Filter This

by Sophie White

  ‘I’m going to meet him on Monday and we’ll talk everything out.’ Ali was keeping it deliberately vague – she didn’t even know what she was going to say to him yet.

  ‘Do I need to remind you of a little something called the Tan Ram?’ Liv was starting to look amused in spite of herself.

  Ali groaned. ‘Stop, I’m trying not to think about it.’

  It had been the perfect date until things got messy – in the most literal, visceral sense. All had been going well. Dinner chat had been nice. Tinder Sam appeared to be some kind of office man – Ali had checked out of the conversation for a few key moments, mentally wording the Insta-post she was going to sneak off to the bathroom to upload, and missed the whole job explanation. He had a nice smile and a good sense of humour. By the time the second pitcher had been ordered, Ali was set on hooking up.

  They’d headed back to Tinder Sam’s place in Rathmines, even doing a little light hand-holding as they strolled down the canal. Ali took a few surreptitious shots for the ’gram and was pleasantly buzzed from the booze and the promise of what was to come. Other loved-up couples were meandering along the path and Ali was struck by how they too must look like that. Young. Happy. Normal. These were not things Ali associated with herself, and it felt more like she was trying it on for size than really living it. Tinder Sam was asking her about her family.

  ‘Let’s take a selfie!’ she interrupted brightly – she didn’t want to kill the mood with any information that might lead him to the dreaded Sympathetic Head Tilt.

  He laughed and bent his head towards hers for the picture. At the last moment, he turned his head and went in for the kiss. The move was definitely a bit lurching and awkward but Ali had to hand it to him – top marks for catching her off-guard. And mega marks for delivering what was practically a white whale in the Insta-world: a kissing selfie that didn’t look totally staged and cringe.

  The flat was in the basement of a fairly manky Georgian house. Guys’ flats always let them down, she’d observed, following Tinder Sam through a dark, narrow hall and into a dingy front room. There was always a Reservoir Dogs poster or some naff Bob Marley pic and an underlying smell of Bovril. Not that her own bedroom was much better. She rounded the doorframe and came face to face with a tie-dyed purple marijuana-leaf wall-hanging with Bob’s face emblazoned in the centre. On the far wall hung a framed (framed?) picture of Al Pacino. Bingo, thought Ali.

  They started kissing on the futon (of course it was a futon) and it was very, very nice, Ali had to admit. Even more than his broad shoulders and the way he could pick her up and pull her on to his lap, his smell appealed to Ali in a way she’d never experienced before. He wasn’t drenched in some hideous man-perfume called Grunt or Machete – he just smelled good. She pulled his T-shirt over his head and he looked up at her grinning shyly, which was cute as fuck. He seemed a funny mix of confident and boyish. He put his hands on her waist and pushed her top up a bit, stopping just under her breasts, his fingers edging in to that sensitive place. His left thumb wandered further up, grazing her nipple through the cotton of her bra.

  ‘Where’s your bed?’ whispered Ali.

  Tinder Sam hopped up enthusiastically and pulled her into the back room, which was extremely basic. How do guys live like this? Ali wondered. White built-in wardrobes lined one wall, a double bed butted up against another and a single depressing light bulb dangled overhead. Tinder Sam had undressed faster than anything she’d ever seen, his shyness apparently gone the way of his clothes. She liked this lack of self-consciousness. It was kind of unexpected. He unzipped her skirt and pulled her knickers down. He was good at this. Ali giggled slightly but then gasped in surprise as he kneeled and started to tongue her. Fuck, he could be a real potential, she thought, just as her eyes raised and locked on a deeply disturbing sight.

  Hanging on the wall opposite in this supremely monastic room was the single interior-design decision Tinder Sam had made in his bedroom. A Love Actually poster. Jaysus. What is that about? Tinder Sam was still doing lovely things, but now Ali was consumed by the unnerving thought that Tinder Sam liked Love Actually – liked it so much he had procured a poster and hung it proudly in his room.

  There’s not much worse that could be on a boy’s bedroom wall, reflected Ali sadly. Maybe a message written in blood like ‘I want to eat your face’? That would certainly be a red flag too. Though at least something like that would suggest a somewhat original mind with discerning tastes, but Love Fucking Actually? That’s a hard no from me, thought Ali sadly. Better just sex ’n’ go.

  And this was when things started to go really downhill. As they were finding their rhythm, and Ali had managed to momentarily forget Tinder Sam’s bizarre predilection for shite romcoms, a strange slippery sensation was kind of thwarting the movement. Initially Ali thought maybe Tinder Sam was a sweater but then realised his back was dry and the moistness was mainly in the legs and crotch area. Ali snuck a look and recoiled. What the fuck?

  ‘It was like a dirty protest,’ she’d wailed, filling Liv in later over tea and stress-biscuits in the kitchen.

  Liv was laughing so hard she was unable to speak. She’d leaned over and peered under the table at Ali’s legs, which were indeed a mess, streaked with unsightly stripes of darker and darker shades of brown.

  ‘It. Was. Everywhere.’ Ali had covered her face with equally muddy brown hands that must have suffered some contact dirty protesting and was speaking through her fingers. ‘The sheets. Me. Him. Ick. It was an ick-fest.’

  ‘A shitemare.’ Liv nodded in sympathy. ‘At least it wasn’t actual shite,’ she offered by way of consolation.

  Ali looked up – her hands had left even more brown streaks on her face. ‘This is the point I’ve hit with Tinder dates? “Well, at least I didn’t shit myself!”’ she said in a faux-happy voice.

  This started Liv off laughing again. She wiped her eyes, gasping for breath. ‘What happened? What did he do?’

  At this Ali buried her head in her hands once more. ‘It was a new tan, Chocolate Starfish …’

  Liv snorted. ‘Where do they get these names?’

  Ali ignored this and continued, ‘I’d put it on right before I left and I didn’t rinse it off cos I was late and I didn’t think it’d matter. Anyway, once we got started with the, ya know, business time, well, it was very hot and –’

  ‘Moist?’ supplied Liv and they both cringed in unison. ‘Moist’ was their most hated word.

  ‘There was just a lot of … flesh-slapping, ya know,’ Ali went on, wincing at the memory of Tinder Sam’s face when he’d looked down. ‘Anyhow, the whole thing must’ve, like, activated the tan and it was all lubey and sweaty and brown. Ugh. It was the worst.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Well, he finished.’

  Liv snorted at this. ‘Amazing, guys can overcome anything at that moment. You could probably have shown him a picture of a headless torso and he would’ve just kept at it. Did you finish?’

  ‘Nope, I literally said “sorry about the sheets” and fucked it out of there. And now I must go to bed and pass away from mortification.’ Ali’d grabbed a final few stress-biscuits and trudged towards the door

  ‘Yeah.’ Liv had nodded sadly. ‘Maybe give yourself a little rinse beforehand,’ she offered with a slight smirk.

  ‘Fuck you.’ Ali had chucked a biscuit at her. ‘I know it’s funny but it’s also such a shame – before the whole Love Actually thing and the bed shitting, he actually seemed pretty cool …’

  ‘So did you hear from him since the date then?’ Liv’s voice brought Ali back to the present and gave her a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Liv’s curiosity about Tinder Sam was outweighing her pissiness about the faux foetus?

  ‘No, he DM’d me and even tried to instigate a chat a couple of weeks later but I just couldn’t bear to talk to him. I was too morto.’

  ‘But if he didn’t have a problem with the Tan Ram, then no big deal, no?’ Liv persisted. She was clearly suffic
iently distracted from the fake pregnancy for the time being, thought Ali, relieved.

  ‘If he didn’t have a problem with the Tan Ram then I don’t really know what to do with that.’ Ali laughed.

  ‘Oh, you reckon he’s … scatty?’ Liv raised her brows and pursed her lips.

  ‘Shut up!’ said Ali. ‘Look, maybe I was too quick to write him off and now, well …’

  ‘You need a fake baby daddy,’ finished Liv. ‘Gotcha. All I can say is this will be a disaster. I am honestly concerned for your mental health and I’m going to go Google “psychotic break symptoms” right now.’

  ‘Thanks for the show of support,’ Ali retorted.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you need my support during this very difficult fake crisis pregnancy?’ Ali knew Liv had dropped the outrage, at least momentarily, by her tone, which was still kind of stern but a little playful too. ‘I. Am. Here. For. You.’ Liv adopted the emphatic rhythm of an American reality TV star. ‘Whatever you need. Rub your feet? Steal you a baby? I am on it. Perineum massage?’

  ‘Eww. What even is that?’

  ‘Worst fake pregnant lady ever, Ali. You need to do your homework.’

  ‘I will,’ insisted Ali, by now poised to head for work – she didn’t want to leave Liv unsupervised in her room, but she remained stubbornly seated on the bed.

  ‘You’re not even going to ask how the thesis extension went, are you? This is how it always goes. Everything is more important than my academic stuff. I wrote that my last paper was being published in the WhatsApp group and there were tumbleweeds. Then Jess is all “that Tinder guy came on my tits” and it’s like an emoji exploji. Now even a fake baby is stealing my thunder.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry – did you settle on a title for the thesis? Has Emer still not mentioned the messages?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  Ali took a moment to sort those answers. ‘Great, so she’s ready to move on and ignore your demented Solpadeine-fuelled outburst.’

  ‘Yep and I am going to continue aggressively pretending I don’t care about her until I actually somehow don’t. That works, right? Wanna know what my thesis title is? I think you might relate …’

  From Liv’s wily little smirk, Ali sensed this was a trick question, but she needed to wrap this up and get over to the station. ‘Go on.’

  ‘“Fear and Self-Loathing in the Insta Age: A Cultural Analysis of Why a New Generation Would Rather Live a Lie than Face Reality”. That’s not too close to the bone now, is it, Ali?’

  ‘No.’ Ali started herding Liv towards the door. ‘That is not what I am doing here. Look, just keep me out of it, please. I have to go. I’ll see you later. Domino’s? Cheesy Crust?’ Ali was deliberately invoking their fave to get Liv back onside.

  ‘OK, you’re buying. If you don’t want me to out you as a foetus faker, that is – hey, this whole thing has a pretty sweet upside for me,’ Liv exclaimed faux brightly as Ali gave her a final friendly shove out of the room and down the hall.

  Ducking back in, she grabbed her bag, laptop and phone, snapped a quick #OOTD for the ’gram and slammed the door behind her.

  11

  Over the weekend Ali’d kept a low profile. Liv had gone very quiet on the matter of the pregnancy, which was freaking Ali out more than anything. She’d become increasingly annoyed as the days passed without Ali resolving the issue and now a stony silence was reigning over breakfast. Ali couldn’t even bring herself to do a proats Insta-post while Liv sat sullenly across from her.

  ‘What are you up to today?’ Ali tried.

  ‘I’m going to UCD to meet a PhD student who is writing a thesis on the selfie. I’m hoping she’s going to supply some quotes for one of the central chapters.’ Liv didn’t even look up from her day planner as she spoke and Ali nervously fiddled with her toast. She couldn’t deal with Liv being angry with her – Mondays were depressing enough.

  ‘Ah, cool.’ Ali nodded.

  ‘I suppose you want a lift to work? Is that why you’re bothering to ask?’ Liv fixed Ali with a bitchy smile.

  ‘No! I always ask what you’re up to. Please don’t be like this.’

  Liv stood suddenly and started shoving her planner and notes into her bag. ‘I just can’t believe you’ve let the whole weekend go without fixing this thing. And you’re going to meet Tinder Sam tonight and say what?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ Ali faltered. ‘I’m going to work that out today. Kate’s coming down to work over lunch and we’re going to make a plan.’

  ‘Does Kate know the truth?’

  ‘She doesn’t need to know. She’s just gonna help me with the Insta-strategy – the bump journey and stuff.’ Ali squirmed a little – she knew how it sounded.

  Liv looked stunned. ‘So you’re actually going ahead with this?’

  ‘Just for a couple of months, just until the awards, and then I’ll figure it out. I’ll say I was a surrogate or something. It’s not hurting anyone.’

  ‘Isn’t it, Ali?’ Liv replied starkly before leaving the kitchen, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  Ali spent the morning in studio, coordinating scenes, and then settled into one of the empty prefab offices just behind the fake Ballyknocken main street that served as background for all exterior scenes in Durty Aul’ Town. It was the perfect place to work for an hour, as the rest of the day would be spent filming an outdoor scene in which John Jo, the resident troublemaker played by her old college ‘chum’ Seamus, would be dealing some cocaine to the youths of Ballyknocken ahead of a disco in the community centre that was serving as this week’s dramatic climax.

  She sent Kate a voicenote with directions for where to find her and pulled out her laptop. She’d spent the weekend replying to the PRs offering money for branded content, setting up meetings and feverishly researching the ‘mumfluencer’ thing. Just what the hell did they do? How much was too much? A browse on the hashtag ‘bumpjourney’ quickly told her nothing was off-limits.

  She marvelled at how lucrative kids-as-content seemed to be. Insta-mums at Disneyland and on cruises, snaps showing improbably perfect houses filled with improbably perfect children. Here was an English Insta-mum in her exquisite bathroom in Somerset bathing her baby in a claw-footed bath of milk infused with Earl Grey and lavender sponsored by Twinings. Jaysus, thought Ali. Further investigation uncovered only more bonkers iterations of the same pristine and perfect scenes of motherland.

  She knew she needed to be smart about this bump thing. It had to play out perfectly. Not a single scrap of bump content could be squandered. After her little fact-finding mission, she realised that every step of the #bumpjourney had to be engineered to within an inch of its life. At least not actually being pregnant would make all this considerably easier, thought Ali, observing the #bumpshoot of an American mumfluencer who had arranged her artfully nude, heavily pregnant body into an aerial yoga pose. Some of this shit would be hard enough to manage when you weren’t growing a whole other person inside you.

  She brought up a Word doc and started to lay out a timeline for the next nine months. She added the date of the Glossies, Thursday, 28 March, and calculated that she’d be roughly fifteen weeks pregnant by then. A bit of image searching told her there’d be no need for bump padding at that stage. Women showed at different stages, according to BumpAndMama.com, and often first-time pregnancies wouldn’t show until five or six months. Bingo. Ali began adding other key dates, consulting the website’s month-by-month pregnancy guide – first doctor’s appointment, first scan. She was getting into the swing of this and feeling productive and excited. She couldn’t wait to do her first #bumpjourney post.

  When had she last felt this good? A memory surfaced instantly. It was a memory she usually pushed away – it hurt too much to go there – but today, feeling this good, she felt safe to remember.

  It was three years ago, the day she got the job on Durty Aul’ Town. She’d cycled out to her parents’ house in Seapoint. It was early May and the days were stretching, fill
ing – it had seemed – with possibility. Their house, the house she’d grown up in, was the last in a row of five Georgian villas set down a lane below the coast road just south of the city. These houses were special, each painted a pale pastel – pale green, blue, yellow, peach and, theirs, the last in the row, dove grey. The sea was so close, waves practically lapped at the gates. All summer long, day-trippers could be heard marvelling, ‘Imagine living here,’ and that evening Ali missed it. She’d swung her bike through their gate and practically collided with Miles who was trooping barefoot down the path in just swimming shorts with a threadbare maroon towel slung over his broad tanned shoulders.

  ‘Hey!’ His greeting was warm and ever-so-slightly tinged with a vagueness that had become a familiar aspect of his speech. You wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him; if Miles’s voice had not been the soundtrack to your life, you wouldn’t hear it. Ali heard it and had to suppress a flinch every time. He hugged her and then, gripping her shoulders lightly, stooped to her level, smiling, seeking her smile in return. Ali recognised this for what it was: a stalling tactic.

  Miles was about fifty-seven at the time and had been diagnosed eighteen months before. In that time, he had become adept at fudging the lapses and gaps in his memory. His acting days had come back to help him play his final part: himself. She smiled back. His were the same wide, hooded brown eyes that she possessed.

  ‘My pal.’ He grinned. That’ll do, Ali’d thought. He knows my name – it’s just not coming this second. He’d always called her ‘pal’ or ‘Ali Pally’. ‘Coming for a dip?’

  ‘Yep, hang on, I’ll grab a towel.’ Ali hopped off the bike and leaned it across the gate to keep Miles from continuing on to the water. It wasn’t necessary, just a precaution. Miles had a companion for when Mini was out working, Dominique, and she was probably just inside.

  Ali started back up the path, spying Dom waving at the bay window to the right of the front door. Ali waved back and headed up the stone steps and into the hall. The evening sun was still streaming into the garden at the back of the house onto which Mini had added the light-filled glass cube mandatory in all south Dublin homes of the wealthy, but Ali preferred the rest of the house, which had mostly retained its unruly, slightly wonky floorboards and mildly maritime mood.