‘Lily? Are you still there?’
The voice is shouting, but it’s faint.
Crushing my fist into my eye socket, I pick up the phone.
‘I’ve seen it,’ I whisper.
A panic rises up through my chest, making my vision swim. I also feel queasy. Sick. I twist my knuckle into my eye until it starts to hurt. Mindy’s voice snaps me back to reality.
‘. . . You’ve only lost those followers because you haven’t put your side forward yet. We just need to make a statement as soon as possible. Or you can post it on Twitter as a long tweet. We’ve written two statements in your voice. Really good, emotive. Really Lily-esque. That will get your fans back. Or I can have something new sent to you to approve within the hour. I just need you to give me the facts.’
‘Wait – what? How many followers have I lost?’
For the first time, Mindy has nothing to say.
‘I thought you said you’d seen—’
‘No, I just . . . Wait . . .’
There’s a dry lump in my throat as I click open my YouTube page.
2,990,756 subscribers
I stare in horror and refresh the page.
2,989,023
With each click, the number drops lower and lower.
2,987,765
2,982,654
It’s like a bad dream; I can’t make it stop.
The life drains out of me. Everything I’ve worked for – everything I’ve created – dwindling down to nothing.
I try to swallow, but my throat is painfully dry. Mindy is talking a mile a minute on the other end of the line, but I can’t make sense of what she’s saying. It’s white noise.
I’m too paralysed to think.
‘. . . we need to get a message out as soon as possible to manage the damage to your brand. I’ve got calls with BeautyCult, Wendy’s Wishes and the others to reassure them about your viewers’ loyalty, but, I’m telling you now, they may try to negotiate a new fee or drop their contracts in light of this. I’ve set up a call with Superdrug – at the moment, I know they don’t want to pull out of next year’s lipstick line, so that’s good news. If you just tell me the facts, if it’s even a photo of you, I’ll put out a statement on your Twitter. Or your blog, Instagram, Snapchat, whatever you think is best. We’ll even post it ourselves. Just give me the facts and I can . . .’
I feel like I’m caught in the eye of the storm and all around me everything is being thrown into the sky. I’m the only thing that’s grounded. A mounting, uncontrollable force presses down on my chest. It’s as if the floor is wobbling beneath my feet, and I’m struggling for air.
At that moment, a small notification pings at the side of my YouTube tab.
Tempest has uploaded a new video – Bryan: How I’m Feeling
In the tiny picture, Bryan is hanging his head in what I presume is Nina’s flat. I click on the channel and see that his band’s subscriber count has almost doubled in the last twenty-four hours to 440,187.
Bile rises up in my throat. He must have filmed this last night. It must have been the first thing he did – wanting to get in there first. I don’t want to watch it. I can’t deal with this.
I just wish I could turn it all off. Scrub it all out. I don’t want my life to be online any more. I want it all to disappear.
Please, please can someone make it disappear?
‘I’ve got to go,’ I whisper, and – for the first time ever – I hang up on Mindy.
She immediately calls back, but I cancel the call and punch in the only number I know by heart. The one person I need to speak to.
‘Hello?’ says Mum, and I burst into tears.
CHAPTER 46
Melissa
My blog is unrecognizable. It’s Monday morning, and the views on my post exposing Lily’s picture (which Bryan retweeted!!!) has reached almost half a million page views – while my followers have climbed to nearly 10,000.
This is the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Chloe hasn’t stopped messaging me since I posted the blogpost on my Facebook. Over one hundred people from our year and upper sixth have commented on the post, and everyone at school is talking about it.
This whole thing has really opened my eyes to YouTubers. You can’t tell what people are like from five-minute videos, can you? Lily was a manipulative cheat. Almost everything she said about her and Bryan was a lie. I just wish I hadn’t believed her and been so naive.
In morning registration, I can feel the heaviness of dark rings under my eyes. I barely slept last night as I was glued to the laptop refreshing my blog stats page, watching the numbers creep higher and higher.
Weirdly, I don’t feel tired. It’s almost like my whole body has an electric spark running through it, making everything feel heightened.
I might have lost Lily, but I’ve done something good. I revealed the truth to millions and millions of people. I could so easily have kept walking. I’m so pleased that I was brave enough to turn round and take the photo of them.
It must have been fate.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Bryan has just posted a video titled ‘How I’m Feeling’. I elbow Chloe and sidle down in my seat so we can watch it under the desk on mute. In the video, Bryan’s eyes are downcast, his shoulders are hunched and he has a single tear glistening in the corner of his eye.
My heart slows. Oh, Bryan.
I almost feel responsible as I watch him choke back tears, but then I remember it’s better this way. He wouldn’t have wanted to keep living a lie – I know that.
Just as I’m chewing the inside of my cheek, Chloe prods me in the ribs.
‘Look,’ she hisses. ‘The Daily Mail has written about it. They’ve even used your photo. Oh my God!’ She looks at me like I’ve transformed into Jennifer Lawrence. ‘This is huge.’
At first break, things get even crazier. People keep coming up to me and asking me about the photo. Girls in the year below crowd round, wanting to hear the story, while a group of sixth-formers come up and invite me to their leaving party.
Chloe has been beside me the entire time, loudly telling everyone about the moment I took the photo. By the time the bell goes, it feels like I’ve spoken to all the girls in school. People who on Friday didn’t even know I existed.
Outside the French block, Miss Anderson stops me by putting a hand on my shoulder.
‘Melissa,’ she says quietly. ‘A word.’
Chloe throws me a look over her shoulder and mouths, ‘See you in French.’
I sigh inwardly and cross my arms, waiting to hear what she has to say.
Miss Anderson presses her hands together.
‘Melissa, I’ve heard about what happened, and I can see everyone is very excited . . .’
I have to remind myself not to roll my eyes. Teachers always use phrases like ‘everyone is excited’ to make you sound like a child.
‘But I just wanted to ask how you’re doing. Are you OK? You know you can come to me if you experience anything unpleasant online. You can talk to me or any of the teachers or teaching staff; we are all here to help you.’
I tip my head to one side.
Seriously, what is she on about?
Miss Anderson is one of the youngest teachers we have, yet apparently like anyone over the age of thirty she’s clueless about how the internet works.
‘. . . if you’ve had any threats, or any online hate, we want to know about it. I know your blog is getting a lot of attention, so I just wanted to let you know we’re here—’
‘Thanks, Miss Anderson,’ I interrupt her. ‘But it’s fine, really. People who get hate online tend to be more, erm, controversial. I’m not like that. In fact, the response has been overwhelmingly positive.’
‘Oh.’ She looks taken aback. ‘Well, I guess you are dealing with it OK.’
I nod. ‘Yeah it’s been great so far. Anyway, I really need to get to French. We’re doing a revision lesson, and I really don’t want to miss out.’
&nbs
p; ‘Oh yes, of course, go ahead.’ Miss Anderson waves me aside, a slight crease forming on her brow.
I purse my lips, mimicking her smile, and walk into the French block. As I open the doors, a group of tiny year eights see me and almost jump out of their skin.
‘That’s her – it’s her blog!’ one of them hisses, and they all stare at me like I’m a god.
CHAPTER 47
Lily
When I reach Mum’s cottage, I’m shivering from head to toe. I’ve wrapped myself up in a huge jumper, leggings and a woolly hat – but my teeth won’t stop chattering.
I didn’t want to bump into any fans (or ex-fans) on the train, so I paid for a taxi the full two-and-a-half-hour car journey from central London to Mum’s. I couldn’t care less about the cost; I just want to get away from London.
My beauty sponsors are probably all going to drop me. I’ll probably never make any money from YouTube again. My advertisement revenue is miniscule – nearly ninety-five per cent of my income comes from sponsors and my product lines.
Who wants to buy products endorsed by someone whose face is plastered across all national newspapers in a cheating scandal? The only other work I’ve ever done is when I was fifteen and used to help Mum price bits of furniture in her antique shop. I’ve never worked anywhere else. I have no skills.
Is my career really over?
As I watch the wide motorways narrow into quiet winding roads and brambled dirt paths, my heartbeat starts to slow. I press my nose to the cool window, and watch the familiar flicker of greenery scrape against the car as we enter the village.
Unwillingly, I crush my cheek into the window pane until the spots on my chin start to throb. I haven’t showered this morning, so my skin feels clammy and disgusting. As I peel my skin off the window, a sheen of oil sticks to the glass. My skin is also scratchy in places, my eyes too dry to blink.
I blur my vision as the trees pass by. It’s only once the wheels of the taxi screech to a stop at the end of our lane and I hear the crunch of our gravel path that I know I’m home.
I step out of the car slowly. My arms, legs, limbs – everything feels heavy.
Mum is already waiting for me by the gate. As I stumble up the path, she envelopes me in a huge hug. Tears spill silently down my cheeks and I dribble snot on to her nice cardigan.
She pulls me away and takes my head in her hands, looking straight into my eyes.
‘Come on now, Lily – that’s quite enough.’
I have a flashback to when I had just started nursery and wouldn’t stop crying because that morning I had found my hamster Starburst cold and rigid in the bottom of her cage.
Then, Mum had held my head just the same and said, ‘Come on, Lily – that’s quite enough,’ until it felt like all my tears had been used up.
Almost two decades later, Mum is still here: older, plumper, with speckled grey in her hair – but her words are the same. Her eyes are the same.
‘That’s quite enough. I don’t want to hear another word about it.’
The problem is, this time her words aren’t enough. Everything I’ve worked for is unravelling by the second. Years of hard work undone in a matter of minutes.
‘B-but my followers . . .’ My voice breaks as I picture the numbers rolling down and down to nothing. I press my knuckle hard into my cheek.
‘Stop that!’ she snaps. ‘None of that matters. You’re here, you’re home, you’re OK. Don’t be dramatic.’
Almost as though they agree, the cows moo gently in the field behind the cottage. One of them comes towards the nearest gate to nudge her nose over the fence.
Watching the cow’s placid black face swinging against the creaky gate makes me pause. Maybe it really doesn’t matter. The numbers, the likes, my career, Bryan – all of it. Maybe I will be OK.
‘There’s no time for tears. Help me lift that bag inside. We have cleaning to do,’ says Mum, nodding at my suitcase. ‘But before we get started, would you like a cup of tea?’
Three hours later, we’ve cleaned every inch of the cottage. We started on the tiles, kneeling on the hard stone and scrubbing it until my fingers were red raw and my back ached. Then we changed the sheets in all three bedrooms – stripped and handwashed the curtains, and polished the little decorative pots and pans in the kitchen until they sparkled.
I lie on the kitchen floor, completely exhausted and not wanting to move. All my muscles ache, but weirdly I don’t feel bad. I feel better. Lighter. Less like a failure.
Mum comes in with another steaming mug of tea and puts it down beside me.
‘What did I tell you about cleaning?’
I smile weakly at her and pull myself up so I’m sitting cross-legged on the tiles. I take a sip of piping-hot tea.
Mum has this weird theory about cleaning: that it can completely clear your mind, wash all your worries away. Whenever she’s stressed, or has something on her mind, she’ll grab a brush or mop and start cleaning until there isn’t a speck of dirt or dust left in sight.
I look down at the floor – it’s so clean I could probably eat off it – and feel my heart lift slightly. I pick up my cup of tea, rub my aching limbs and stand up.
Mum is bustling around refilling the kettle, and then she flops into a chair. She’s like me: she never stops. I pull out a chair beside her and put my mug on the table.
‘How about you go and have a nice bath?’ she says.
I half smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think maybe I should just sit.’
But Mum has already got up and is making a beeline for the bathroom.
I lay my head down on the table and stare at the green pattern until the two images blur into one.
‘Mum . . . my followers—’ I can feel my eyes welling up again.
She cuts me off. ‘I don’t want to hear another word about it.’
I snivel pathetically and glance over to my phone on the kitchen worktop.
‘Maybe I should check them, or call back Mindy.’
‘You don’t need to hear another word from that woman,’ says Mum darkly.
She almost sounds angry, and I open my mouth to stick up for Mindy when she shushes me, hoists me up by the elbow and steers me to the bathroom.
‘Now get ready, and later on we’ll go to the antiques centre for a wander.’
It isn’t a question.
I step into the bathroom and sigh. Part of me wants to dissolve into the bath and just cry for hours and hours and hours. But then another, stronger part of me doesn’t want to spend the day in tears.
I’ve hit rock bottom. My career is destroyed. My relationship is over. But you know what? I don’t want to sit around crying. I take my clothes off and step into the bath, open my wash bag and pull out the most extravagant, expensive products I own. After a morning of back-aching work, I deserve it. I let the warm water wash over me and groan with relief as it soothes my swollen muscles.
***
Fifty minutes later, I’m washed, made up and ready to hit the antiques shops with Mum. I glide an old lip gloss over my lips and – as the sun has come out – pull Mum’s sunhat on my head.
‘Oh, Lily, you look lovely,’ Mum says as I come down the stairs, the lines around her eyes crinkling.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper, hugging her.
There’s still a sadness in me, but it’s muted. It’s not as important as this. And I don’t know if anything ever will be.
Mum links her arm in mine – although she’s so much smaller than me, it only comes up to my hip – and we grab our handbags and walk out of the door.
‘I parked the car at the other side of the lane because it was raining earlier. I hope you don’t mind,’ she says.
I shake my head. ‘No, I like the walk.’
A warm breeze rattles around my ankles as we pad along the crumpled grass on the path. I smile at the cows watching me with suspicion and, as they let out a low moo, feel a calmness settle over me. I squeeze Mum’s arm and she squeezes back.
I’m fee
ling OK. I’m actually feeling OK.
As we reach Mum’s little car, I pull open the door and hear a muffled sound from somewhere nearby. I frown. The noise is getting louder. What is it?
‘Lily!’ Mum says.
She’s pointing at something behind me.
I turn and my vision is blinded by a camera flash.
‘Lily!’ shouts a gruff voice.
Three photographers with huge backpacks and cameras run up our tiny village lane.
‘What the—’
Mum’s tiny hand grips my elbow, and before I have a chance to blink, she’s steering me back down the lane towards our house – yelling at them to leave us in peace.
When we get back inside the cottage, I’m shaking.
There’s a thundering on the door.
‘This is private property!’ shouts Mum, bolting the door.
But the hammering doesn’t stop.
‘Don’t worry – it’ll be OK,’ says Mum with a deep breath.
The pounding gets louder.
We both glance at the door.
CHAPTER 48
Melissa
Andy doesn’t get it. I don’t mean he doesn’t care, or isn’t bothered – I mean he actually doesn’t understand what’s going on. I’m starting to think Chloe might be right about him.
It’s lunchtime and we’re sitting on the field, gathered by the furthest tree so the boys can smoke without the teachers spotting them. It was actually a bit of a nightmare finding a sheltered spot as on our way over people kept stopping me and Chloe to ask about the Lily photo.
Half of me is delighted – the other half is kind of wishing it would stop. I’m exhausted. I feel like I can’t really mention this to Chloe – she’s been walking around with her chest thrust out, loudly repeating my story again and again like it’s natural to be the centre of attention. I guess maybe it is for her.
‘You’re all anyone is talking about,’ she says, flicking her loose curls over one shoulder as Tom strokes her back.
‘Issa: the new school celebrity,’ says Rish with a half-smile.
I feel a prickle of annoyance at the way he’s looking at me, almost like what I’ve done is a joke rather than something good.
My [Secret] YouTube Life Page 15