Filter This

by Sophie White

  As a kid, crouched at the base of the large bay windows on either side of the front door, you couldn’t even see the front garden or the narrow road in front of the house, and Ali had pretended to steer the house over choppy seas to the tongue of land across the bay. On this evening, Ali had crouched in the fading glow of the hall, rooting through the trunk by the foot of the stairs. She’d grabbed a rough, cardboardy towel, pulled her jersey dress – under which she wore her togs – off over her head and hung it on the end of the banisters. She kicked off her trainers and headed back out the door towards the sea and sky.

  She and Miles had swum a lazy, companionable breaststroke out to the far buoy and back. It was amazing that Miles still seemed so confident in the water. He no longer drove or cooked, he couldn’t deal with the Sky box at all, he asked the same questions over and over, but every day of the year he still planted his feet firmly on a smooth flat rock that Ali – and the others on the terrace – called Miles’s Rock. He paused to absorb the moment, raised his arms to make a V, bent his knees and bowed his head.

  Ali didn’t like to wonder about how frightened he really must be. What happened when everything became unmoored inside your head? What did it feel like to scrabble after your thoughts and memories as they fled in every direction? And the harder you tried to grasp it, the harder it was to hold on to your life. It was so unfair. When Miles dove in to the sea he seemed at home, for a while at least.

  Ali told him about the new job and Miles even fetched up some stories from his theatre years, when he’d acted with people who’d gone on to be the biggest names in Ireland’s entertainment industry. He knew one of the older actors on Durty Aul’ Town, and though he didn’t get his name, he did remember a funny story about how, when they were young, the guy had been in a show and had stolen the toaster and kettle from the props department every night to bring to his bedsit and then brought them back into work every morning.

  After the swim, they’d gone in to eat and then Ali buzzed home, leaving Miles safe with Dom until Mini got back. It was a perfect night. Nothing had happened, as such, but those were the good days, as Ali learned later. The days we ignore will be some of our happiest, Ali had realised, since life had become considerably more eventful and more painful. She hated thinking about that day for a whole host of thorny reasons. Revisiting it was like plunging a hand into brambles. She felt bad for being impatient with Miles’s searching for words, getting names wrong as they chatted, for not staying and helping him to bed, for being too scared to deal with the reality of their situation, for leaving it to Dom. For the fact that they had Dom in the first place. She should’ve moved home and been the one to take care of Miles. But trying to sort through the regrets was pointless. Ali emerged from the memory, swallowing hard to combat the tears that threatened.

  Good things, Ali, think of good things. She picked up her phone to check on her still-growing following. As she flicked over the notifications, each little heart and new follower felt like a little hit of joy pulling her back to the present and easing the ache inside.

  ‘Ali!’ Kate flung open the door of the prefab. ‘You dark horse, or should I say broodmare!’ She leapt over, her long brown curls bouncing, to give Ali a hug and a kiss. Then she flung herself into the neighbouring chair. ‘I cannot believe you told Instagram before you told me. Well, actually, maybe I can.’ She giggled. ‘How many followers are you on now?’

  Ali, grinning, handed over her phone.

  ‘Oh you fucking betch.’ Kate’s green eyes widened. Her lashes were so long Ali could practically hear them rustling when she blinked. ‘This is deadly. I am so glad you called. I’ve picked up so much working at Keane Eye and with launching @ShreddingForTheWedding. First things first, we need to brand this fucker. I hope you don’t mind me saying, the pregnancy announcement was a bit haphazard.’

  Ali nodded regretfully as Kate carried on sternly. ‘There’s no more room for sloppiness. Marian Keane’s first rule of branding is don’t play in someone else’s backyard. This pregnancy journey has to stand out and be uniquely yours. Any thoughts on a hashtag? You need something catchy. And maybe change your handle to reflect the new direction your Insta’s taking – at work we always advise clients to do that.

  ‘Well,’ Ali consulted her notes from the weekend, ‘Shelly used #ShellysBelly during her first pregnancy. It’s pretty good – sounds kind of cute and cosy, relatable. I was thinking Ali’s Pally? Or Ali’s Little Pally?’

  ‘Booze to Bump?’ Kate offered, winking. ‘God, no drinking for nine months. And a baby at the end. It’s mad, isn’t it? I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.’

  ‘Well, it was just a hook-up.’ Ali was uncomfortable – it was the first time she’d had to lie directly to someone. ‘Nothing goes with “Ali”,’ she moaned, to change the subject.

  ‘Muhammad Ali? Momma Ali? Would anyone get the reference?’ Kate wondered. ‘Does the reference even make any sense?’

  ‘Ali or Nothing? Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves? I’m just typing random words now.’

  ‘Wait! Ali Baba. Ali’s Baba! It’s perfect. #AlisBaba! Ali’s Baba and the 40 Weeks.’ Kate clapped her hands.

  ‘Yesss.’ Ali deleted the dross and retitled the doc ‘Ali’s Baba’.

  ‘Nailed it.’ Kate grinned. ‘So have you told your mum?’

  ‘Eh no, she’s very busy with work so I might leave it a while.’ Ali tried to look busy, flicking through the open tabs on her browser.

  ‘God, speaking of: what are you going to do about work? It’s just so massive!’

  Ali ignored her and pulled up the article on branding she’d bookmarked on Medium. Turning the screen towards Kate she said, ‘This says lead with the story not the product.’

  Kate nodded sagely, once more invoking her boss. ‘Marian says “define your narrative”. It’s so important. Are you bravely going it alone? Were you “trying”? Or are you going to come clean about the hook-up? It’s super relatable. Plus what’s your aesthetic and tone gonna be?’

  ‘I actually put together a Pinterest board last night, hang on.’

  Ali handed the phone to Kate and she examined the various Insta-posts Ali had pulled together. ‘There seem to be two kinds of preggers bitch on the ’gram,’ Ali explained. ‘The yummy-perfect-elaborately-staged-bump-update-shots-mummy or the more warts-and-all here’s-my-pregnancy-acne vibe.’

  ‘No offence, but I’d say you’re slightly more the pregnancy-acne gal,’ Kate said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ali grinned. ‘I think I’m going to go with visual perfection with occasional revelations about slight discomfort or giggling references to getting “chub rub” and eating “all the doughnuts” for relatability purposes.’

  ‘Some well-placed “brave admission” of anxiety or something like that would also be a good shout down the line,’ added Kate.

  Ali added ‘brave admission’ to the schedule. Just then she heard the unmistakable approach of Stephan outside the prefab.

  ‘Ali? Ali!’ Stephan was roaring. ‘You, where the fuck is my PA?’ She could see him through the window shouting at Jay Darcy, one of the biggest radio presenters in the station, clearly not recognising him – or not caring.

  ‘Shit.’ Ali scrambled to put away her stuff. ‘I have to get out there. WhatsApp later?’

  ‘Yep, I’ll slip out in five – don’t worry.’ Kate threw a couple of air kisses her way and hung back so as not to be spotted as Ali headed out the door.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Stephan was red from the raging. ‘You realise you are holding up an entire crew and cast right now?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was on break and then I lost track of time.’

  ‘Oh yeah, shitting out another spec script for Terry, were you?’

  ‘No and eww.’ Ali could feel colour rush into her cheeks. She hadn’t asked Terry to keep quiet about her writing but she definitely didn’t think he’d tell Stephan.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, young one.’ Stephan stepped close to her. ‘You�
�re on your last chance here. You swapped shifts with Ruairí last week without a word to me, which is not part of procedure. I am trying to bring dramatic, timely and relevant stories into the homes of middle fucking Ireland. Every day I walk in here and I elevate the medium. Do you think that’s easy? With fuck-all budget and pissy little wans like you fucking around taking breaks and getting ideas above your station?’

  A huge chunk of the cast and crew were standing outside Bernie’s Bets, one of the fake shopfronts, watching her public humiliation. Of course, Seamus was there doing a Sympathetic Head Tilt. Ugh. Stephan was walking back to the set, already having moved on – that was how little Ali meant around here. It was just one of many dressing downs he’d likely dispense throughout the afternoon. No one ever stood up to him because he was such a lunatic. He had no qualms about firing people on the spot and right now, thinking of her growing following and the offers of sponcon and partnerships rolling into her inbox, Ali felt reckless.

  ‘Stephan?’ she called after him quietly.

  He turned, looking peeved. ‘Still intent on delaying us, Ms Jones?’ he sneered.

  ‘Sorry for holding up the “art”,’ Ali replied. ‘I just wanted to know were you always such a prick, or is it just since you can’t get your dick hard anymore?’

  Gasps and stifled giggles rippled through the assembled cast and crew and Ali smiled sweetly at Stephan, who stormed over to Ruairí.

  ‘Call security, get this lying little bitch out of here.’

  Ruairí hurried off, looking stunned.

  ‘Excuse me, Stephan?’ She was done now, might as well enjoy it. ‘Helloo-oo? This lying little bitch still has a few things of yours.’ She delved into her pack and began tossing his keto snacks and various meds towards him. ‘Although I don’t know why anyone would need Viagra at work.’ She shrugged innocently and chucked the pack straight at him just as security arrived to manhandle her off the lot.

  That was fun, she thought. Probably the most satisfying moment of my life. And she owed it all to Insta!

  12

  Ali settled herself on the bus into town, still glowing from the showdown with Stephan. Who’d have thought she’d leave work on the day of being fired feeling so invigorated? It was still too early to head into Grogan’s to meet Tinder Sam but maybe she’d browse the shops. Though easy on the spending, she thought, at least until the first Insta-deal came through. She checked her balance. Hmmm, maybe I should’ve looked at this before calling Stephan a floppy-dicked prick? A little over a grand. She’d just paid rent so at least that was sorted. It’d be OK – she thought of the money she’d get for the folic acid post she’d accepted that morning. €500 to tell her now nearly twenty thousand followers how much she loved Follan’s Folic Acid!

  She plugged in her earphones and brought up Shelly’s Insta-story. A nice little distraction was in order. Never mind telling strangers about supplements, she had no clear plan of what she’d be telling Tinder Sam later, and a little holiday in Shelly’s banal, beige world was always oddly comforting.

  Shelly was on a holiday of her own, apparently, in a plush hotel room overlooking the ocean, giving a spectacularly dull tour of the various seaweed shampoos and volcanic body scrubs.

  ‘If only all Mondays could be like this. Mr Devine and I have decided to treat ourselves to a little impromptu staycation in the gorge Ballinahagh House. Ballinahagh House boasts beautiful sea views, world-class restaurant The Eden Bush and also has bar food available in the family-friendly Cockles and Mussels lounge …’

  Ugh, the plugging is just too much sometimes – she sounds like she’s reading straight from the press release, thought Ali, skipping forward a couple of Stories. Now Shelly was on the balcony zooming in on a distant figure strolling down at the water’s edge and talking some nauseating shite about her gorgeous husband.

  ‘Fucking hell, we get it, he’s a ride – just put it away,’ murmured Ali, forgetting she was on the bus. The older woman beside her scowled at her and Ali laughed. ‘Soz, but she never stops going on about him and, like, he’s daytime-TV hot at most!’

  The cranky woman turned back to the window and Ali resumed her Stories. The next one showed a selfie with the distant Dan Devine in the background, captioned ‘my heart’. I’m actually gonna vom in my mouth now, thought Ali. Why is he all the way over there if you’re so in love?

  Suddenly it occurred to her, perhaps for the first time ever, that these were real people. Inside her phone they all seemed so distant and abstract. She flicked back to the selfie with the tiny figure in the background turned away. Shelly was radiant as per usual: her dark hair was twisted into an artfully careless side plait; her make-up was subtle – her big blue eyes, high cheekbones and full lips didn’t need much help. But peering closer, was there a hint of tension around the mouth? And she looked a little wan. Trouble in the beige kingdom? wondered Ali, who couldn’t help but feel a dark, cruel little shiver of pleasure at the prospect. Stop it, Ali, she admonished herself. There’s a word for that – schadenfreude. Or just plain old bitch. Ali put away the phone, pulled herself up and headed to the front of the bus – her stop was next. She had two hours to figure out what to do with Tinder Sam.

  Shelly was frantic as she dashed around her huge suite with its wrap-around balcony overlooking a desolate beach. She consulted the list Amy had sent her. The bathroom-products tour was done and the various necessary details regarding Ballinahagh House. Amy had the dinner pics taken care of – the hotel publicist had sent shots of the food directly to Amy to caption and post while they were eating. Dan had huffed his way through many a free high-end dining experience because Shelly had to take a few snaps for her channels, and Shelly needed to keep him sweet before dropping the baby bomb. He’d been pretty wary of the trip when she’d proposed it in bed on Friday night.

  ‘I’d rather pay for a nice hotel and it just be us, babe. All this play-acting for the ’gram – it’s embarrassing.’ He’d been in a more reasonable mood than the day before and she didn’t detect a derisive tone, rather the tone of someone a bit worn out.

  ‘I promise it’s just going to be us,’ she’d said, moving closer to nuzzle his neck the way he liked. She and Amy had engineered every last detail so that, bar a few teeny bits of housekeeping, Shelly could be totally focused on Dan while Amy did the Insta-updating remotely. Though when she thought of all the trouble they were going to just to keep Dan sweet, she felt irritated. Lots of people would enjoy this kind of thing but Dan seemed unwilling to either enjoy it or accept that it was work.

  The phone buzzed on the marble-topped table beside the enormous bed. Amy on the WhatsApp reminding her of the dress she needed to plug for the #DateNightOutfit pic. She didn’t want to give Dan any ammo about her being glued to Insta so her plan was to take the picture now, before they went for their couples massage, and save it in Drafts, then post it discreetly later (7.30 p.m. according to Amy’s schedule). She checked the time. Dan had been gone for forty minutes, which meant he’d be back any second. Better hustle.

  She flipped open the top of her weekend bag – the source of the first fight of the trip (if you didn’t count Dan complaining about coming in the first place, which Shelly chose not to). The bags were from Louis Vuitton and they’d had to do a couple of pictures with them before leaving to drive the forty-five minutes to Ballinahagh House. Dan had erupted in front of Amy, which was rare for him.

  ‘I’m not posing with this man-bag,’ he’d said scathingly. Amy looked unfazed but Shelly felt uneasy. Dan sounded kind of homophobic the way he was saying man-bag – it was mortifying.

  ‘Don’t then,’ snapped Shelly. They quickly did some shots with Shelly that Amy would upload later.

  ‘I’ll sort the man-bag thing,’ muttered Amy. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Shelly had said goodbye to Georgie, who was staying with Marni until Shelly’s mum came to collect her in an hour or so. She could see Amy discreetly filming the farewell and Shelly cringed a little. What kind of life had
she opted into?

  They’d got into the car – one they didn’t pay for: it was #gifted by the car company, not that Dan would ever complain about that. He’d been excited the day they went to pick it out a year before. They’d probably be getting another model in a couple of months. Shelly buckled up as Dan chose some obnoxious throbbing bass music for the drive. No ‘what would you like to listen to?’ Nothing. Shelly had waved to Georgie out the window and felt a stab of guilt.

  She loved her daughter, but for some reason she was forever stuck in a loop of guilty feelings about her. Just like right now. She felt happy to be getting a little break and a chance to spend time with Dan, but then she felt bad about being happy at getting a break away from her darling girl. It was exhausting. Did other mums feel this? She didn’t really know the yummy Insta-mums like Hazel well enough to ask them, and Plum only had her stepkids who she only saw on weekends for comparison. Also, she was keenly aware of the role Georgie played in the appeal of SHELLY the brand. Was it exploitative to feature her on the various SHELLY platforms? Especially when she was such a terrible mother?

  ‘All mothers think they’re terrible mothers,’ her own had advised when Shelly sought reassurance, but it didn’t take away the wretched feeling that seemed to haunt her every interaction with Georgie. Sandra thought she was too hard on herself. She’d come with her to the doctor and held the tiny Georgie, just a few months old, while Shelly went in and tried to explain the bottomless fear that seemed to engulf her whenever she was alone with the baby.

  After, when her Instagram began to take off, Sandra was encouraging but still worried about her. ‘You don’t have to be the perfect mother,’ Sandra had reminded her as Shelly posed with the baby for a picture. ‘Just be present, that’s all I was.’