by Sophie White
‘Hi, Ms Devine? Bríd here from Malahide garda station. Do you have a minute?’
‘Yes!’ Shelly was so relieved to hear from her.
‘I have Ms Byrne in custody – that’s, ehm, Kelly Byrne, Insta-handle KellysKlobber.’
Shelly chanced a grin at this as she strolled further down the lawn. It all sounded so ridiculous coming out of a guard’s mouth.
‘We spent the morning going over her statement and it seems she isn’t responsible for the messages and pictures you’ve been receiving.’
Shelly faltered. ‘What? No, it has to be her.’
‘I’ve spent some time fact-checking her story and she’s telling the truth. She was actually receiving treatment during the period in which you received the messages. The facility where she was being cared for confirms this, and as the treatment was for a phone addiction, her devices were withheld throughout. We’ll keep looking into it, Ms Devine, I assure you.’
Shelly staggered slightly as she hung up the call. A cloud passed over the garden and she felt a chill that ran much deeper than a simple April breeze. She had never entertained the thought that it could be anyone else. Her phone chirped. An email.
[email protected]
Subject: You may be done with Insta but I’m not done with you
The body of the email contained no text, just a link to a Dropbox. She clicked it and a series of pictures appeared. As she scanned them, her terror grew. Each one was more frightening than the last. The images themselves were banal but they were intimate and therein lay their horrifying impact.
Shelly wiping Georgie’s face, the camera peeping round a corner in the kitchen. From the angle, the person taking the picture had to be in the utility room and crouched low to the ground.
Georgie and Shelly having their nails done – when had they last done that? – visible through the glass doors into the garden. Shelly felt sickened.
More pictures. Always Shelly and Georgie. Always inside the house. Always so close, so horribly close.
A picture of Dan holding Georgie while Shelly took a pic of the dinner table seemed to have been captured from the garden.
Paranoid, she looked up, her eyes frantically searching every shady corner of this garden. Who else would want to hurt her? She was reeling, like she was on a rollercoaster just peaking at the top of a drop, about to plunge into a terrifying unknown. Who would do this?
She looked towards the house. Through the glass doors, she could see Hazel and Polly both buried in their phones.
The two funeral directors looked as close to death as Miles had the night before.
Ali rubbed her burning eyes after the men stepped out to gather some forms. Mini and Eleanor would be along shortly and Ali couldn’t wait to hand over responsibility for this thing.
‘Planning a funeral is such a bizarre activity.’ Liv was leafing through the coffin catalogue while Ali agonised over the wording for the obituary.
Ali looked up and tried to make a stab at normality. ‘I have a theory …’
‘Go on.’ Liv sounded intrigued.
‘The lads,’ Ali jerked her head at the door through which Mr Dunville and Mr O’Connor had just exited, ‘d’ya reckon they kind of “corpse-up” so the make-up job on the real corpses looks better by comparison?’
‘Ali!’ Liv looked stern. ‘Although,’ she conceded, ‘it would be a good approach, I suppose. Bit like a reverse of the girls on reception in the cosmetic surgery places.’
They giggled awkwardly.
Then Ali stopped. ‘Wait, should we be laughing?’
‘I know, I know. But they kind of bait you, don’t they.’ Liv held up the catalogue open to a floral arrangement made to look like a Jack Russell terrier.
Ali giggled again in spite of herself. ‘Is that a toupée on its head?’
‘Bizarre.’ Liv grinned.
‘I’ve really missed you,’ Ali said softly. ‘I’ve really missed us. I’m sorry, Liv. I can’t believe I put my Instagram before our friendship. You’re like my sister.’
Liv slung an arm around her and replied, ‘You, thank god, are not like my sister. She’s the worst. I love you too, darl. We’re better than family – you know that, right? – cos we chose each other.’
‘Right in the feels, Liv. I’ve never heard you be so sincere! You should be writing this.’ Ali shoved the pad and pen towards Liv, who studied what she’d come up with so far: the date.
‘Ali, this date isn’t even right!’
‘I checked my phone.’ Ali pulled up the calendar and proffered it to Liv.
‘Nuh-uh, that’s out by, like, two weeks! How are you living like this?’
‘I use the laptop calendar for my appointments. Also, could we be arguing about something more inconsequential right now?’ She took back the phone and started to reset the date.
‘Miles was a loving father and husband … or should we put husband first? Would Mini mind?’ When Ali didn’t respond, Liv looked over, puzzled. ‘Ali, what’s wrong?’
Ali couldn’t speak and her vision was weird. She felt like it was zooming in and out of focus, like that bit in Jaws when yer man sees the shark at the beach for the first time.
‘Ali? Ali?’ Liv was whispering urgently.
‘The phone’s crazy,’ Ali finally managed to say. But even as she said the words she knew that the phone was not crazy. Things were lining up in her mind that very much supported the idea that the phone was not crazy.
‘What? What is it?’ Liv looked panicked.
Ali’s mind continued to skip through the recent past. No sex on Valentine’s because she’d had her period – though that wasn’t the reason she’d given Sam. How long ago was that? According to the phone: too long.
‘Ali?’
‘Phone says I’m pregnant.’ Ali held out the period-tracker app and promptly burst into tears.
At this point, the cadaver-like funeral directors returned.
‘Oh jaysus, it’s terrible when it hits you, isn’t it?’ Mr O’Connor slid the tissues across the table to the sobbing Ali.
‘She’s just … very shocked.’ Liv looked awkward. ‘Will we be much longer here, do you think?’
‘Well, we’ll finish these few bits and then we just need a decision on the coffin. Where is the funeral? When is the funeral? That kind of thing. There’s actually quite a bit. Is Mrs Jones coming down?’
Ali stood up abruptly, wiping her face haphazardly. ‘I’ll just pop out and call her. She should be on her way.’ As she turned she gave Liv a meaningful look and a flick of her head. Liv got the message and followed her outside, where Ali immediately commenced pacing between two black traffic cones.
‘Where do you think they get these?’ Ali kicked one. ‘I wish I smoked right now.’
‘Do you actually think you might be preggers? Is it definitely possible, like?’
Ali scanned back over the past few weeks. She’d been trying to limit contact with Sam but he was very, very cute and what was the point in having a slightly fake boyfriend if you couldn’t enjoy the real perks?
‘You were careful at least – right, Ali?’ Liv was looking stern.
‘Well, it was tricky because, with me being pregnant and all, condoms just didn’t seem like the right—’
‘Ali!’ Liv exploded. ‘Are you telling me that in playing fake pregnant you’ve got yourself fully fucking pregs for real?’
‘I was using precautions – I was using the period app.’
Liv was now pacing around after her and Ali felt like she was being pursued. ‘Ali, that app thing is like the rhythm method and every youngest kid in every family ever might as well be called Little Rhythm Method because that is how effective that bullshit is. And that’s when you’ve got the friggin’ date programmed right.’
A passing man looked mildly alarmed, catching the last of Liv’s rant.
‘Screaming at a crying person outside a funeral home doesn’t make for good optics,’ Ali shot back at her and burst i
nto fresh tears. ‘Please will you go and get me a pregnancy test? I need to figure out whether this day is going to be a garden variety plan-my-dad’s-funeral-shitshow or whether there is a legit my-life-is-fucked-and-I’m-up-the-pole-without-a-paddle kind of vibe going on.’
‘Yes, yes. You’re right. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m having contact hormones or something. You’ll be fine. It’s going to be fine. Well, not fine but … oh god, I’m shutting up now. I’ll be back ASAP.’
Ali slumped down to her hunkers as Liv dashed back to the car.
Ali gazed at the cars driving past. More people having normal days and here she was having a pregnancy scare at a funeral home. What the actual fuck. She tried to detect something, anything in her tummy. Some hint at a new life. Mainly she was just imagining a tadpole with Sam’s face bashing into the wall of her uterus. Weird to think she even had a uterus. In all the pregnancy chat of the last few months, it had felt so remote, as if it had nothing to do with her. It was like a story she was writing about someone else’s life.
Did she feel pregnant? She did feel gross, but that could be from sleeping in a chair and eating nothing but crap biscuits and milky tea for the last twelve hours. She was shattered but, again, sitting up in a chair all night wasn’t exactly restful. She had been tired for weeks. She tried doing the maths, measuring the timeline against her fake pregnancy, which only served to inspire a fresh wave of nausea and terror. Jesus, the Insta-pregnancy.
Ali took out her phone. Even though she’d deleted the app, the email inbox was still jammed with vitriol. She hadn’t had the nerve to google her name yet, but presumably the story was already everywhere. It was a strange sensation. She knew that just on the other side of this screen was a tsunami of haters baying for her blood, calling her pathetic and ugly and a weirdo. She still wasn’t feeling it, but she knew the anguish, shame and regret were all poised to annihilate her the second this numb daze lifted.
Questions started to bombard her. What should she do? Should she make a statement? A mea culpa post on Instagram? Get Liv to go on and explain that she was ‘suffering from stress’ like a Hollywood celebrity? Say she was missing? Ill? Mad? A liar? Planning a funeral?
She just had to get through the funeral and then she’d deal with it, whatever that meant.
Ali’s thoughts were interrupted by the approach of Mini’s trademark heels and clipped phone voice. Ali felt a flash of sympathy for Erasmus, who had, to date, never got a thing right as far as Mini was concerned. Ali could relate. Eleanor was trailing behind looking harried and carrying some of Miles’s suits.
‘I said no! Not the afternoon,’ Mini barked and, peering down at Ali, added, ‘What are you doing down there? You look like a vagrant. Not you! I was talking to my daughter! I’m going in now to make arrangements, I’ll check in later, Father.’
Ali wearily stood up and brushed herself off.
‘Did you just say “Father”?’ Ali eyed Mini suspiciously as they all trooped back inside the dim foyer of the funeral home.
‘Yes, Erasmus – of all people – found me the most perfect priest for the funeral.’
‘But we’re not even … Catholic or anything? You just had me specify no cross on the coffin to these lads?’ whispered Ali. Since when did her parents have any interest in religion?
‘Oh, don’t worry. I told him no prayers or any shiteology about god.’ Mini waved away Ali’s concerns. ‘He’s just going to do an MC thing. To add a bit of gravitas. He’s kind of a showbiz priest.’
To Ali this sounded, if anything, even more concerning than a traditional priest. She raised an eyebrow at Eleanor as Mini bustled in to the funeral directors, who hastily stopped chatting and adopted funereal manners once more. Eleanor leaned close as they took their seats. ‘She asked Erasmus to google “burial at sea” but I think we’ve talked her out of it. She might be in shock.’
‘Yeah … me too,’ murmured Ali, gazing at the paisley cravat poking out of the jacket Eleanor was holding, Miles always wore it to opening night at the theatre.
Liv appeared at the door behind them, and Ali muttered her excuses and followed her friend to the ladies.
Liv read the instructions. ‘Piss on it for at least five seconds, it says.’
Ali weed all over her sleeve as Liv crossed her arms and leaned against the door.
‘There has to be a better way,’ Ali moaned.
‘It’s definitely not the most disgusting thing that happens in this place,’ Liv pointed out.
And there was the little blue plus sign.
‘Confirmed,’ said Liv. ‘You are up one baby. And down a baby daddy. Remind me where you are with the fake baby currently?’
‘Shut up,’ Ali wailed.
‘I’m just trying to keep it straight in my head,’ Liv quipped, but she came over for a hug. ‘Is it a good thing or a bad thing that this isn’t even the first time I’ve hugged you on the jacks?’ she asked.
‘Well, get used to it,’ Ali spoke into Liv’s armpit. ‘Pissing a lot and generally being gross are the main side-effects of pregnancy.’
‘And you think you’re going to … stay pregnant?’ Liv disengaged and busied herself gathering up the pregnancy-test packaging.
Ali stared up at her. The madness of the last few weeks meant she’d fucked in her old job, ruined the only good relationship she’d ever had and was a pariah on the internet.
She’d probably be able to go crawling back to Durty Aul’ Town – what good was a bereavement if you couldn’t leverage a bit of goodwill with it, after all?
But Sam was done with her and there’s no way the sad-dad card would fly with him – he had the dead-mum card and the you-lied-to-me-about-being-pregnant card. He had the royal flush of emotional upperhandery. But maybe when she told him about the pregnancy test he’d come around? Or maybe he’d lose his shit even more? She flashed back to his cold rage of a few days ago. Sam was evidently the kind of guy who it’s hard to piss off but when he finally does get angry, it’s apoca-fucking-lyptic.
Maybe it was futile trying to get him involved. Perhaps there’s a universally acknowledged number of chances to blindside a man with an unplanned pregnancy – even if one of them was fake. Two strikes and you’re out, she thought.
She pulled up her pants and pulled Liv into a tight hug.
‘Let’s go plan a funeral. And, I guess, a baby shower for some time in October.’
Acknowledgements
As the saying goes, it takes a village to raise a book baby … I want to thank my village. Thank you so much to:
The early champions of Ali’s story, Sarah Gunn, Teresa Daly and Fiona Murphy.
The ledgebags who read the first draft: Liadan Hynes, Louise McSharry, Mary O’Sullivan, Anne Harris and Jacqueline Murphy.
Thank you to Mary McGill and Shereen Martin for help with some particulars of Liv’s life as an Indian-Irish academic.
The incredible editor who believed in the book and brought it to a (hopefully) much better place, Ciara Doorley.
The team at Hachette Ireland who have put so much into creating this book: Elaine Egan, Joanna Smyth and my copy-editor, Emma Dunne.
The fantastic, loving women who mind my human babies when I’m working on the book babies: Paola Felix, Lauren Shannon Jones, Virginia De Lucas, Daniella Prates and Iwona Wyporska.
My colleagues at the Sunday Independent, Image, Lovin Dublin and Irish Tatler, especially Brendan O’Connor, Gemma Fullam, Jane Doran, Cormac Bourke, Madeleine Keane, Emily Hourican, Megan Cassidy, Dominique McMullan, Lizzie Gore-Grimes, Meg Walker, Ellie Balfe and Sarah Macken.
My pod family, Cassie Delaney and Jen O’Dwyer and everyone who listens and bigs up Mother Of Pod and The Creep Dive. The VPAKers and the Casual Choir gang especially Soobie Lynch, Esther OMD and Emer McLysaght. The Glenbeigh Massif, Pauline Bewick and Poppy Melia who gave me the magical yard house in which to finish this book. Dee and all of Bill’s gang for so much help, love and compassion.
My family, Mary O’Sullivan, Ke
vin Linehan, Anne Harris, Nancy Harris, Constance Harris, Mungo Harris and my in-laws, David White, Vivianne White, William White, Triona McCarthy, Hilary White and Viktorija White.
Lastly to Sebastian White – the best partner in life and only person as devoted to SVU as me – and to, hands-down, my favourite people of all time: Roo and Ari, thank you so much.
Sophie White
June 2019
WHAT’S NEXT?
In Filter This 2, our fave Instahuns, Ali and Shelly, return for more boomerangs, bitching and Rants.ie.
Despite Ali’s Insta-sham making her a pariah in the Insta-scene, it turns out that followers love a bit of scandal – she’s more popular than ever – and when Amy Donoghue steps in to rehabilitate her image, Ali realises she may have to wade once more into the grubby Insta-hole. After all, she needs to cash in just to bankroll this real live bump she’s got. With Sam still ignoring her at their prenatal appointments and Mini having a mild grief-induced psychotic break (WTF is she doing on Tinder?), Ali’s got little else to cling on to but #sponcon and #bumpupdates.
Meanwhile Shelly is trying to settle into her new life as a single parent while being held hostage by her mysterious Insta-stalker whose sole objective – to keep Shelly on Instagram – is as bizarre as it is alarming. Why do they care? Who are they? With @HolisticHazel immersed in creating the WYND festival (her answer to the Goop Summit) and @PollysFewBits being as non-descript as ever, Shelly must get to the bottom of it herself.
When Ali starts attending Catfishers Anonymous as part of Amy’s plan for Image Rehab, she inadvertently stumbles on the key to solving Shelly’s mystery …
Now available for pre-order