Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  Neverforget

  Maybe one of the trolls finished her off …

  LILY

  As usual I am running late. It’s chaos working in central London, but my boss Ben is so proud of the company’s W1 address—thinks it makes us look well-established—even though my friend Susie told me east is where it’s at for software developers these days.

  On the escalator that leads down to the Underground platforms, I find myself pulling my phone from my handbag and connecting to the Wi-Fi, my fingers tapping impatiently on the YouTube app when it connects. At 6am this morning, I did the same thing, before I’d even opened my eyes properly. I’m ashamed to say I left Archie screeching for me in his bedroom as I searched for her, my priorities skewed, my head full of grit from the entire bottle of Jacob’s Creek I drank last night as I paced the living room in confusion. But still, nothing. She’s gone.

  Once I’m squished into a seat, I take out my book and try to read. A light-hearted Christmas love story, lent to me by Susie. But the words blur as I stare at them, wondering what’s happened to Violet. Where is she?

  It might sound crazy, but she’s felt like my closest friend over the past three years, the one I could always rely on to cheer me up, to make me feel I’m not the only one out there struggling with grief and new motherhood. Her beloved father had fallen to the floor in Waitrose three months after she gave birth to her second baby, leaving her with postnatal depression. His heart attack came without warning while he was filling his trolley with onions.

  Violet told us the story through a heartbreaking mix of tears and laughter. Giving us a glimpse of what her father was like: how he refused to use the plastic bags, how cross he got that supermarkets still provided them. “Onions have skins, they don’t need to be put in plastic bags.” The hospital was less than a mile away but it was too late; he died before his body even hit the floor.

  When no one else could understand what it was like to lose someone that unexpectedly, she did. Some of her early posts felt like she was talking to me. Just me, and my glass of cheap wine. Telling me that it would be OK, eventually. Because everything’s OK in the end.

  She was the sister I never had. Sometimes I dreamt that we really were sisters, torn apart by some evil force. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility; we were both named after flowers, after all.

  Pathetically, I feel the backs of my eyes begin to sting. Doesn’t she care? Doesn’t she realise what she’s created, how much I depend on her? Doesn’t she feel any sense of responsibility to her audience?

  In the office, I’ve barely got my coat off before Nicola, head of the testing team, rushes up to me.

  “Hi Lily. It’s Mo’s birthday today,” she says. I’m glad she hasn’t asked me about my weekend—it means I don’t have to tell her that I didn’t speak to a single adult for its duration. Unless you count the girl at the till in the soft-play centre, who only grunted at me. “Can you sort a card and a cake at some point?”

  “Sure,” I reply. She seems stressed. I’m about to ask her if she’s OK, but she stalks back to her desk before I have the chance, leaving a twenty-pound note in my palm. Everyone here has been stressed lately. I look out of the window behind my desk, but it’s started to rain, an early December drizzle setting in. I’ll go later.

  After filling my water bottle and making a cup of filter coffee, I sit at my desk and cross my fingers, hoping that there’s nothing too taxing on my to-do list today. Ben is in Germany this week with our reseller, which means it should be relatively quiet in the office. My job title is Office Manager, but the truth is I’m a glorified receptionist. Just the phone to answer, the post to sort, and a few little admin things to attend to.

  Sometimes, it feels like the hours I spend at work are pointlessly exchanged for money, like I’m being paid to sit at a desk and just exist. I have no projects of my own, no chance to be proactive. I am paid to sit here and do what I’m told, when people who are busier than me have time to tell me what to do.

  It makes the days drag, but I don’t mind. They could pay me to sit in the basement and I’d do it. I’m so grateful to have this job. Ben only gave it to me because I broke down at the end of my interview, told him how I was a widow with a young child. He took pity on me. He’s boastful about the fact he runs an “ethical business” and worthy causes are a passion of his. I’m happy to be one. Today I’m especially grateful for the empty hours at this desk. Just me and a computer. In other words, plenty of time for me to work out what’s happened to Violet.

  I check again, but all her social media accounts are still missing. I didn’t realise it was that easy to delete everything. I search for her username on Twitter and a few people have tweeted her, asking where she is. Some of the less clued up ones have sent messages telling her that her YouTube account doesn’t seem to be working, as though they haven’t figured out that she’s taken it down. But none of the messages have been responded to.

  I try to remember her last vlog. A normal day with the kids—Skye was at school, of course, and Lula was off nursery as it was a Friday. She had finally learnt how to ride her bike, so Violet, baby Marigold and Lula had taken off to their usual spot in Regent’s Park to make the most of the winter sunshine. In fact, that was the title of the video. An unassuming day. Boring even, if you weren’t as invested in the family as I am. I remember Violet complaining that Marigold had been up feeding for most of the night, but other than that she seemed on good form. No sign of the postnatal depression that had first drawn me to her, and inspired the name of her YouTube account.

  Violet is Blue.

  Violet isn’t blue anymore, Violet is gone.

  “Anyone there?”

  I look up at the sound of Susie’s voice.

  “You were miles away!” she says, smiling down at me. Sometimes I think she’s the only one here who truly sees me as a person, not just a piece of office furniture. She’s holding her mug but she clocks mine, the half cup of coffee left. “Oh, you’ve already got one.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say, “I’ll come with you. Good weekend?”

  We walk to the kitchen together. She tells me about a disastrous Tinder date, and as always I’m wide-eyed at her antics. Our lives couldn’t be more different. Her: thirty-five, single and loving it, head of marketing with precisely zero interest in pushing children out, her life a whirlwind of parties and lovely dinners out and dates with unsuitable men in their twenties. Me: twenty-seven, single mother of one, with precisely zero social life. We only met eight months ago, when Susie joined the firm. But we clicked, and I know we’ll be friends for life.

  “How was yours then?” she says, as she spoons three teaspoons of sugar into her mug.

  “Oh fine,” I say. “You know, non-stop excitement. Lots of soft-play hell. The usual. Sylvia was meant to come round on Saturday for a bit, so I could start trying to think about Christmas shopping, but she’s got a bad cold.”

  “You know I’ll always take him off your hands if you need a break, Lil,” Susie says, slopping milk into her coffee. “I’m honestly not that bad with kids. I’ve only nearly killed my niece, like, once.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  “You all right?” Susie says, eyeing me. “You seem a bit quiet today.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “I’m fine, it’s just … You know that blogger I like? The…”

  “One who makes her money by pimping her kids out all over the Internet?”

  “Pimping out’s a bit strong…” I reply. “But yes, her.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s gone missing.”

  “Eh?”

  “She’s deleted her YouTube channel, all her social media accounts, everything. Just wiped them. No warning she was going to do it. Do you think she’s OK?”

  “Probably come to her senses,” Susie replies, rummaging in the office complimentary fruit bowl, another of my responsibilities. “Ugh, these apples are all soft.”

  “
Sorry. I’ll get some more when I nip out to get Mo’s birthday cake. I’m really worried about her. She had PND after her second baby was born, what if it’s come back? Her daughter isn’t even three months old yet; she said in one of her last blogs that she’s not much of a sleeper … It must be exhausting having three children to look after.”

  “Oh yes, really exhausting, especially if you’ve got a secret nanny running around in the background making everything you do look effortless.”

  I swallow.

  “I told you, no one proved she has a nanny, that was just a rumor on GoMamas.”

  “Why are you so worried?” Susie takes a bite from one of the apples, screwing her face up as she chews it. “She’ll probably change her mind in an hour and bring everything back up online.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but I’m not convinced.

  Back at my desk, I Google “Violet Young,” filtering by the last twenty-four hours to see if any of the news websites have commented on her disappearance. After all, she’s a celebrity in her own right—one million YouTube subscribers makes her more famous than some TV stars. But there’s nothing, just the post on GoMamas that I saw last night. I go to her husband Henry’s Twitter page, to see if there’s anything there. His last tweet is from Saturday morning, a link to his Instagram feed. I click on it.

  My screen is flooded with the image of Violet, sitting propped up in their giant bed, Marigold attached to her breast, Lula on her lap, munching on what looks like a chocolate croissant, chocolate all over her face. Archie is the same. He can’t eat anything without smearing it all over himself, his clothes, his hair and me.

  I find it exhausting, the non-stop wiping, but seeing Lula in this picture makes me smile. She’s such an adorable child.

  Violet’s mass of bleached hair is piled on top of her head in a kind of artfully scruffy bun, her almost-black roots poking through. There are dark circles under her eyes, but as always, she looks beautiful. She is beautiful, her eyes impossibly large and bright blue. I reach out and trace the contours of her face on the screen. I know her image so well, every millimetre of it. I’ve seen her and analysed her from every angle. I know she has a scar on her left shoulder, slightly raised, that she tries to hide under her bra strap. I know she has a tiny hole on one side of her nose, from a long-removed piercing. Her left eyebrow is higher and more arched than her right. I’ve seen her nearly naked, watched her document her pregnant stomach as it grew, taken in the silvery stretch marks that spread across the underside of her tummy like spiderwebs.

  She’s smiling at Henry behind the camera, one arm tucked under Marigold’s floppy little body. Marigold’s eyes are half closed, her lips clamped firmly around Violet’s left nipple.

  I read the caption Henry’s attached to the picture.

  Breakfast for all! #normalisebreastfeeding

  There’s no sign of Skye. Violet said in one of her vlogs last week that she’s taken to eating breakfast at the new desk in her bedroom. A sign of maturity, she’s outgrown us all. I loved that vlog. The look on Skye’s face as they set up the desk in her room, overlooking the garden, was just wonderful. I must have watched it five times that evening.

  I click on Henry’s Instagram profile. He’s not as popular as Violet, of course, but he’s still got more than 100,000 followers. Mostly women, mostly mums, all a little bit jealous of her and in love with him. After all, she has the perfect life: three cherubic daughters, a husband in his forties with thick hair and an enviable job as creative director of the men’s equivalent of Vogue, a huge townhouse in Islington, and an army of adoring fans.

  Her life is perfect. So why has she left us?

  YVONNE

  “Beautiful,” I say, beaming my most encouraging smile.

  When I first met Simon, I told him I shot people for a living. It was a good test of his mental agility. Most people looked puzzled for a few seconds, but eventually figured it out. Simon took a little longer than I would have liked, but he got there in the end.

  When he pulled out his phone to take my number that first day, I noticed the screensaver image on it was one of him with a small boy on his shoulders, and my heart sunk. But he spotted me looking, and told me that the boy was his nephew, Callum. His best little bud.

  The joy in Simon’s eyes as he described him, that was it for me—hook, line and sinker. Simon was so handsome, so young, and I was thirty-eight. I thought fate had finally dealt me a decent hand.

  It’s a typical newborn shoot: a first-time mother with nerves on the edge, a father who looks completely knackered, a tiny seven-day-old baby who understandably just wants to sleep, feed and cry. A photographer who hates the lot of them for their perfect life. No, that’s not entirely fair. I don’t hate them for their perfect life; I hate them for not realising how lucky they are to have it.

  “Could we … could we try some naked ones?” the mother asks. Her name’s Jackie. I stifle a sigh. Naked ones are always difficult—the second you undress the poor baby they start screaming. It’s winter, I want to say. Would you want to be photographed naked?

  People can be so selfish, even with their children. But I’m paid to do what I’m told.

  “Of course!” I say, smiling instead. “I’ll just get my blow-fan out of the car, don’t want baby getting cold.”

  I lay my camera down on their buttoned footstool. Velvet; how long before that gets puked on, I wonder? Hello bitterness, my old friend. Outside on the driveway I allow myself a minute or two of deep breathing, looking back at their house. The sky is clear, the air invigorating. I love this time of year.

  As I reach into the boot of my battered Peugeot, I feel a twinge in my stomach that brings me up short. Far too early for it to mean anything, of course, but still. I pat my tummy encouragingly. We did it doggy style on the sofa yesterday—almost less dignified than I could bear, but I’m sure it gives things an extra push in the right direction. One of the women on the forum said you should get your husband to have an espresso right before you do the deed, but Simon hates coffee. I think about the Stella he drank beforehand, and just hope the things weren’t drunk.

  Back in the living room, Jackie has stripped the baby down to just his nappy. I take one of the blankets from the arm of their sofa, and arrange it on the footstool.

  “Here,” I say. “Lie him down there. Let me just get the heater going…”

  Once it’s plugged in and blowing in his direction, I carefully remove the nappy. The skin on his little legs is so soft, he barely feels human. Thankfully he seems unbothered by his sudden nakedness—he gives a little squawk of displeasure, but then yawns and settles down to sleep, his legs and arms tucked under him, head resting on the blanket.

  I resist the urge to lean down and kiss his tiny cheek.

  “I gave him a quick feed when you were at the car,” Jackie says. “Seems to have settled him.”

  “Well done, Mum,” I say, forcing a smile. Does she even know what she has? “You’re a natural already.”

  The husband—Will, I think—looks over at her, eyes wide with something I can’t put my finger on. He’s older and relatively attractive, although he’s got a weak chin. I straighten up my shoulders and grin at him, letting my eyes meet his for a little too long. His mouth twitches into a confused smile and he looks away. It’s an old habit. Sometimes, I don’t even realise I’m doing it.

  “Right,” I say, “if you two could just step back a bit, you’re reflected in the window at the moment…”

  “Sorry,” Jackie says. She shuffles backwards but doesn’t take her eyes off the wrinkly baby on the footstool. I snap away, leaning over. My skirt rides up. I hear Will give a short cough behind me.

  “Would you, would you like another drink, Yvonne?” he says. “We have other herbal teas…”

  “Yes,” Jackie interrupts. “Rooibos, chamomile…”

  I stand up straight.

  “I’m absolutely fine, thank you,” I say, smiling at them both. “I think I have all I need actually…”<
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  I hold out the back of the camera to show them, flicking through some of the shots on the screen.

  “Oh!” Jackie says, tears welling. “That one’s gorgeous!”

  I lock the picture she’s pointed at with the button on my camera.

  “We’ve got some fantastic ones,” I say. “One of my most successful shoots for a while, in fact. Well done, Mum and Dad! And baby too, of course.”

  I lean over him, picking up his babygrow, then pause, straightening up. Not my place.

  “Er, you can get him dressed again now,” I say, handing Jackie his outfit.

  She’s oblivious to me anyway. She scoops him up straight away and lays him on the sofa, replacing the nappy and re-dressing him. He’s still asleep. I look away.

  “So,” Jackie says, holding him across her body. Will is lingering in the doorway to the “drawing room” as they grandly announced it when I first arrived, looking uncomfortable. I know from the tone of her voice what’s coming next.

  “Do you have children yourself?”

  I sniff, zipping up my camera bag. Why do they always ask? Why do they think it’s OK to ask?

  “‘Not yet!” I say, trying to sound happy about it. “Just focusing on my career for now.”

  “But you’re married?” she says, staring at my ring. I twist it around my finger, hiding the size of the stone. Don’t want her to pity me. From the corner of my eye, I notice Will slip from the room.

  “Yes,” I say. “So hopefully sometime soon…”

  Her eyes narrow a little as she smiles at me. She can’t tell how old I am, but she’s trying to work it out. I’m grateful as ever for the roundness of my cheeks, the thickness of my hair. It was worth going through the puppy fat stage as a teenager—after a growth spurt when I was fifteen, I came out the other side curvy in a good way. Simon said I looked like Kelly Brook when I first met him. I don’t particularly like being compared to other women but I know in his eyes it was a huge compliment.