Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  ”Is your husband a photographer too?”

  I frown. As usual, she wants me to stay for a chat. I’m not paid for that, but since I started doing private photography I’ve realised that half the job is counselling. It’s the reason I gave up weddings earlier this year—having to calm down hysterical brides, deal with the even more hysterical mothers of the brides and fend off drunken best men—it all became too exhausting.

  “No, he’s a personal trainer,” I say. “Works at the Peter Daunt gym in Chiswick. The ladies-only one.” We’re in Richmond, she’ll know how exclusive it is.

  “‘Oh wow,” she says. “Don’t all the celebs go there? How amazing, a personal trainer. No wonder you’re in such great shape. What a good-looking couple you must be.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I laugh.

  “It’s so hard, you know,” Jackie says. I look at her but she’s staring down at the footstool. “I never imagined … I never imagined it would be this hard. You see these women online … I’ve been following them for ages, you know, since I found out I was pregnant … Violet Young, Mama Perkins, all those women on social media. They make it look so easy!” A single tear rolls down her cheek, landing on the baby’s head.

  “Last night we sat down to dinner, and Zachary started crying, and Will and I got into a big argument about whether or not we should always go to him when he cries … the midwife said we should, but my mother-in-law told Will it was important to get them into a routine early, get them used to settling themselves as much as possible. So long as they’ve had enough milk … I don’t know. How can you ignore that sound? It’s impossible.”

  She runs out of breath, takes a step back and slumps on the sofa, covering her face with her one free hand. I straighten up and sit down next to her, putting my arm around her. You know what’s hard? I think to myself. Wanting a baby so much that sometimes you think you’ll die of the longing. That’s what’s hard.

  “It’s only day seven!” I say, instead. “You’re doing so well. You really are. Look at him. He’s beautiful. And Will adores you, I can see that…”

  “I don’t think he adores me like this, all frumpy and hormonal. And he wants his mother to come and stay with us now. To ‘help out’! I tried to tell him, I don’t want help. I don’t want all these visitors. I just want it to be the three of us … When Violet Young had her second baby, she didn’t let anyone visit for a fortnight. I know because we used to live next door to her. They call it a babymoon—that’s what I wanted to do too, but…”

  “You used to live next door to Violet Young?”

  “Yes,” she says, sniffing. “In Islington. It was Will’s house—the one he had before he met me. We sold it when I got pregnant. Wanted something detached, and my family are in Richmond … that’s another thing, he’s still making jokes about being dragged south of the river.”

  “Were you friends with Violet?”

  Jackie looks up at me, confused.

  “No, not really,” she says. “Friendly enough, as neighbors. She was lovely though. Always rushing about, we didn’t get to chat much. Why do you ask? Do you know her?”

  “Oh,” I say, squeezing her shoulders. “I did. Once. A long time ago. But listen, you’re doing a great job. Look at him, he’s happy and that’s all that matters.”

  I stroke the baby’s downy hair with my finger, and make a mental note to save Jackie and Will’s details in my phone. You never know what might come in handy.

  GoMamas

  Topics>Mummy Vloggers>Violet is Blue

  4 December 2017

  Coldteafordays

  Guys still no sign of her …

  Horsesforcourses

  It is super weird. I hope she’s OK. Does anyone know, if you delete your YT account, whether or not you can get it back again? Cos that’s a lot of subscribers to lose …

  Coldteafordays

  I’m so surprised. I was sure her next big “thing” was going to be Henry quitting his job and joining her. You know, like King Daddy and Queen Mumma. But less cringe. Not this!

  Neverforget

  Violet’s got her book deal now. She doesn’t need YouTube anymore. She’s made her millions. She was becoming so boring anyway. Just her and her perfect life. She lost all relatability when she started pushing that “read to your kids for ten minutes a day” campaign. Yeah thanks, love, we all do that ALREADY.

  Coldteafordays

  I loved that campaign! And I don’t agree her life is perfect. She was saying just last week how she was struggling with Goldie’s cluster feeding.

  Horsesforcourses

  Oh god, cluster feeding is THE PITS! I’m so glad those days are behind me.

  Neverforget

  Oh right, a five minute moan squeezed in to twenty minutes of “look at my perfect life, even my dishwasher is a design classic but oh god does anyone else’s perfect husband not know how to load it properly hashtag the struggle is real”

  Coldteafordays

  Think you’re being a bit harsh, Never. She was nearly crying in that clip.

  Sadandalone

  That clip made me cry.

  Neverforget

  *Rolls eyes emoticon*

  Coldteafordays

  Henry’s accounts are still active. But nothing since Saturday. What does it MEAN?

  Neverforget

  It means she’s laughing at us all. Bet it’s some kind of publicity stunt. She must be well gutted that the papers haven’t bothered to report it yet. I’ll bet you a hundred quid it’s part of her marketing strategy for the book.

  Coldteafordays

  Do you think? Really? I’d be so disappointed. I was really looking forward to reading her book. I had terrible PND with my first and her blog really helped me.

  Neverforget

  It’s obvious. She’s going to pretend she’s had some kind of mental breakdown, then Henry will publish a blog post saying she’s taking some time off from YouTube, and that she’ll be back when she’s feeling better, and then she’ll magically reappear to share her story of courage and survival just in time for the book to come out.

  Sadandalone

  I think you’re wrong. She’s the opposite of that cynical!

  Neverforget

  You’re so naive. You don’t think that every little “event” in their life isn’t carefully choreographed to get maximum clicks?

  Sadandalone

  I’m not saying she doesn’t know how to make the most of her content. I’m just saying, I don’t think she’d do a disappearing act as a publicity stunt. It doesn’t feel like “her.”

  Coldteafordays

  I agree. But then again I suppose we don’t really know her. We just think we do …

  LILY

  Anna opens the door as soon as I press the bell. She’s been waiting for me, as usual.

  “Sorry, so sorry,” I say, breathlessly. “Hello monkey!”

  Archie barrels towards me, burying his head against my legs.

  “Mummy,” he says, standing back and regarding me seriously. “I did a cat drawing.”

  “He did indeed,” Anna says, smiling and passing me his bag plus a crumpled piece of paper. “A cat in a neckerchief! Quite the artist.”

  “Oh it’s fabuousous!” Archie giggles at my mispronunciation. “Thanks,” I say, smiling back at Anna. “I’m so sorry, the Piccadilly line was down … God, I’ve had a right nightmare, three buses it took me, and … well you don’t want the details.”

  “Oh don’t worry,” Anna replies. I know she’s taken pity on me, that really she should be charging me five pounds for every five minutes I’m late, as per her contract. “Pete’s taken the kids to karate anyway so it was just me and we’ve had some lovely quiet time reading. How are you?”

  “Good,” I say. “I’m…” I look down at Archie, who’s edging closer to the gate. He’s desperate to get home, of course, to feed his goldfish Spike. The only pet mummy could afford; just another sign of how I’m failing him as a parent. “Just
a bit knackered this week actually. Ha, and it’s only Monday!”

  “Mother’s prerogative,” Anna says. “Well, Arch had a brilliant day, didn’t you, lovely? We went to playgroup this morning, then to the park this afternoon to collect some pine cones to paint tomorrow. We’ll be making Christmas decorations with them.”

  “And mine was the biggest!” squeaks Archie, his round eyes flashing with excitement.

  I stroke the top of his head.

  “How brilliant,” I say. “Aren’t you lucky?”

  “See you tomorrow, buddy,” Anna says, closing the door.

  As we walk the short distance back to our flat, my thoughts drift back to Violet, wondering where she is now. I wanted to ask Anna if she had ever seen her YouTube channel, but something held me back, thought she might find me weird. She probably doesn’t have time, to be fair. Too busy looking after children to watch videos of other women looking after children. I quite often find myself wondering why I prefer watching Violet playing with her kids rather than playing with my own, but the guilt stops me digging too deeply.

  “All the houses have lights up,” Archie whines, pointing at the windows. We pass the cute alms’ houses that were originally built for the poor. There’s no chance I’d be able to afford to buy one now, despite being poor. This part of Acton is pretty enough, away from the high road with its garages and chicken shops. Just living a few streets back makes such a difference to the noise levels. I wonder if I’d be able to sleep somewhere as quiet as this—I’ve got used to the dull rumble of trains in the background, the sirens that blare past our flat, the drunk and disorderly shouting outside our door. To anyone else, the noises would be annoying, but to me they’re strangely comforting. A reminder that I’m not completely alone.

  “I told you.” My voice comes out harsher than intended. “We’ll get some at the weekend.”

  Archie gives a dull mumble of acceptance then races ahead of me as we turn into our street.

  “Careful, Arch!” I run after him and he comes to a sudden stop at the edge of the pavement as a van hurtles past, making my heart lurch. “Jesus Christ! How many times have I told you!”

  “Sorry, Mummy,” he says, looking down at his feet then back up at me. I shouldn’t have shouted. He points. “I wanted to see the lights.”

  I look over at the tiny house opposite. The entire thing is covered in Christmas lights—from a wonky inflatable Santa perched on the roof, to a sprightly reindeer leaping across the front door. In the minuscule front garden a man is standing on a footstool, carefully wrapping illuminated icicles around a naked tree.

  “Wow,” Archie says, his tiny mouth a perfect “o.”

  I stand for a few minutes, transfixed myself. It’s tacky, over the top and an eye-watering waste of electricity, but like all mothers, the things my child finds magical I do too, and I can’t help but smile. The man spots us, looks up and gives a little wave. Archie bows his head and wraps his arm around my legs, suddenly shy.

  “Looks great,” I call to the man across the road, but he’s turned away, back to his job. In the window I see a woman with hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, carefully positioning a candelabra in the middle of the windowsill. Behind her is a Christmas tree, and reflected in the mirror on the side wall, a sofa, two small children wrapped under a blanket, gazing at their parents as they create their very own Winter Wonderland.

  I tug on Archie’s hand and pull him back down the road towards our empty, lonely flat. Christmas is without doubt the worst time of year.

  * * *

  When Archie is in bed after an unmatched number of reads of What the Ladybird Heard, I take my glass of wine and open my laptop. A surge of hope floods through me and I cross my fingers that she’s changed her mind. It’s been at least an hour since I last checked Instagram on the sly while preparing Archie’s bedtime snack: “Twiglet bread”—toast with Marmite.

  The sense of hope and optimism evaporates instantly as I load Violet’s YouTube page to find the same blank screen again. I click on Henry’s Instagram but there’s nothing new there either. Again, I Google her name, and finally there’s a tiny piece about it on one of the trashiest gossip websites. Still not mainstream enough to be of interest to the newspapers, but I read it in a rush.

  Violet Young, of Violet is Blue, shut down her popular YouTube channel this Sunday 3 December. The mummy vlogger, who gained legions of fans thanks to her honest and frank discussions around the issue of postnatal depression, deleted all her social media accounts with no warning in the early hours of Sunday. Earlier this year, Violet went offline for a month, explaining to fans that the pressure of daily vlogging had become too much. Tubers contacted Violet’s management at Dream Big, who declined to comment. Violet’s husband Henry Blake, who works for glossy men’s magazine The Edit, has also not updated his social media since Saturday, although his accounts remain live.

  I Google the Dream Big agency. The staff call themselves Talent Enablers. It takes a few clicks before I find Violet’s manager, a pencil-thin-faced chap called Noah. He’s wearing a polka dot bow tie in his picture.

  He only represents a handful of clients, and Violet is clearly his star. Her profile photo is one I recognise: her looking sombre in black and white, taken by one of the world’s leading fashion photographers. It’s from an interview she did last year for a fashion magazine running a feature on the “celebrities of the future,” as though they were the first to discover the power of influencers. They were so behind the times, really. I try to look away from her doleful eyes and focus on the biography underneath.

  Violet, thirty-five, lives with her husband and three children in north London. A successful magazine journalist for years, she turned to daily vlogging when suffering from postnatal depression, following the birth of her second daughter, Lula. Frustrated by the lack of support from the NHS, she set out to change the way mothers with PND are treated, setting up unique peer-based support strategies to connect struggling women to others in their local area. Her popular coaching sessions providing practical support to mothers sell out within minutes. She spends her days recording her attempts to keep the family alive and clothed, while resisting the urge to drink gin at lunchtime.

  YouTube: 1.7m subscribers

  Instagram: 800k followers

  Twitter: 400k followers

  Popular videos:

  Let’s talk about sex

  Making time for me

  Baby turns three!

  I click on the link for her “Let’s talk about sex” video. I remember it well—mostly because Henry was in it too. It was a big thing for him; he doesn’t usually like to feature in her more personal face-to-face videos. It was a sponsored post though, by a condom company, and I’m sure the money was huge. The two of them had a frank discussion about their lack of sex life since Lula was born, but in some ways it just made me think how fertile they both must be to have three kids if they’re only doing it on “special occasions,” as they claimed. I remember there was a lot of awkward chat about Violet’s breasts—how breastfeeding had taken its toll. At the end there was an even more awkward few minutes where they discussed whether or not to have a proper snog on screen to round things off, claiming the last time they’d done so was back at their wedding (Carwell House in the Cotswolds; Skye was bridesmaid). As far as I remember, they gave it a good shot, but both dissolved into giggles after a few seconds.

  I miss the sound of her laugh: that slightly sarcastic, resigned cackle that reassured you that she was making it all up as she went along too.

  The screen flickers as the link loads, but takes me to the same Page Not Found error. I don’t know what I was expecting really; I suppose I was hopeful that it might have been hosted elsewhere, that some part of her was still out there on the Internet, that I’d be able to see her one last time, if this really was “it.”

  I sigh, picking up my phone and opening Instagram again. I scroll through my feed, and Henry’s last photo from Saturday appears again. I
stroke Violet’s face in the picture with my hand, then thumb down to see the comments.

  Hey, are you guys OK? Why the radio silence?

  Come back we miss yooooouuuu!

  Where are you guys!!!

  And then the more earnest.

  Hi Henry. Hope everything’s all right with you all. I know Vi has been having a tough time with Marigold’s cluster feeding. I had the same with my son. If you need to have a week off, some time to yourselves, we totally understand. It would be lovely if you could update us all, just to reassure us that everything’s OK, but of course, take all the time you need. We’ll be waiting for you when you get back. Lots of love xxxxxxx

  I baulk slightly at the number of kisses, my eye tracing backwards to see who’s left such an over-the-top comment, and so late at night. There’s a second of confusion when I see the username in front of it, and a split second of denial before I accept that it was me.

  I have completely forgotten I wrote it.

  I grab the wine glass from the coffee table and march towards the kitchen, throwing its contents in the sink. Enough. I need to get a grip. I think back to earlier this year, how close I came to losing everything. The way I let Archie down. I can’t end up there again.

  Over in the corner of the kitchen, the bottles are huddled around the over-flowing recycling bin, guilting me. I switch the kettle on, reach at the back of the cupboard above it for some herbal teabags. I know I have some somewhere, from when my friend Vicky stayed. They were fancy: beetroot, ginger and green tea. Eventually I find them, and decide to ignore the sell-by date that tells me they went off a year ago.

  Back in the living room, I blow on the surface of the tea as the steam settles on my nose. I cradle my laptop again, and I type. It might not be appropriate, but I have to know what’s happened to her. I have enough going on in my life without this nagging unease following me around all the time.

  There’s a delay as the words I’ve typed appear in the search bar. I’m not sure it’ll be easy to get an answer, but it’s worth a try.

  Where does Violet Young live?