One Click

by Andrea Mara

  “And it’s good if we can include it,” she continues, “because I think it’s part of the story. I imagine the fact that you’re getting used to being single makes dealing with your troll more difficult – if your husband was still around, you’d have someone to talk to about it?”

  “Yeah, that’s part of it. And the messages tend to come at night, when I’m on my own, so that’s kind of scary. Do you think it’s okay to have that in there, that it’s scary? Or am I just giving the troll what he wants?”

  She stops to think about this. “I know what you mean. I’d say we can find a way to show readers that it’s even tougher when you’re on your own, but at the same time we’ll avoid giving your troll his kicks – we won’t make you sound like you’re cowering in the corner. If you like, I can send you what I’ve written, so you can read over and make sure you’re happy with it?”

  Sinking back in the seat and picking up my coffee, I nod and thank her. Getting final approval on what goes out will make the world of difference.

  “Listen, don’t worry – we’re not looking to run anything controversial. To be honest, IrishNewsOnline are getting a bit of stick about their comments section and this feature is their way of showing they don’t condone trolling. So neither I nor they have any reason to be controversial and get ourselves in more trouble.”

  It’s starting to sound more appealing.

  “Do you work for them full-time?” I ask her.

  “No, I’m freelance. I write for whoever pays me – women’s magazines mostly. The most exciting thing I do is a Sunday newspaper social diary, but it’s under a pseudonym – I think my editor there knows that readers are unlikely to believe a middle-aged introvert is up to speed with what’s going on with Ireland’s glitterati.”

  The ponytail-swishing waitress comes back and Caroline orders an Eggs Benedict. I go for avocado and poached eggs, and another cappuccino. I have a feeling we’re going to be here for a while.

  “It’s the invisible age, you see,” she continues, once the waitress is gone. “I find people see me less and less. I remember once when I was younger watching a woman at the meat counter in the supermarket. She looked tired, and she was wearing something brown and beige, and ordering the housekeeper’s cut. And she was invisible. I remember promising myself I wouldn’t let that happen to me, and yet here I am. I’m the invisible woman at the meat counter.”

  It’s like she’s inside my head – it feels like I’ve known her for a lot longer than fifteen minutes.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s hard to keep up with the younger generation,” I say, glancing over at unicorn-sweatshirt-girl.

  “Is that why you blog?” Caroline asks.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, blogging and social media might be seen as a young person’s game – so I was wondering if you do it as a way of staying young?”

  Caroline writes something in her notebook as she waits for me to answer and I’m reminded to choose my words carefully, no matter how friendly she is.

  “No, I don’t think so . . . There are bloggers in all age groups. I have a great network of online friends and they’re from every age and stage. In a way that’s what I like about the internet – it gives you access to people you might otherwise never meet.”

  She’s writing, and then looks up and indicates I should keep talking.

  “In real life, we spend most of our time with people like ourselves – people from the same background, same school, same row of houses. Whereas online, you could be talking to a twenty-year-old gamer from France or a fifty-year-old teacher from Leitrim, and that age and location is largely irrelevant, other than adding texture to the relationship. Does that make sense?”

  She nods, still writing.

  “So I guess I don’t see it as a way of staying young, but maybe that’s a by-product. I feel engaged in a wider conversation – life isn’t just about work and home.” She looks up. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I say in a hurry. “I don’t want your readers to think I’m saying my life is more interesting than theirs. It certainly isn’t.”

  “Well, except for the troll,” she says with a smile.

  “Yeah, except for the bloody troll.”

  “So talk to me about that – how did the whole thing start?”

  I tell her about the morning on the beach in Venice and putting the photo of Cleo online. She’s scribbling furiously as I talk, and I wonder why, when the recorder does all the work, but maybe it’s a habit.

  “And what made you use the hashtag ‘how I wish I spent my twenties’?” she asks.

  The food arrives, giving me a chance to think about the answer.

  “I suppose she just stood out,” I say, carefully cutting my toast. “She looked so relaxed, at ease with the world. At Cleo’s age, I already had two children. I love my kids, but part of me wishes I spent more time sitting on a deckchair in the waves . . . shit, don’t put that in! My kids will think I’m wishing them out of existence.”

  “That’s fine,” Caroline says, putting down her pen to focus on her Eggs Benedict. “I’ll make a note to leave that out.” She doesn’t make a note, but I assume she’ll remember.

  “The irony is, while I was imagining that Cleo had this really chilled, exotic life, spending all day reading in the sun, she was just on holidays like we were. She actually lives here in Dublin, and has a very normal job in a bar – don’t put that in the article – so I guess appearances can be deceiving.”

  Caroline nods, swallowing a forkful of food before she replies. “Absolutely, and we all do it – make snap judgements about people. So, if I remember correctly from what you said in your email – after a few messages from the VIN account, you told Cleo about it? How did she react?”

  I tell her about our conversations, and without going into all the details, I tell her about Cleo’s eventual suspicions that the messages are possibly from someone she knows in New York.

  “I get the sense you don’t feel the same?”

  I push a piece of avocado around the plate with my fork.

  “Yeah, I don’t know. One minute everything she says makes sense but then I get a new message from VIN and I can’t picture it being some guy in Brooklyn. Plus VIN seems more interested in me than in Cleo. Sometimes there are two or three emails in a row that are just directed at slagging me off, and don’t mention her at all.”

  Caroline taps the fork to her lip, like she did with the pen earlier. “So do you think he’s transferred his obsession from her to you?”

  “Maybe, but he does still want to find her and still asks about her too. Then there’s this weird blog post – I don’t know where that fits with any of it.” I pull it up on my phone and we go quiet while she reads.

  “Interesting. And did you ask VIN what the blog post is about?”

  “God no! I don’t want to engage with him at all if I can help it. I never reply to anything. Oh, except I did tell him Cleo’s name is Giulia and that she’s Italian in an effort to get him off my back, but I’m not sure he believes me. We’ll see.”

  She looks at me over the top of her glasses with unreadable brown eyes. My seat feels hard and uncomfortable now, and I want to get up and walk around.

  “This is difficult on you, isn’t it?” Her voice is softer, sympathetic. “Tell me what it’s doing to you. Let readers know what happens if they allow their fingers tap out hateful messages behind the shield of a screen.”

  I feel put on the spot. No matter how I word it, crying over what’s happening isn’t going to be acceptable, because I brought it on myself. That’s how the internet works. I shake my head, unable to come up with an answer, and there are tears at the back of my eyes.

  “It’s okay,” she says, softer again. “You’re allowed to be upset. What’s happening to you is horrible and, whatever you may think, nobody deserves this. You may feel you brought it on yourself, but you didn’t. The person at fault here is the troll.”

  I nod, holdi
ng back the tears.

  “Just throw any words you like at me, I’ll turn them into sentences – how about that?”

  I nod again and take a deep breath.

  “I feel stupid. Lost. Vulnerable. Old. Foolish. Cross. Angry more than cross. Upset. Scared.”

  Her head is down, her honey-hair greying at the roots.

  “That’s good, that’s what I’m talking about. What else?”

  I sit back in the seat and look at her through the blur of tears.

  “Powerless. More than anything, I feel completely and utterly powerless.”

  Chapter 32

  “Oh hiya, Lauren, how’re things?”

  I shift both bags of groceries to one hand and reach up to close the boot. Dave is coming towards me, jiggling car keys in his hand. Even in the dark I can see he’s in one of his “good” shirts, the ones he keeps for nights out. Their front door is open; Nadine must be still colouring in her eyebrows.

  “Grand. Just heading in with the shopping,” I tell him, opening the garden gate. I’m not in the mood for chit-chat but Dave’s not great at picking up on subtle cues.

  “Here, give me the bags, I’ll carry them in for you.”

  “I’m fine, Dave, I can manage a few groceries.” His face falls. “But thanks for the offer.”

  We both look up to the sound of his front door closing and see Nadine coming down the steps in a strappy black dress and newly blonded hair.

  “Are you ready, hon?” she asks Dave, eying me up and down.

  I wish now I’d stayed in the smart top and blazer I wore this morning to meet Caroline, instead of changing into running gear. I never even went for the run.

  “We don’t want to be late for Georgina and Noel. You know how Georgina fusses.”

  Suddenly I feel hot and slightly sick, and I want to go inside instead of standing here looking at this woman in her cloud of heavy perfume, taking my place at the dinner table. Georgina and Noel are our oldest friends and, for years, the last Saturday of every month was spent in their house or ours, eating colossal steaks and knocking back expensive red wine. And here we are on the last Saturday of September, but I’m standing here in my running gear, and Nadine is going in my place. And I have no idea if Georgina and Noel care.

  Dave holds his hand up in a coming-now gesture to Nadine, and looks at me with something close to an apology, then turns to get into the car.

  I watch them drive off.

  “Want to talk about it over a bottle?”

  Clare’s voice catches me off guard.

  “Jesus, you’re like a cat! Aren’t you going out tonight?”

  “No,” she says, walking towards her own gate and pushing it open. “it’s just some of the golf crowd – I told himself to go ahead without me. Will I grab a bottle and come in to you?”

  It’s not dinner in Noel and Georgina’s but it’s a million times better than sitting on my own.

  Rebecca is staying with a friend, and Ava is at a disco, and I’m grateful to Clare and her bottle of wine for saving me from a too-quiet house.

  When I fill her in on the Georgina and Noel story, she starts to laugh.

  “What – what’s so funny?”

  “I know you never said as much, but I have a sneaking suspicion you didn’t actually enjoy those dinner parties, and am I right that you can’t stand Noel and Georgina?”

  I stare at her for a beat, then start to laugh too. It’s absolutely true. I can’t bear Noel with his casual racism disguised as some kind of post-modern humour, and Georgina is a complete snob. I remember once she told a story about their nanny from China, and I nearly choked on my wine when she started mimicking the woman’s accent. Of course Dave and Noel thought her mimicry was hilarious.

  “I don’t know how you spotted it before I did but, Jesus, you’re absolutely right. Noel is a racist dick, and Georgina is the worst kind of snob. And they have no interest in anything outside their own lives. I remember bringing up homelessness one night. They all just looked blankly at me, then Noel shrugged and carried on talking about the apartment they were buying in Croatia.”

  Clare opens the giant pack of tortilla chips she’s brought with her, and I go into the kitchen to look for a bowl and a tub of salsa that’s still in date.

  “Practically a party now,” she says when I sit back down.

  “Yeah, a pity party for me so far – sorry. I shouldn’t keep going on.”

  “Hey, it’s totally allowed. But just think of Nadine sitting there, fake-laughing at Noel’s jokes – you’re better off here, aren’t you?”

  She’s right. Clare is always right. Nadine will be bored to tears – the boys prattle on about work, and Georgina goes on and on about her daughter’s sporting achievements. My attempts to bring up any topic beyond the radius of our neighbourhood were always met with complete disinterest.

  “You know, I met that journalist today and she asked me why I started blogging – I reckon it was those dinner parties, and life with Dave in general. They all acted like as long as we were okay, nothing else mattered. They never cared about what was going on anywhere else. I guess that’s how I got interested in Twitter and chatting to people online – a desperate need to talk about something beyond our South Dublin bubble.”

  Clare pours more wine for both of us, nodding. “That makes sense. We all need an outlet. But surely at home Dave talked about other things?”

  Pulling my legs up under me on the couch, I take a sip before answering.

  “To be honest, not really, and as the years went by, it all started to feel a bit shallow. Of course he couldn’t understand it at all. He used to ask me constantly why I was talking to strangers online – I think he took it as a personal slight.”

  Clare is smiling. “But he was right, wasn’t he? Not defending him, but he could obviously sense he wasn’t enough for you?”

  “I suppose. He was always going on about it, giving out every time he caught me on my phone. And when that guy Leon started sending me horrible messages – remember the troll last year?” Clare nods. “I reckon Dave felt like his point had been proven.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest something,” Clare says, looking suddenly serious. “I’m going to suggest we get a takeaway, because we have much to discuss. Deal? And I’m going back in next-door to get a second bottle of wine.” She holds up her hands. “No arguments – this is your therapy session, Lauren – think of me as your personal psychologist, armed with Pad Thai and Rioja.”

  While she’s gone, I check my phone and find an email from VIN.

  Missing your daughters tonight, are you, Lauren? Just think of it as practice for when you’re older, sitting on your own in your big house with nobody at all around you. Not long to go now.

  So VIN knows the girls aren’t here, but doesn’t know Clare is, or was up to a moment ago. As I turn that over in my mind, I hear the front door close quietly. Clare doesn’t have a key – could it be Ava? No, she’s not being dropped home for a few hours yet.

  There’s no sound now, no footsteps in the hall. Just silence and the ticking of the sitting-room clock. I realise I’m holding my breath and I need to get up from the couch and see who’s there, but I can’t. I stare at the sitting-room door handle, willing it not to move. I try to listen, but white noise is pounding in my ears. Is there someone in the hall?

  The room begins to swim in front of my eyes and I close them to make it stop but it makes everything worse. My phone starts to ring, loud in the stillness, and I grab it, fumbling, cursing myself that it’s not on silent. Now they’ll know I’m here. Christ. My mother. Rejecting the call, I hold my breath and listen. Silence. Then a creak in the hall.

  I sit up straighter but my body still won’t move off the couch.

  Then all of a sudden, there’s a knock on the door.

  Everything is suspended and I’m paralysed, my heart battering in my chest. I wait for the door to open, dreading what’s coming but completely unable to move.

&
nbsp; The knock comes again, but now I understand it’s not the sitting-room door, it’s the front door. Clare?

  Scrambling to open WhatsApp, I type out a message to her.

  I think there’s someone in the house. In the hall.

  Her reply is immediate.

  No, nobody there – am outside and can see through the glass at front door. Hall empty. You’re OK. Can you open the front door?

  My legs are shaking when I stand up. At the sitting-room door, I reach out to touch the handle and it’s cool in my hand, but not reassuring. I twist it and with everything I have in me I yank the door open and look into the hall. Empty. Looking to my right, I can see Clare’s outline through the glass. To my left, the kitchen door at the end of the hall is closed. Did I leave it closed? I can’t remember. Clare’s face is pressed against the glass.

  “Lauren, I’m here, it’s okay. There’s nobody else in the house – can you open the front door?”

  I let her in, and tell her we need to check the kitchen. She walks ahead of me down the hall and pushes the door wide.

  “See? Nobody here.”

  Upstairs, the rooms are quiet and empty too. When we go back to the sitting room, my hands are still shaking and it takes a moment to get my breath back. When I do, I tell Clare about hearing the door close.

  “Oh Lauren, that was my fault – I left it ajar so I could get back in – it must have closed in the wind. You’re after getting an awful fright. I should have known better.”