‘They want what you have,’ said Meredith rather too quickly.
Olivia didn’t seem to notice Meredith’s tone. ‘That’s true but you can look at the same hotels, exotic locations, cars, and restaurants’ feeds and sites – but people want to see us. It’s the people, it’s us they want to be, not the things we have.’
Meredith knew it was true. She had spent the last few evenings browsing Instagram, looking at images of The Squad, and it was intoxicating: they seemed to have everything material. But Olivia was right – it wasn’t that that drew you back. It was the story behind the pictures, the beauty and confidence of Amy speaking to younger, insecure girls as an expression of what they could be if only they looked a little bit like her. Perhaps they could achieve this by going to the same places or buying the same make-up which Amy generously listed in the tags below her images. It was pure advertising and advertising worked best when selling a lifestyle, and The Squad’s lifestyle, with its pictured camaraderie, and easy-going enjoyment of pleasure, with nods to all the right causes to offset the consumption guilt, was pitch-perfect. And Meredith wanted to buy.
‘So, what happened? I know you don’t live at that building where I picked you up. I check out everyone we work with and you aren’t registered there. What’s even odder is that there is nothing about you online at all. I know you explained about your boyfriend in Australia but do you know how weird that is these days? It looks so odd.’
This was good news. It meant they had only searched for ‘Nancy Heller’. If they had searched for ‘Meredith Weaver’ then they may have come up with a little bit more. Meredith had made full use of the privacy laws to clean her online footprint as best she could, but some things would always be there. She could lie about the flat, but Olivia was too shrewd and thorough for that lie to be sustained.
‘About the flat in Gràcia, okay, I hold my hands up. I was a little embarrassed. You guys are all staying in Soho House and I’m in a shared flat, more like a squat, actually. And as I told you, for the last ten years I’ve been travelling and, well, here I am.’
‘Some people might consider that a cool way to live and, to be honest, Nancy, with your looks and a good camera you could have monetised your life a long time ago. It’s not too late. How old are you? I know you told me last week but I was so drunk I can’t remember a thing.’
Meredith had told her she was twenty-eight and regretted it – but she was sure Olivia could remember everything. This was a test. She would need to maintain the lie.
‘Twenty-eight,’ she lied.
‘Same as us. You could easily do it, you know. You just need a bit of patience, and with that face’ – she drew a circle with her finger – ‘you could still do it. But you need to do it before you’re thirty – that’s the youth threshold.’
Meredith was acutely aware of her age and its value as the world grew younger. And she was also aware of its limited time value. Her stepmum was a case in point: she had traded her beauty early for the love of her father and it had proved to be the worst bargain she ever made. But by the time she realised it, it was too late and she was old, worn out and terminally ill. Meredith would not make that mistake.
‘I appreciate the advice and I think what you guys have done is fantastic and I’m really kind of jealous. I will find Amy. That won’t be a problem – but do you think you and Adam would help me, you know, monetise my life, as you say?’
This is why she asked to meet Olivia again. She needed to get it on the table as soon as possible. Finding Amy would be easy and then what? They would drop her as they had after she met them a week ago.
Olivia blinked and didn’t reply immediately. When she did, she didn’t look directly at Meredith. ‘Well, I’m sure we could give you some general tips but we are a pretty close group, you know, and the dynamic as it works at the moment is the secret of our success. That dynamic is our identity and we need to protect that. That’s why this Amy business is so frustrating: she plays around with these other identities not realising she is jeopardising the only one that sells.’
Meredith had wanted to ask Olivia if she could come to stay and live with them in Soho House but she could sense that this would also be met with a negative reaction. Olivia was the roadblock she would have to deal with in another way.
Olivia must have noticed the disappointment register on Meredith’s face. ‘Look, I’ll speak to Adam about getting a voucher together for you to take some online social media classes. Given your existing profiles, which is like nil, then I’d advise you start with the basic classes first.’
Meredith flashed her smile to try and disguise the feeling of hatred she had towards Olivia. ‘That’s very generous of you. I think I have a good lead on Amy, by the way.’
She would let this good lead take a couple of days to pan out as she may as well take those per diem expenses.
Olivia reached out and touched Meredith’s arm.
‘That’s really great, Nancy. I knew you would be able to help us. See, you are good at something, chin up. Once you get her back we can take a look at you’ – she looked her up and down – ‘and make a decision on what your identity should be.’
Meredith gripped her glass hard and looked straight ahead.
9
Drift. That was the real answer to Olivia’s question. Meredith had allowed drift to be her identity. With horror, she realised that in the absence of examining and deciding what she should do with her life she had slipped into the coma-like state of the majority of the population, just waiting for someone or something to come along and recognise her talent, for the universe to coalesce around her with benevolent love, and give her purpose. She was in essence no different to Spider, no, scratch that, she was worse because she was aware of her position but had done nothing to change it.
She had drifted whilst a bunch of spoilt, pampered youths had prospered and it wasn’t, as much as it may be comforting to think, due to their inherent privilege.
Meredith ignored the catcalls of two young Moroccan teenagers who looked up from their mobile phone screens to shout sexual innuendos at her. The teenagers were wearing the international uniform of the middle-class rebellious, an homage to US rappers, of expensive leisurewear, Gucci trainers and baseball caps that rested on their heads. Wasn’t this another sign? The fact that Amy and Olivia had realised the world, which Meredith explored by foot, was reduced to the size of your phone and you could market your life directly to the masses. Whilst Meredith had been scamming tourists and selling bangles on the beaches of Bali, these girls had been thinking bigger and with more confidence.
She needed to do this, but Olivia would be a problem as it was evident that she saw the group as a closed unit. Well, we will see about that, thought Meredith. But first, she needed to find Amy. She checked the address and name on the piece of paper that Spider had given her. It was of a bar in Gràcia that didn’t appear in any online guides and wouldn’t be popping up on Instagram anytime soon.
It was on a small square, hidden in the barrio, and the approach was down narrow alleys with apartment balconies festooned with Esteladas. Every few yards yellow graffiti was scrawled on the pavement and road declaring ‘independència’. This area of Gràcia was the beating heart of the independence movement in Barcelona.
Eventually, she came to a small square, Plaça del Raspall, in the centre of which was a fountain weakly lit by a cracked streetlight. The square was empty save for the bar in one corner. The bar was called La Barraqueta and there was a hammer and sickle image on the sign above the door. Outside the bar stood a few smokers talking furtively in between drags of their cigarettes or swigs of their bottles of beer.
Meredith walked across the square, and as she did, she could feel the eyes of the smokers on her. When she reached the group, they made no effort to stand aside and let her through to the door.
One of them, a small dark man with a rat’s tail haircut said something in Catalan she couldn’t quite catch and the others laughed.
> ‘Què has dit?’
They looked surprised that she asked them what the man had said.
An older man, maybe in his late thirties, with a dirty grey beard and whose cigarette drooped from his lips like a brown-stained frown, grunted and then stood back, allowing her to pass through and enter the bar.
Meredith walked forward to the door and pushed it open but before she entered the bar she paused and turned to face the group. She smiled as sweetly as she ever had and watched the eyes of the men reappraise her and soften.
‘You are all cunts,’ she said in Catalan, and before they had a chance to reply she stepped into the bar.
The music was loud, South American rhythms and an electronic drumbeat that suited the atmosphere of shouted conversations and alcohol-fuelled rebellion.
It was dark and packed with the usual independentista crowd. Everyone was dressed in dark colours, many with military touches such as caps and fatigues. Che Guevara’s spiritual presence was strong here.
She made her way to the bar and waved to the barman, a bearded heavyset guy who nodded almost imperceptibly to indicate that he had seen her.
‘A caña,’ she said, and he quickly drew and set down a small beer on the bar before her.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ she said in Catalan.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Do you know this girl? Has she been in here?’ Meredith held up her mobile phone and showed him Amy’s Instagram profile picture.
The barman looked at Meredith properly for the first time. ‘Who are you? Are you police?’
She smiled sweetly and shook her head. She had a vague awareness that the people just behind her had stopped their conversation and were now listening to what she was saying. ‘No, I’m a friend of hers. We are just here visiting and’ – Meredith performed a little giggle – ‘we are tourists and she met a guy, this Ferran, and I’m just trying to find her.’
The barman looked over Meredith’s shoulder as though catching the eye of someone behind her. Meredith turned and came face-to-face with the drooping cigarette man from outside.
‘A tourist who speaks Catalan. Most of them can’t even say paella properly.’
She went to protest but he took hold of her wrist and gripped it hard. ‘Tell me who you really are and what you want with Ferran.’
Meredith looked down at her wrist and then with her free hand she grasped hold of her beer glass and smashed it on the bar before holding the jagged edge up to the man’s throat. ‘Let go of my fucking hand.’
Everyone in the bar was looking and the place seemed quiet although the music was still playing.
He looked at the glass poised next to his neck and then back at her. ‘You haven’t got the balls, you little whore.’ He tightened his grip on her wrist.
Meredith took a deep breath.
‘Let her go, Oriel!’ A young man with a wry expression of amusement in his dark eyes placed a hand gently on Oriel’s shoulder. Oriel turned and when he saw who it was, he released his grip on Meredith’s arm.
The new arrival looked at Meredith and nodded towards the glass.
Meredith put the glass back on the bar. The young man whispered something in Oriel’s ear and then joined Meredith.
‘Apologies for Oriel. He thought you were an undercover agent for the Guardia Civil. He has a vivid imagination.’
Meredith leant back against the bar and studied the young man. Closer, she could see he was a little older than she first thought, with laughter lines around his eyes and a touch of grey in the otherwise thick black hair at his temples.
‘Thank you. I can’t stand violence but no man grabs hold of me like that.’
The young man held his finger up at the barman and another beer was placed in front of her. ‘I’m Edu. Nice to meet you, even in these circumstances.’ He held out his hand.
Meredith took his hand and then he pecked her twice on the cheeks. ‘Is this your bar?’
He laughed and looked almost embarrassed at the question. ‘No, this is a cooperative. Everyone owns it, even Oriel. I just manage the place. And I have to say it is very unusual to get tourists in here. Guardia undercover agents would be more likely and as easy to spot. So, if you are not a tourist – and I don’t think you are – and you are not an agent, then perhaps you want to tell me exactly how you ended up in my bar.’
Meredith put her mobile phone on the bar and showed him the picture of Amy. ‘This is my friend. She has left her job to play fuck buddies with a guy who drinks in this bar, and I want to find her and speak to her before she loses her job.’
Edu picked up the phone and looked at the picture. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard being an influencer described as a job.’
‘You know her?’
He looked at the picture again and then smiled at her. ‘Maybe, maybe not. If I did, I’d need to talk to them to see if they wanted to speak to you. It’s only polite. Give me your number.’
‘Nancy, my name is Nancy Heller. Amy knows me from Thailand.’
Edu arched an eyebrow. ‘I won’t ask now why someone who needs to remind Amy who she is, is looking for her. I’ll let you tell me that story over a drink if that is okay with you?’
Meredith wasn’t swayed by chat-up lines or confidence but there was a humorous glint in his eye that made her think he didn’t take himself too seriously.
‘What’s your number, Edu?’
He gave it to her and she sent him her number.
‘Get me to Amy and the drink’s on me,’ she said, and then turned and left the bar.
This time there was no problem with the crowd of smokers outside the door, they just parted and let her through.
10
The message from Richard was short:
We need you! Come and meet us and bring your swimming costume
It contained a link to a Google Maps location that Meredith didn’t need as she knew the place well.
Meredith cycled down to the coast using one of the city bikes. Along the way she passed the many distractions set out like sticky fly traps to capture tourists before they ever got the chance to reach the more relaxed beach at Bogatell: restaurant hawkers, manteros selling counterfeit goods and weed, flew by in a blurred mosaic of colour as she pedalled furiously to get to the beach.
When Meredith arrived at the beach she noted with dismay, but not surprise, that The Squad had secured themselves a volleyball court right by the sea. She hated exercise. To her, it seemed a pointless waste of energy and she would much rather read a book or listen to music than run around like a child. However, her hours of reviewing Amy’s profile told her that sporty photographs gave great returns in terms of ‘likes’. It was no doubt because it provided an excuse to show more flesh, an opportunity that Adam had seized upon.
A quarter of the beach was sectioned off for volleyball courts. The rest of the beach was filled with sunbathers. Meredith didn’t like the beach: the sunbathers reminded her of lounging seals and the volleyball players of eager infants chasing a ball. In her opinion, the beach was a place for juveniles and sloths. She spotted Richard and Dylan first. They were clowning about in one half of the court, with Olivia and Adam on the other side of the net. She took off her sneakers and, holding them in her hand, she hopscotched across the burning sand to join them.
All the boys were topless and although Richard and Dylan fitted in with the general Barcelona beach aesthetic of ripped muscles, golden tans, and laid-back ease, Adam did not. His thin, pale body was beginning to turn pink. His alcohol-bloated, red and blotchy face contrasted sharply with the rest of The Squad’s burnished and toned bodies. When he saw Meredith approaching, he ran over to her and threw his arms around her. Even on the beach, he smelt of cologne and tobacco.
‘Thank all the fucks! They dragged me in to play and I fucking hate volleyball nearly as much as I hate the beach!’ He stood back and appraised her. She was wearing a flowing linen jumpsuit over her bikini. ‘But you, Nancy, wow! You are going to fit ri
ght in.’
Olivia had wandered over. She was wearing a plain black Chanel swimsuit that was designed for long, athletic bodies like hers.
‘Ain’t that right, Olly?’
Olivia responded with a flat smile. ‘Sure, why not. Are you going to play then? You don’t strike me as the sporty type.’
‘I’ll give it a go,’ replied Meredith.
Olivia turned and walked back to the court.
‘Don’t mind her, she’s probably on her period.’
‘Every other day,’ muttered Meredith so only Adam could hear. He laughed.
‘Hey Nancy, are you ready to get thrashed?’ shouted Richard. He high-fived Dylan.
‘Go on and join them. I need to get some material and we can catch up on your progress in finding Amy later, I’m guessing you haven’t tracked her down yet?’
‘Soon,’ she replied.
Adam sat down by the side of the court and began to unload a backpack, taking out a large camera and lenses. Olivia was standing at the far end of the court, hand on hip, waiting for her.
Instead of joining her straight away Meredith knelt down next to Adam. ‘I will find her, you know. It may take a couple more days though. And here’ – she took out some factor fifty sunscreen from her bag – ‘let me put some of this on you – we don’t want you burning and looking like a guiri.’
Adam stopped fiddling with the camera equipment and let Meredith apply the sunscreen to his neck and shoulders. ‘That’s really thoughtful of you.’ And then to Richard and Dylan who were closest, ‘You could have told me I was turning into a fucking lobster!’
‘Sorry, Adam,’ said Richard. Dylan seemed distracted by the sight of his own feet and didn’t pay any attention to Adam.
As she rubbed the cream into Adam’s back, she could feel Olivia’s eyes burning into her back and she made sure she did a good job of covering all of Adam’s pasty and now slightly-seared flesh. When she was done, she stood up and walked slowly over to join Olivia.
How to Kill Your Friends Page 7