Filter This

by Sophie White

  Drunk Ali’s pretty on it, she thought admiringly. But how did she get so drunk? She paused in her gleeful self-hug and waded back through the night’s memories. She’d left the Glossies before 11 p.m., unable to drink any more Piss-ecco due to her fake pregnancy.

  Of course, the pink champagne. She was given a huge hamper of goodies as she’d left, including a bottle of pink champagne, and she’d celebrated the main way she knew how these days – slugging the bubbles from the bottle in what she figured was a kind of rakish and decadent vibe and scrolling on Instagram with one eye squeezed shut the better to focus.

  She had a couple of flashes of meandering around the kitchen trying to make toast. Had Liv come in and shouted at her? Eek, yes, that sounded familiar.

  Then it hit her. Liv. Quite possibly the biggest spanner in the pregnancy plan – if she could call it a plan. Shite.

  The euphoria of becoming an overnight social media phenomenon was beginning to subside and the well-earned and clearly unavoidable hangover was making its way towards her. It was an onslaught as inevitable and unrelenting as an approaching high-speed train.

  Ali crawled back on to the bed and eased herself into a semi-recline, pulling a heavy book over to rest on her face – this (along with a shneaky can of G&T) was Ali’s tried and tested hangover cure. Something about the weight pressing down, pushing back on the pounding in her skull, was a relief.

  ‘Or you could just not drink, ya know,’ muttered Rational Brain. ‘Mnam nanh manah mana.’ Ali aped the voice then felt momentarily sheepish. Is it a good idea to be mimicking the voice inside your head that’s trying to be sensible? Well, Rational Brain just didn’t get that sometimes wallowing in a pure, delicious hangover was just what you needed. Besides, she’d earned this – she’d won the wild card, after all, she deserved to celebrate.

  Rational Brain tried to point out that she always ‘deserved’ wine, whether she was celebrating some minor Insta win or comforting herself after a bad day sitting with Miles, but Ali drowned out those uncomfortable truths with some immensely satisfying scenes from last night.

  Just then her reverie was interrupted by her phone buzzing in her hand. She nudged the fourth Harry Potter up slightly to peer at the screen. A message.

  I just saw your post, we need to talk. Call me ASAP.

  She squinted at the contact name. Tinder Sam.

  Ali sprang up in a move that was far too athletic for her current banjaxed head. The book fell to the floor straight into the tray of curry chips still languishing there from two days ago. As she contemplated the grim sight of the book partially submerged in curry sauce, her right hand began to buzz again.

  Ali froze.

  ‘Tinder Sam calling …’ The screen heralded the incoming call in a way that, to Ali in her sensitive state, felt distinctly gleeful – though perhaps sensing judgement from an inanimate device was edging dangerously close to paranoia.

  Ali held the phone at arm’s length lest Tinder Sam detect her presence. She didn’t want to end the call in case he could tell that she’d rejected it. Though in fairness she’d already rejected him pretty brutally IRL. Ali felt her cheeks burning at the memory. Poor Tinder Sam.

  They’d hooked up about six weeks ago, at the start of December, and from his message, it seemed he’d MacGyvered his way into thinking her pregnancy post had something to do with him. While Tinder Sam seemed adept at basic arithmetic, he clearly wasn’t thinking this through – they’d used a condom, for god’s sake. Ali didn’t allow rogue mickeys near her unsheathed. The date had been a memorable one for several terrible reasons. It had started on a good note, in that Tinder Sam appeared to tick all the boxes in terms of what Ali required from a Tinder date.

  ‘Beautiful but dim,’ she’d texted Liv just ten minutes in. ‘In short, perfect!’

  Liv had texted back some vague bemoaning of Ali’s refusal to give guys a chance or even pick one that might have a few words of sense to string together, which Ali disregarded, instead plunging into the pitcher of margaritas Tinder Sam had already ordered.

  She had arrived at the burrito place in town first, affording her a good chance to appraise the merch from a distance when he arrived. He was well over six foot, lean but not overly muscular, with a sweep of dark curly hair. The whole picture was pretty appealing and his clothes weren’t completely mortifying either – this, however, struck Ali as slightly suspicious. Did he have a girlfriend? Not that Ali cared all that much – she thought of Tinder as a kind of orgasm dispenser. (‘It’s like a servicing for your vagina!’ she’d told Liv brightly the first few times she’d swiped. ‘It scratches an itch. You’re never going to actually like anyone on there but it serves a purpose.’)

  As he approached, he raised a hand in greeting and an intriguing stretch of toned torso was revealed along with a teeny glimpse of boxers. They looked like SpongeBob Squarepants boxers – which probably ruled out a girlfriend. As he came closer she could make out a smattering of freckles across his nose, which was weirdly endearing, as was the awkward way he put his hands straight into his pockets after his initial wave, as though he was suffering from wave-regret. He was pretty cute.

  As he made his way through the Friday-evening post-work crowd, Ali had felt a pleasant flutter of nerves at the thought of what he was taking in about her at this very moment. She was wearing a short leather skirt with an old Ramones T-shirt and flat gladiator sandals. She’d actually spent so much time on pre-date Insta-content (it was important to wring as much as possible out of these opportunities) that she had only just had time to lash on the prerequisite fake tan and was concerned that it was still a bit sticky. She tugged her skirt down and returned his wave.

  She’d deduced from his profile on Tinder that he liked music, films and kite surfing. This revealed exactly zero, as every single guy on there listed almost an identical round-up of hobbies. His pics were the usual barbecue pic, some snaps from his year in Oz, his San Diego J1 – that kind of thing.

  Ali had said yes to his offer of a date deep in a wine fog a few nights before. At the time it seemed like some human contact and affection might be a good idea – Liv had been away doing some wholesome activity with her running buds and Ali had drifted into a slightly unhealthy routine of solo wine and Room to Improve (a guilty pleasure of hers).

  ‘I love your profile pic,’ his message began.

  Ugh, not a very promising opener, thought Ali, peering at the phone. Who was this guy? A quick flick through his pics and she had to admit he was pretty attractive. He had exactly the kind of nerd-level that Ali liked. Nerds had gone mainstream, which was a boon for nerd-enthusiasts like herself. She called them Therouxs (after their leader, Louis) and they were a rare find in the wild like this. She’d screen-grabbed his profiler and sent it to Liv, who got back to her within seconds.

  Oooh, a Theroux – what’s he doing on Tinder? I thought there was a mandatory order that male Tinder-users needed a baffling devotion to protein powder and a minimum nine gym selfies. If I was on a man-jag I’d nab him this instant!

  Ali had swiped right but maintained a careful disinterest, as she always did these days. It was a personal policy not to take Tinder too seriously. She didn’t hold much hope of finding anyone she actually liked on there, and she didn’t really have time for dating in earnest – mostly it just gave her something to do and a bit of #datenight content. The guys had largely been a let-down. At the beginning, she used to get excited for every date, thinking this’d be the one straight out of a Zooey Deschanel movie, but usually the dates more closely resembled a crap episode of Nationwide: stiff conversation, chemistry non-existent, often with a bizarre focus on livestock – though this was perhaps a specific trait of Irish Tinder. And yet there she was wading into the murky, potentially venereal-disease-ridden water of Tinder once more …

  Ali’s hand buzzed again. It was Tinder Sam – again – bringing her back from the unfortunate night she and Liv had affectionately dubbed the Tan Ram. Jeez, he’s freaking. Maybe I s
hould be freaking? You should be freaking, insisted Rational Brain.

  Still ignoring the persistent buzzing, Ali sat on the bed and tried to think. In a way it was too late to do anything – it was already out there. And besides, the Glossies were only a few months away. She could just roll with it and figure out what to do then. She could go on a big trip; she could say she’d been a surrogate. She could style it out. Influencers often talked about projects that never materialised and people didn’t grill them on every little detail.

  Mini would never find out – she was old school and completely allergic to Instagram. And besides, she was so focused on her stable of artists that most of the time it was like the rest of the world didn’t even exist.

  Liv would have an opinion, that’s for sure. But maybe Liv’s opinion didn’t fucking matter, Ali thought, feeling defiant. The Glossies was big for her, and Liv didn’t understand how bleak things had been since Miles had gone downhill. Well, maybe she did, but she didn’t know what it was like sitting with him day in, day out while everyone else was off living their stupid best lives. She deserved to have a bit of fun, and Liv would have to get on board.

  Tinder Sam seemed to have given up for the time being, though a couple of messages dropped in imploring her to ring him as soon as possible. Ali took the opportunity to check back in with her rapidly growing following. She gasped. Four hundred more in the twenty minutes since she’d last checked. The bump effect was real.

  Ali slipped into her Gmail and found 181 new messages. Whoa, usually the inbox was a barren wasteland of spam, random newsletters she’d forgotten to opt out of when buying stuff and the odd invite to a launch party. She and Kate usually pooled their resources when it came to getting in to these events. They had a loose agreement that they’d tell each other about any invites they received (most likely through some bureaucratic mishap on the part of the PR interns).

  Kate had the edge as she did phones in one of the PR agencies, Keane Eye Branding, and Ali knew she didn’t always divulge when something good was on. Then a pic of her with some Five-Digit influencer (this is what they called the upper mid-level ones who’d broken the ten thousand followers mark) would be in the social pages and Kate would be sheepish the next time they talked. But Ali always let it go – it was a cut-throat game and she couldn’t begrudge Kate whatever machinations she was working. Ali had a few of her own, after all. She suddenly realised with renewed glee that she had now entered the upper echelon of the Five-Digit crew.

  She scanned the subject lines of the emails. ‘Ambassador opportunity’, ‘Maternity Brand Proposal’, ‘Pregnancy supplement campaign’, ‘Invite: Spa opening’, ‘Invite: Babymoon in Killnavan Lodge’, ‘Invite: Pamper Mama Weekend’. Fucking hell, this was how those ’grammers seemed to be on a perma-holiday. A babymoon sounded very nice, she mused – just then the phone started up again. An unknown number this time. Ali, like every normal person, had a deep-seated fear of the unknown number. She hit Accept and held the phone slightly away from her ear in a bid to remain non-committal in the face of whatever dastardly cold call this might be.

  ‘Hello,’ she ventured.

  ‘Ali, hi, hi! How are you?’ The voice had the manic quality of someone accustomed to dealing with and managing people. It was the voice of a person required to be nice and tolerate bullshit in a professional capacity. In a word: PR.

  ‘I’m Holly from Green, Hilliard and Mason PR.’

  Bingo, thought Ali.

  ‘You must be overwhelmed this morning? Everyone is talking about the Glossies wild card! And of course your fab news. I’m just following up on an invite I sent you a couple of hours ago. I know you must be inundated, so I thought I’d just give you a ring. We’re doing the most adorable event in a few weeks’ time in the grounds of Shanaghan House. It’s a real family destination and I’d love to introduce you to Siobhan, their brand manager, a good person for you to know! It’s going to be gorge. They’re transforming the grounds into a kiddie wonderland and there’ll be a marquee so it’ll be really cosy. It’s called the Daddy Bears’ Picnic. It’s just so sweet to get all the dads involved … So are you in? You and your other half, I mean? The dads are essential, as we all know!’ She laughed.

  ‘Ehhh …’ Ali tried to gather her thoughts, which Holly appeared to take as a lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s a really exclusive event,’ she hurriedly continued. ‘The goody bags are fab. I know there’s some Crème de la Mer in there. And all the gang is coming – Hazel, Polly, even Shelly.’ She listed the preeminent Insta-mums, doling each name out like a form of currency – which, of course, it was.

  Hazel, Polly, Shelly and Ali had a certain ring, thought Ali. It’d be a chance to get in with the mums that mattered. The lack of a baby daddy was a bit of a stumbling block, though. As if on cue, at that exact moment, Tinder Sam dialled in on the call waiting. She considered his name as the phone flashed and Holly could be heard continuing the hard sell on the Daddy Bears’ Picnic. Maybe she should see what he had to say. A ‘daddy bear’ (ick, by the way) could lend the whole thing a ring of truth. And he hadn’t been terrible. If it hadn’t been for the whole tan-cident she might’ve responded to his follow-up texts, but she’d reckoned he was just being polite. Trying to save her from being embarrassed about what had happened. Or worse: that he had a thing for scat. Ugh, even just the word ‘tan-cident’ was giving her a full body cringe. The call waiting stopped flashing and Ali made a split-second decision.

  ‘You know what,’ she interrupted Holly mid-flow, ‘count me in – it sounds fun.’

  After hanging up, Ali regarded the missed calls from Tinder Sam. He was probably bricking it, thinking she was about to land him with a baby. The best thing was to meet him and suss him out. Maybe she could mine him for a bit of baby-daddy content and cut him loose. Easy.

  ‘Can’t talk right now but wanna meet Monday night and we can chat? It’s all good – don’t stress,’ she WhatsApped.

  Ali lay back on the bed and switched over to Insta to check out some of her new followers. @HolisticHazel, one of the biggest Insta-mums, was among them. Amazing. Ali grinned, imagining herself in the VIP area of the next Insta-event. Her reverie was broken by Liv barrelling into the room, and Ali scrambled to look marginally more together and not completely hungover.

  ‘Ali, what the fuck?’ Liv was breathless, brandishing her phone.

  ‘Hey—’ Ali began, momentarily wondering if she could maybe just let Liv believe the story too, before Liv cut her off with a mocking dramatic reading of the typo-filled post Drunk Ali’d written.

  ‘“So excited to officially announce my pegnancy”,’ Liv read in a scathing voice.

  OK, clearly trying to fluff it with Liv wouldn’t be an option, thought Ali.

  ‘Blah blah blah hashtag blessed,’ finished Liv, glaring viciously at her. ‘This is the most fucked thing you’ve ever done.’ She tossed the phone on the bed and crossed her arms. Ali felt a spike of fear at Liv’s face. Her jaw was set, her expression stony and Ali instantly felt her buzz evaporate. ‘This isn’t just fake breakfasts and bullshit posts about mindfulness, Ali.’

  ‘Look, it’s not that big a deal,’ began Ali, bracing herself for Liv’s onslaughts. Liv rarely got angry, which of course gave her anger, when it did occur, a frankly terrifying weight. ‘I mean, it is a big deal. I know, I know. I just mean that I didn’t intend it to happen.’

  Ali launched herself out of bed and straight into damage control, invoking everything from how humiliating it was being up on stage to how hard it was with Miles being so sick. Ali could feel Liv’s fierce rage wilting, even though her eyes narrowed slightly when Ali mentioned Miles. Ali continued to grab at anything within reach to make Liv understand.

  ‘Before I knew it, it had just taken off and I didn’t know how to go back on it – it’d be too humiliating to own up to it now.’ Liv sat on the end of the bed looking at the floor while Ali delivered her pleading statement, pacing in front of her. ‘It just feels so go
od, all these people saying nice things and having something to look forward to.’ At this Liv’s head snapped up and Ali instantly wished she could call those last words back.

  ‘There’s nothing to “look forward to”, Ali.’ Liv shook her head in disbelief. ‘Are you becoming delusional right now? Do I need to have you sectioned?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Ali had not been prepared for this conversation. She needed to buy time before trying to get Liv onside. ‘Look, it’s happened now.’ She tried for a soothing, more reasonable tone, something that made her sound like a person in control. ‘I’m just going to let it play out for a couple of months, just until the awards are over. Then things’ll die down, and people will forget.’

  ‘Ali—’ Liv was interrupted by Ali’s phone buzzing among the bed sheets.

  Saved by Tinder Sam. She’d better answer him. ‘I have to get this,’ Ali told Liv, turning slightly to shield the conversation from her.

  ‘Ali, you’re freaking me out – why didn’t you answer my calls?’ Tinder Sam sounded like a man on the edge.

  ‘Hey, yeah, I know, it’s been mad – but don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything. We’ll sort it all out. Let’s just talk on Monday

  – I’m in the middle of something. No more calling now, and I’ll see you at Grogan’s at six on Monday. OK?’

  ‘OK, it’s just … I mean … how are you, like—?’

  ‘OK, byeee.’ Ali cut him off before he could ask any more questions. Ones that would be considerably harder to answer.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Ehm, it was just,’ Ali stooped to check her face in the mirror and tried to sound casual, ‘Tinder Sam.’

  ‘Tinder Sam?’ Liv looked bewildered, then obviously a little internal arithmetic meant the penny dropped. ‘Stop. He thinks this has something to do with him?’

  ‘Well …’ Ali bustled about the room avoiding Liv’s eyes and starting to get dressed for work.

  ‘Ali!’