
, clawing through the sheets until she felt the comforting shape of her phone. She heaved herself up and crouched over the screen. She opened Instagram and gasped when she saw the sheer volume of notifications. Three and a half thousand new followers overnight.

  Three thousand five hundred and thirty-fucking-six.

  She attempted to steady herself as she refreshed her feed, unable to believe what she was seeing. The DMs were rammed. Too many messages to read. Ali started feeling shaky. At last she’d get to do one of those Stories she’d watched influencers do countless times. The ones where they said they’d had so many amazing messages and were trying to work through their inbox and hoped to reply to everyone soon.

  Ali could feel a bubble of pure, unbridled glee filling inside her. She bounded off the bed and landed smack on some crunching object hidden beneath last night’s dress. ‘Fuck,’ she yelped in pain and then a giggle escaped her lips. ‘Oh my fucking god!’ She giggled uncontrollably. This is what they meant when people said they were beside themselves. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling like if she didn’t restrain herself physically she might take off from sheer delight.

  ‘Fuck, fuck fucking fuck!’ She felt like dancing or singing or screaming. Shit, this was bad but also, fuck, this was amazing. She checked her phone again – ten more followers in the last couple of seconds. ‘Oh my god,’ she squeaked.

  She looked at her last post. Ooops – looked like she’d already made it official. The pic (posted at 1.15 a.m.) was a positive pregnancy test with a very poorly spelled caption thanking everyone for their kind wishes. At least she’d put every pregnancy-related hashtag known to man on it and tagged more than fifty key accounts.