‘He doesn’t want me to be in love with him.’
‘Well, if that is the case, then he’s not as smart as he thinks he is.’
I gave a small, sniffly laugh. ‘Obviously.’
‘I nearly missed out on having my time with your mum because I was too much like Charlie and not enough like you.’
‘Really?’
Dad smiled, a mix of joy and sorrow. ‘Yes. And although there were times after she passed away that I thought I might never get through her loss, I wouldn’t have missed that time with her for anything. And I wouldn’t have two wonderful children, and two beautiful grandchildren and all the irreplaceable joy that all of those things have brought me. I nearly kept everything to myself. Terribly British and all that. And suddenly I realised that if I didn’t make my move, then someone else would. They’d see just how amazing she was and I’d have missed my chance. So, I put myself and my heart out there on display for her to see. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And the best thing I’ve ever done.’
‘But she loved you back.’
‘That’s true. I was lucky.’
‘Charlie doesn’t love me back. It’s not the same.’
‘But could you have gone through life wondering what if? At least this way you know.’
We were back to the what ifs. Yet another difference between me and Charlie. What had I even been thinking, falling for him? I hadn’t been thinking. That was just it. It had just happened. Either way, we were far too different. It was never going to work.
‘Can I stay here for a few days?’
‘Of course you can. You know you never need to ask. Stay as long as you like.’
‘I need to go out and get some bits.’
‘Why don’t you go with Gina? She’d love to go shopping with you.’
I smiled at him. ‘I think that would be lovely.’
His own smile broadened.
‘So, I’ll meet you at Selfridges at eight and let you know where I’ve booked. Sure you don’t have any preferences?’ Dad asked me.
I shook my head. To be honest, I still didn’t have much of an appetite but I wasn’t about to waste away over Charlie Richmond, so I would find something delicious on the menu and bloody well enjoy it.
I called Amy and told her the whole story, including where I was staying, but asked her not to tell anyone else, especially Marcus. She was just to say that I’d gone away for a few days. I checked on my blog and responded to questions and comments. There were a bunch of posts scheduled to go up over the next few weeks that Tilly and I had done before she went on honeymoon and I was enormously grateful now that we’d put in that time. It gave me a chance to relax and just think. Everything had been such a blur for the past year, and now this whole thing with Charlie. I was exhausted.
I spent the time at Dad’s dozing and reading. We took trips to the park with picnics, and visited exhibitions and museums. What we didn’t do was have anyone ‘just drop in for dinner’ for which I was unbelievably grateful. Although it had been a messy way to get the message across, Dad seemed to have finally realised that I had to make my own mistakes and find my own way when it came to love. As I was apparently on a roll with admissions, I finally told him that I’d always felt he was a little disappointed with me because I’d gone a different path from Matt.
The look of hurt on my dad’s face in that moment told me I couldn’t have been more wrong as he admitted that he wasn’t quite sure how things like blogs worked. His lack of questioning about my work was down to him feeling embarrassed that he didn’t understand more about his daughter’s career, not because of any lack of pride in me. I’d seen the tears shining in his eyes as he enveloped me in a huge, reassuring hug.
After nearly a fortnight at Dad’s, although my heart was in just as many pieces as it had shattered into when Charlie had turned his back on me and stalked off, I was beginning to feel a little more like myself again. Perhaps I had just needed a break after spending so much time working on the blog and trying to grow the business? Perhaps none of this was really to do with Charlie Richmond at all? My mind did its best to try and find a way out of the situation, but the moment Charlie popped into my brain, I felt the pieces of my heart squeeze and crack. I might well have been in need of a rest but the heartbreak was still real.
I sighed, took a deep breath and tried to push everything to the back of my mind. It had been a few days since I’d signed into the blog and I knew I ought to check for any messages or comments that I needed to vet or reply to. I had no desire to do much else online at the moment. Being unplugged for most of the time felt refreshing and I had made a mental note to take time to do this occasionally in the future. Hopefully with far less drama attached.
Switching on my phone, I tucked myself into the corner of the velvet Chesterfield that gave a view out of huge sash windows to the avenue and park below. The phone got signal and a barrage of pings and bleeps sounded as various apps downloaded the messages and emails sent via them. Scanning them quickly, I noticed there were several from Charlie. My voicemail counter was blinking nine and I hesitated before dialling to pick them up. I didn’t need to hear Charlie berate me any more right now. It wasn’t as if I’d planned to fall for him, and certainly not as hard as I had! Sometimes we had very little control over these things. Our emotions did what they wanted, overruling any sensible, logical instructions the brain valiantly tried to give. The voicemail started and at the first word Charlie spoke, I hit delete and moved to the next. I did the same with the next eight. As I got to the last, the band around my chest was almost suffocating and the screen had become blurry with my unshed tears. Every one was deleted without playing it.
Squishing the heel of my hand against my eyes to clear them, I scanned the message apps. Most were ones that could wait. Amy and Matt both knew where I was and had rung on Dad’s landline. Again, there were more here from Charlie but I knew I couldn’t deal with those feelings right now. Perhaps once there were thousands of miles and an ocean between us, I’d be able to look at them and deal with his no doubt logical, angry arguments as to why I’d had to upset the balance of our friendship. But until then, they would have to wait.
There was one message I did open. It was from Tilly, who still had another week of honeymoon left and should be doing a whole bunch of things far more interesting than emailing me. The message had come in late yesterday and didn’t have a proper title, just a string of exclamation marks. Frowning, I opened the mail.
Oh, Libby! My cousin just sent me a photo of this clipping. Apparently, it was in a couple of national newspapers, both in the paper and online. I assume they didn’t contact you as what they’re saying is so totally wrong! Sam has told me not to get upset and that the media always blow things out of proportion and it will soon be yesterday’s news. I know he’s right but it’s still upsetting and I hate what they’ve said, especially as you really are one of the very nicest people I know. I hope you are OK and am sending love. I’m sure Charlie will have a brilliant, logical view of it and hopefully will help you feel better.
Lots of love, Tilly xxxxx
I read the email again and then clicked on the link Tilly had included alongside the screenshot she’d been sent. My stomach churned and knotted as the page loaded and I saw the title.
How To Be Perfect And Live A Perfect Life – The Fraudster Bloggers That Damage Our Self-Esteem.
I forced myself to read the article. The byline read ‘Miss Anthrope’, which I guessed should have warned me as to the content. With a harshly sceptical tone, the writer blasted what she called aspirational blogs as damaging, false and another scourge from the Instagram Generation. Miss Anthrope had singled a few blogs out, including a couple extremely well known for generating their idea of a perfect life. The suggestion being that if followers just bought this dress, or that make-up, then they too could be like the blogger whose perfect life/house/body/teeth/hair was an achievable goal. She berated blogs for peddling this belief and then tur
ned her attention to what she called up-and-coming blogs of the same ilk, including Brighton Belle. Absent-mindedly I pulled a cushion from the sofa and hugged it against me as though the soft stuffing would absorb the vitriol dripping from the pen – or keyboard – of this anonymous attack.
The ‘Brighton Belle’ blog is just one of the many new blogs taking over the baton of pushing unachievable perfectionism from some of the more established names. According to Libby Cartright, the perky redhead behind this blog, mere mortals like you and I can make up for our drab and dreary lives by buying Fairtrade clothes, and ecologically sound make-up. Follow her advice and soon you too could be sitting on the balcony of your swanky marina apartment, sipping cocktails as the breeze gently tousles your tumbling, abundant tresses and a deliciously gorgeous man dotes on your every word and move.
Bloggers like Cartright are a danger, especially to teenagers or anyone who may already be suffering low self-esteem. Self-harm statistics in this group are on the rise, with experts pointing to social media as one of the main culprits. Cartright and her fellow bloggers flaunt their perfect lives, making readers feel that they are less worthy when they don’t achieve the same status.
I began reading some of the comments under the article but soon stopped, knowing it would only make it all so much worse. Staring out of the window, I watched two toddlers in the park below playing in the sunshine, their nannies conversing and laughing with their charges. I wanted to breathe in that happiness, that simplicity, and have it smother the roiling nausea that now filled me. Reaching for my phone, I pulled up Tilly’s email and pressed reply.
Dear Tilly, please don’t worry about all this. I’m fine and am not letting it bother me. As Sam says, it will soon be yesterday’s news.
I added a smiley face here.
Just unplug, relax and enjoy the rest of your honeymoon! Everything is under control. Lots of love, Libby xxx
I felt bad lying to Tilly, but it was done with love. She didn’t need to know that I felt as if my life was spinning out of control. My business had been attacked and criticised in a national paper, as well as online – I didn’t yet know what that would mean for the blog or its sponsors. It could follow the ‘any publicity is good publicity’ route or it could go the opposite way entirely. The theme of making a good and happy life, rather than a perfect one, was a soundbite that was gaining traction. It was also one I totally agreed with. I’d never set out to give off some pretence of perfection. Was that really how people saw my blog? Had anyone ever read my blog, or watched a video, and come away from it feeling less worthy? The thought of that physically sickened me.
I wrapped my arms around my stomach and tried to calm my spinning mind. Tilly was right. Charlie probably would have something logical and comforting to say about it all. But I’d forfeited my chance to ever again ask him for such wisdom. A sad, strangulated laugh escaped from me – a perfect life? Hardly! That anonymous writer knew nothing about me. They had made suppositions, applied their own beliefs to my posts and made assumptions far from the truth. But there it was in black and white. My shallow, narcissistic values on display to the world. It didn’t matter whether the words were true or not. The damage was done.
‘You must ignore them!’ Gina’s hands flew as she talked, rings glinting as they caught the low sun as we sat together for our evening meal. ‘These people, they know nothing about you. They are ignorant and small-minded.’
‘I know. I keep telling myself that.’
Dad broke off a piece of the warm, crusty bread Gina had brought home to go with a lavish salad spread over the rich oak dining table. ‘It doesn’t sound like you are doing a very good job at convincing yourself.’
I speared a cherry tomato and popped it in my mouth. To be honest, I hadn’t been hungry but, being Italian, Gina had insisted, telling me that her family always discussed the most important things over food. I shrugged my shoulders at Dad’s comment.
‘One minute I think I am but there’s something in the back of my mind that keeps niggling at me.’
‘Which is?’ Dad topped off my wine glass before moving to Gina’s and his own.
‘What if this person was right? What if I am, without meaning to, giving readers an idea of how they are supposed to dress, or act, or live?’
‘People are usually intelligent enough to make up their own minds, Libby.’
‘I know. But what if some insecure teenager watched a video or read a post and thought it meant more than it should have. I’ve never shared the bad stuff on my blog. I didn’t think it was anything people would want to see. There’s enough bad stuff going on in the world without me doing a video about having a crappy day. I suppose it also felt a bit too… I don’t know, a bit too personal. I wanted people to read my blog or watch a post and feel cheered up by it.’
‘Which they do. Your comments speak for themselves. Also, didn’t you say the solicitor who helped you with the contract said that your blog had kept his wife company nursing her babies?’
I smiled at the reminder, but it was now a bitter-sweet memory because it had also involved Charlie. ‘He did.’
‘There you go, then.’
‘But what if for every, say, five or ten people like that, there’s one who thinks I’m living this perfect life and, unless they are doing the same, they’re less of a person? What if I’m doing more harm than good?’ My voice had risen in pitch as tears pushed their way from my eyes and trickled down my cheeks. A gnawing, panicky gripe twisted inside me. I pushed my plate away, the food I’d eaten suddenly sitting heavy in my stomach.
‘You’re not going to let a stranger’s vitriolic tirade ruin something you’ve worked so hard on and that makes you happy, are you?’ Dad asked, his brow creased with concern.
I wiped my tears away with the crisp linen napkin. ‘I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to do.’
37
A couple of days later I’d made my decision. I quickly opened an email.
Here goes nothing. Wish me luck, Mum. Love you. Wish you were here xxx
Balancing my phone on the dressing table in the guest room Gina and Dad had prepared for me over a fortnight ago now, I squared my shoulders, took a couple of deep breaths and pressed record.
‘Hi, everyone. Apologies for the different setting and quality of this video but I’m away from home and so making the best of what I have available.
‘This isn’t a post I had ever planned to make and, as you can see, it’s not just the setting that’s changed. I expect many of you know about the article that was in the news a few days ago, berating certain bloggers for pushing a vision of unattainable perfection, which for some followers could have serious consequences. Brighton Belle was named as one of the blogs accused of this. I’ve spent the last few days turning this over and over in my mind. I never meant for the blog to be taken like that and I can only hope that it isn’t. I don’t have a perfect life, and I never meant to give the impression that I have. I just wanted to create something that lifted my spirit and if it lifted someone else’s too, that would be an amazing bonus.
‘I first created my blog as an online journal – just for me, and, although it probably sounds a bit strange, it was a way for me to share my love of fashion, and beauty and design with my mum. Even though she would never read it. Like I said, that might sound a bit weird but the first post I did, it helped me feel close to her.
‘My mum was amazing. Beautiful, clever, funny and joyful. She loved all the things this blog is about but I never got much of a chance to share them with her. When I was thirteen, she suffered a brain aneurysm. One moment she was there, laughing with us, and then she had gone. My bright, vibrant, full of life, wonderful mum…’
I scrunched the tissue in my hand and wiped my cheek with the back of my hand before carrying on.
‘I miss her every single day. I think of her every day, and there’s not a day I don’t wish that she were here with me, so we could do all the things mums and daughters are supposed to do t
ogether. I created this blog as a way to keep a link with her. It’s sort of like my own memorial to her. With every post or video, I feel closer to her. But it was never supposed to project an image of perfection and if I ever did that, if anyone ever thought that, then I’m truly, truly sorry.
‘Life isn’t perfect, and mine certainly isn’t. I’m lucky in a lot of ways – I have a wonderful family who support me in my artistic endeavours, even though it’s completely different from their more academic bent. But I am not perfect. I’m never seen without my make-up on in my videos, or in real life. Until today, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. My make-up is my armour, and it has been for years. I didn’t have the self-belief that I could be seen without it, or that people would accept me just as well without that polished finish. It’s my insecurities that have led to me being that way, not any natural ability to casually capture that perfect Instagram moment. Those candid moments aren’t real. Not on my feed or anyone else’s. We are all just trying to put our best selves out there. And for many, including me, it’s because we’re a little afraid that we might not be accepted, or loved, or thought worthy of attention if we do anything less.
‘But we should never think that. I know that now. The people that care about us don’t care if our make-up isn’t perfect, or if our hair isn’t stylishly tousled, or if we’re wearing the right clothes – whatever those are. The people that matter are the ones that take care of you when you come to them with a heart so broken, you wonder if it will ever mend. The ones that let you sob when you’ve fallen so hard in love with a man you never meant to, and who doesn’t love you back. And in telling him that fact, realising you’ve lost a best friend who you know you will never, can never, replace.’
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