Filter This

by Sophie White

  Sandra couldn’t know that even that made Shelly feel bad. She worried constantly that she was most present for her daughter when it was for Instagram. She felt fraudulent, the captions, now mostly penned by Amy, braying about how much she adored motherhood felt like a terrible lie.

  Now she idly picked up her phone to see that Amy had already posted the video of her saying goodbye to Georgie to the Shelly Insta-account.

  Need to squeeze in every last hug – gonna miss my girl so much while we’re away basking in 5-star luxury in @ BallinahaghHouse.

  Jesus. And now she was bringing another baby into this bizarre pantomime. Speaking of which, she needed to get this #DateNightOutfit snapped before Dan returned and she’d have to hide the phone.

  Date night and I am loving my outfit from @oliviascloset. Feeling so blessed to be sharing this rollercoaster adventure of a life with the @DivineDanDevine. The last few years have been such a joy, with the arrival of @BabyGeorgie and the launch of my footwear line, writing my first lifestyle book INSPO FOR EVERY DAY and, of course, by my side through every incredible achievement was my husband. We’ve snuck away for a couple of loved-up days in the tranquil surrounds of @BallinahaghHouse. #love #family #datenight #DateNightOOTD #DateNightOutfit #irishinfluencer #irishmama #mumfluencer #secondhoneymoon #WinterBreak

  Shelly checked the pic over one last time. She wasn’t as good as Amy at FaceFix. She erased a spot on her chin – presumably soon to be joined by many more, the bloody joys of pregnancy acne – and shaved a few centimetres off her waist. The dress was actually gorgeous, lilac, which suited her dark hair, and kind of twenties style. It was short, heavily beaded and plunged low in front, which was working nicely with the early pregnancy boob job she was currently enjoying – pity they were so sore to the touch. Dan would surely want some action tonight but the thought of anyone coming near her in her current state was deeply unappealing. Still, wearing this flirty little dress, showering Dan with all the attention and having sex would definitely set the scene for Baby Bomb.

  Did other people have to work this hard with their husbands? It hadn’t been so hard at the beginning. They’d travelled and stayed in glamorous hotels and partied with their friends, though the group had started to shift and drift, as was the way with these things. And Dan had been looser then – old Dan would definitely not have been uptight about a few pictures on the internet. Though old Shelly had been very different too. Old Shelly probably wouldn’t have done anything Dan didn’t a hundred per cent approve of. So maybe that’s what happened. She changed and he couldn’t deal with it.

  Yep, relationships were hard work – but what if only one person was trying?

  Shelly gave the retouched pic a final filter to bring up the highlights and give the whole thing that all-important glow of perfection. She regarded the girl in the picture, who was now a few times removed from the woman sitting in a borrowed dress in all-the-strings-attached luxury waiting for a man she used to adore unquestioningly.

  She hit Save in Drafts, ready for later, and then quickly took the dress off. The weight of it slipping to the floor was oddly satisfying – here was something substantial in this invented world of hers. Costume change. She pulled on the bathrobe and put her hair up into a topknot. She slicked a little serum over her make-up to give her a fresh-faced no-make-up-but-still-frankly-perfect look – another minor deception from Amy’s arsenal of tricks – and turned the camera on.

  ‘Shell-Belles! We are just basking in this gorgeous reprieve from the Georgie-juggle – you know what I mean, mamas! We love them but sometimes you just need some mummy–daddy time.’ She winked. ‘We’re just about to hit the spa to get some majorly needed chillaxation in, if Dan Devine would ever get a move on!’ She raised her voice as if trying to be heard by some nearby pesky husband. As if they had a playful, easy relationship. She posted the Story then did several Boomerang takes to get the exactly right, perfectly adorable eye-rolling one, over which she typed:

  What is it with men taking AGES to get ready? And they think WE’RE the bad ones!

  Check. Filter. Share.

  Great! With the Dan and Shelly Show done, she was now ready to spend time in her actual marriage.

  Shelly stashed the phone, filled the bathroom sink and began to take off the sticky serum and her layers upon layers of make-up. Out of nowhere the tears began. I can’t be crying. Shelly pressed her manicured fingers to her cheeks, automatically trying to suppress the swell of sadness, dread and exhaustion – then she remembered that she didn’t need to be on camera for the rest of the night so red puffy eyes didn’t matter.

  She sank to the edge of the bath and gave in to the tears. The relief was profound. She didn’t quite allow the sobs that were threatening to boil over – that just wasn’t her style and she needed to keep an ear out for Dan, who’d be back any minute. He’d notice her blotchy face. Shelly had never been a subtle crier and he’d be grumpy that she was in one of her ‘moods’ – not that he’d even acknowledge it. She’d bet her life on him not so much as asking if she was alright. A little thought wormed its way in. Do I even like him anymore?

  Shelly squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to dodge the question even though it was coming from within. A small part of her was starting to admit the answer to this was probably not. But life felt like it was steamrolling ahead and any attempts to change course or dismantle what she’d created – Shelly’s Perfect Life – seemed impossible. Instead she sat having her very contained, economical cry and then washed her face as soon as she heard Dan come in.

  13

  Ali stood in the side passageway of Grogan’s and peered round the door into the pub. Tinder Sam was there sitting in front of a pint surrounded by the weary Monday-night crowd. Seeing the pint made Ali want a pint. Damn this fake pregnancy, she thought, slinking back into the passageway to stall the inevitable awkwardness for a few more minutes. It was really going to make things tricky. What else was she not supposed to be doing? She’d have to do a Google deep dive at some point. In the meantime, what the actual fuck was she going to say to Tinder Sam?

  For the last few days, she’d only had to agree with people thinking she was pregnant, like Kate and the PRs who’d been inundating her. Except for the drunk Insta-post – which happened in a blackout and therefore, according to Ali’s Rules for Life, didn’t count – she hadn’t had to launch the info on anyone yet, especially someone who was presumably going to be very unhappy about it.

  She’d wasted the bus journey scrolling the Dublin Insta-mums’ pages, stealing their pregnancy memes to repackage for her own use later – after all, she’d no idea what kinda shite pregnant people would relate to – so she still didn’t have an opener prepped for Tinder Sam. As post-work punters squeezed past her into the pub to get in from the cold, Ali tried a few opening gambits on for size in her head.

  How about: ‘Hey, Tinder Sam! What’s your last name?’ Jaysus.

  Or ‘Tinder Sam, will you father an imaginary baby with me so I can score some free swag and rack up those sweet, sweet likes? I’ll give you any of the freebie make-up products that match your skin tone!’

  Maybe say as little as possible, thought Ali, or just back out right now.

  The backing out did seem like the most sensible thing to do. What if he freaked? Or didn’t believe her? The problem was that Ali kind of liked the excuse this gave her to see him again. She’d liked him. If it hadn’t been for the Love Actually thing and ruining his bed, she probably would’ve texted him back. He was a ride. Ali was just leaning forward to sneak another look at him when a huge figure barrelled round the door and straight into her.

  ‘Fuck.’ Ali was flattened on the sticky floor of Grogan’s side passage, arguably the most vom-anointed stretch of ground in Dublin. Tinder Sam’s stricken face was peering down at her.

  Well, that was the opening gambit taken care of.

  ‘Ali! Oh my god. Are you OK? Jesus, I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry.’ He pulled her to her feet and then, leani
ng close, whispered, ‘Should we go to the hospital? What do you do if you have a fall? Oh god, I can’t believe I did this.’ Tinder Sam looked ashen and Ali felt a wave of sympathy. Poor guy. First he hears he’s got a fake baby on the way, now he thinks he’s hurt the fake baby somehow.

  Ali found herself thrown by the sudden proximity of Tinder Sam – she’d forgotten about that vaguely intoxicating aura of his – and took a hasty step backwards.

  You can’t actually get with him, she reminded herself, he’s the fake-baby daddy. He’d pulled out his phone, his dark hair falling into his face as he scrolled in agitated manner. Ali felt a spark of irritation. What the hell’s he checking?

  Tinder Sam’s concerned face looked up. ‘The app says it’s fine – the baby is really well cushioned in there.’ He awkwardly indicated her tummy. Then a tentative smile broke on his face. ‘It says the baby’s, like, the size of a pea – that’s so cute. We should call her Sweet Pea until we, ya know, get to meet her. I deffo think it’s a girl!’ It was probably the most tender moment the side passage of Grogan’s had ever known – were it not for the light gaslighting taking place, of course.

  And never mind gaslighting – what the hell app was he talking about? Tinder Sam took her hand and led her through to the pub, gently settling her in a booth. He seemed to be interpreting her slightly bewildered manner as a result of her fall and was looking worried, offering, ‘Tea? Decaf coffee? Juice? Though juice could be a bit acidic on the tummy – is the morning sickness passing yet?’

  ‘Eh, ehmmm, yeah, no, I’m fine. With the vomming, like. I’ll have a Diet Coke.’

  ‘Is that OK for the baby? I use Diet Coke to clean bike parts.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Ali a little sharply – she needed him to go away for a minute so she could get a handle on the situation.

  ‘Sure, sure.’ He backed off a little. ‘Hormones are a bitch, right?’ He winked very cutely.

  ‘OK, I get it, you’ve googled pregnancy. Well done. You’re top of the I-banged-a-random-girl-and-now-I’m-supposed-to-be-the-nice-guy class. Get the drinks and we’ll talk.’ She shooed him away and he ambled off to the bar, grinning.

  He didn’t seem remotely put off by Ali’s bitchiness – rather he was amused by it, which she remembered from their date. It was part of what got her back to his depressing flat in the first place. Usually guys didn’t really get her. If she was being catty or bitchy, they never seemed to cop that she was joking. Tinder Sam had been entertained by her cutting remarks about a bad date unfolding at a nearby table where the guy was eating chicken wings with a knife and fork (‘Well, he’s got a date with his own hand later – no way she’ll be boning him now,’ she’d remarked).

  This whole encounter was already way off-script. Tinder Sam’s intense hotness was really disconcerting, for one thing. For another he was not responding to the news of her impending apparent womb-fruit with the appropriate horror and insensitivity associated with males of a certain age and demographic. He didn’t seem pissed off at all – if anything he was being really nice about it. It was fucking weird.

  He’d downloaded an app. This was a level of commitment that she could never have predicted. Phone storage was the scourge of millennial existence. Ali could not truthfully say that she would download a not-completely-essential app if the life of another human being depended on it. ‘He made space for me on his phone’ was the 2019 equivalent of ‘he gave me a spare key’.

  All of this would be amazing if she actually was gestating his bastard child. She remembered Kate getting pregnant off some stranger penis in college and the Stranger Penis had been utterly obnoxious when she’d informed him. From the get-go, she’d been planning to terminate the pregnancy, but he still took the conversation – that she’d had with him out of courtesy – as an opportunity to shame her and insist he couldn’t be the father.

  While it was hideous for Kate, it had served as inspo of sorts for Ali – she’d been counting on Tinder Sam being similarly dickish. Her plan had been for him to want nothing to do with the baby. She would say that was fine, and she would never bother him for anything in exchange for a few shots for Instagram of him posing as an adoring boyfriend and father-to-be, albeit with a fake name (she was planning on saving this element for after he agreed to the first bit).

  Him actually wanting to be involved and, worse, being excited about the prospect was, frankly, scuppering her. She’d been intending to blackmail him into participating, therefore retaining control over the plan. Him playing an active and willing part just seemed dangerous. She really needed to keep him at arm’s length, she thought, watching him make his way back to the table, especially given how hot he was.

  As he settled himself across from her, Ali delivered a silent micro pep talk. Ali, she sternly told herself, get the fuck over it, this is business. Stop looking at his shoulders and very, very nice arms, and smile and nice face.

  ‘So …’ Tinder Sam was smiling across at her. ‘Can you believe the due date? I mean, crazy or what?’

  Ali blanched. ‘I have to go. For a minute.’ She stood up abruptly, grabbing her bag and knocking over a stool in the process. ‘I need some air. Stay here. Don’t come after me,’ she said, sounding way more bonkers than she’d intended.

  He held up his hands as if to say ‘who – me?’

  Ali hurried outside to the cobbled street that was already beginning to fill with people clustered around the heaters, smoking and drinking pints. Liv was not the ideal person to be burdening with this stuff, she thought, but there was absolutely no one else.

  She pulled up WhatsApp and embarked on a garbled voicenote: ‘Liv, he fucking knows the due date. I don’t even know the due date. He’s into it, which is weird. It’s weird, right? And even worse he’s hot, way hotter than I remember. This was not the plan.’

  Anxiously, Ali sent the voicenote and stood watching as the tick went blue and she pictured Liv listening in the library – at this time she was usually working late in college – shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

  Ali felt jangly all of a sudden. This was advanced-level lying, way bigger than a caption on Instagram. She was basically lying directly into Tinder Sam’s face and it didn’t feel good. Liv’s response appeared in the WhatsApp thread; Ali hit Play and put the phone up to her ear.

  ‘The due date, wahey, that’s some advanced mathsing out of Tinder Sam – he could play a brilliant but tortured mathematician who exclusively communicates ideas by writing on window panes and falls for Jennifer Connelly. Tangent, but I for one am worried about Jennifer. She’s starring in the new Top Gun sequel, it seems like a cry for help …’ Ali laughed in spite of her mounting anxiety – that was the most Liv response ever. The voicenote continued. ‘Anyway, TBH I’m not seeing the problem with this. It sounds like everything is going great, oh wait, except, hang on … Isn’t that a fictitious baby you’re gestating there, Ali?’

  Suddenly the sound went funny – Ali could hear Liv fumbling with the phone and then distant voices. Ali strained to make out what was being said.

  ‘I got your email, Liv, and I do think you’re much more engaged with this idea. It’s timely and provocative. I can see it in print – if you give it the work.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m really glad you like it. It means so much to me that you’re into it …’ At this, the woman – who Ali now realised was none other than Emer ‘Still Has It at Fifty’ Breen – interjected.

  ‘Liv, that’s not what this is about. You can’t be doing this for the wrong reasons. Trying to win my approval will undermine the rigorous research this paper is going to require. If you’re trying to impress me because of whatever shared history we may have, well, that would be perhaps an indicator that you need another adviser.’

  Ali scowled – she sounded like a fucking robot. And Liv, if the impassioned ‘No, I’m not even thinking about us at all, I swear’ was anything to go by, was still firmly in the throes of Emer-mania.

  The voicenote ended there. Poor Liv. E
mer had been Liv’s first serious relationship, though Ali had wondered if it was all a bit too much on Emer’s terms. Liv had been touchy any time Ali had suggested this and, given Ali’s track record with guys, she didn’t exactly have much to offer in terms of advice. This was probably the first ‘second date’ she’d had in a year and, obviously, certain elements of the encounter would probably preclude it from being considered a bona fide date. At this, Ali’s focus snapped back to the situation at hand.

  She flicked into the Insta app and noted her following had swelled by another few hundred. In her notifications she spotted that she’d been included on a list of Hot New Mamas-to-Be to Follow on Instagram from Notions.ie. This thing was getting bigger, whatever about what telling Tinder Sam might mean. The fact was she was in now. Plus, given her performance on set today, she was relying on Insta for a lot more than a few freebies now – she needed this to pay off. A few deep breaths and Ali headed back in to Tinder Sam.

  14

  ‘Oh my god, Shelly! I love you!’

  Shelly looked up to see a girl, about twenty-something, phone-in-hand, standing by their table.

  ‘I am fully wearing the Shelly Contour Palette right now.’ She leaned further in to the table, turning her head to better display her expertly applied make-up and Dan, who’d been tucking into a huge steak, dropped his cutlery with a pointed clatter and folded his arms.

  ‘I have your book too, I love it, read it every night. And I’m wearing the Shelly Corn Protectors right now!’

  At this Dan snorted and Shelly winced. She knew she’d been right not to tell him about that particular brand collaboration. It was a couple of years ago, just before Amy had come on board and devised clearer guidelines for the company.

  Shelly smiled. ‘I’m so thrilled to hear you like, well, everything. Your contouring is fab.’ She was uneasy – it made her realise how little she was ever out with Dan anymore. She hadn’t had to do a meet-the-fans moment in front of him in a long time and it made her extremely self-conscious. Also, she was petrified this random gushing girl would ask him something related to his Instagram which, while he was aware of its existence, was a serious sore spot.