Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  YVONNE

  I’m upstairs in the bedroom, examining my chest in the wardrobe mirror, when Simon comes home.

  “Von!” he calls up the stairs. “You all right, babe?”

  My left breast is definitely aching a little more than normal. I cup it with one hand. It feels heavy, doughy, tender. But that might just be my bra, which has left red welts in the side of my skin. Perhaps I should go wireless.

  “Up here,” I say, grabbing my bra. “I’m coming.” I put it back on and pull my t-shirt over my head, glancing at the bedside clock. 8.42pm. He’s late, but that’s normal these days. He’s taken on extra personal training shifts to help pay for our IVF. After our three rounds of NHS IVF failed, every spare pound we have goes into the ISA. Simon thinks it’s amusing to say it stands for “infertility savings account.”

  Downstairs, I find him in the kitchen, a pan already sizzling on the hob.

  “Hello,” I say, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him towards me. He kisses me. “Good day?”

  “Better now I’m home,” he says. “Tuna steaks all right?”

  “Amazing,” I say. “Let me give you a hand.”

  “How was your shoot?”

  I chop a leek, thinking of tiny Zachary and his impossibly soft skin.

  “Oh it was fine,” I say, swallowing. “Standard. Their house was amazing though. Double-fronted, with a proper walled driveway at the front.”

  I pause.

  “How much?” Simon says, looking up at me. “Richmond, was it?”

  I sometimes forget how naive he is. But at the same time, I don’t want him to lose that—it’s what makes him special. Pure, almost.

  “Oh, God knows. Millions. It was a nice house. How was your new client? You were back later than expected.”

  He shifts slightly, pushing the garlic around in the wok.

  “Yeah, good. Sorry, she was a chatty one. Tried to get away as quickly as possible … She booked in for ten sessions at the end though. She’s just had a baby actually.”

  “How old was she?” Simon doesn’t notice the edge to my voice.

  “Dunno, maybe thirty? She used to be relatively fit, but she had a Caesarean and she’s upset about the state of her abs.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Simon stops stir-frying and turns to look at me in surprise. I’m not usually this interested in his clients.

  “Sarah. Why?”

  I ignore his question. Younger than me, and she has a baby. I close my eyes and allow the bitterness to subside. “I’ll set the table.”

  After we’ve eaten, Simon disappears for a shower and I take the opportunity to check his phone, which had been lighting up repeatedly on the radiator cover behind him throughout our meal. He doesn’t know I have the password—I watched him tap it in once and never forgot it. Our wedding anniversary. He’s such a romantic.

  There’s a message from his brother giving details of the football class Simon has apparently volunteered to take Callum to, and then one from this Sarah Price, of course.

  Thanks so much for such a great session! I feel a million times better than before—you’re a genius. Can’t wait for next week x

  I delete the message, replacing Simon’s phone in the exact spot he left it, then follow him upstairs.

  * * *

  After we’ve made love, I lie there with a pillow under my bottom, my head awkwardly wedged against Simon’s armpit. His chest is hairless and brown and perfectly taut. I’m keen to update my app with all the details of tonight’s attempt, but he says it’s unromantic and gets sulky if I do so. He’s got a big thing about cuddling after sex, when I usually just want to get up and go to the loo. Perhaps that’s where I’ve been going wrong.

  “I love you,” I whisper, breathing in the smell of his shower gel. He’s the only other man I’ve ever said it to. Three little words, but they were always out of reach before I met him. It was like a tap that had been stuck for years and when I finally turned it on, I found I couldn’t turn it off again. What is it that makes me love him so much? I hope it isn’t just gratitude; gratitude that he loves me back, that he treats me well, that he doesn’t play games with my feelings.

  I can’t lose him.

  “Love you too, babe,” he replies. His eyes are half closed. He usually falls asleep straight after sex, but tonight I feel more insecure than normal, and want to chat.

  “Do you think it worked?”

  He shifts slightly, turning round to face me, regarding me with his big brown eyes. His hair, usually so meticulously styled, is messed up, but it just makes him look better. I imagine lucky postpartum Sarah when she first met Simon, realising that yes, he was as handsome as you’d expect a personal trainer to be; all her dreams come true.

  “I don’t know, baby,” he says. Does he really mean “I don’t care?” “We’ve got the appointment in a fortnight. I’ve got loads of extra PT work coming in. Try not to worry.”

  Another wave of guilt. I allow it to wash over me, then I swallow and take a deep breath. I’ve done it for him, just as much as I have for me.

  ”I just…” I reply. “I just want us to be a proper family.”

  It’s not too much to ask, is it?

  “Yeah, me too.” But his voice is soft and unfocused, and I can tell I’m losing him to sleep already. I lie there watching him as he relaxes, feeling his chest rise and fall underneath my palm.

  Once he’s deeply asleep, I untangle myself from his arms, pulling the duvet away from him and staring in the hazy light from the streetlamp outside at his body.

  I hope we’ll always feel this way about each other. My biggest fear is us growing old and complacent, like so many of my friends seem to have done.

  I roll over to my side of the bed, and pull out my iPhone. Simon sleeps through anything—the advantage of an untroubled mind, I suppose. I haven’t had a chance to check since he got home, but as suspected, Violet’s social media accounts are still missing. I check Henry’s Instagram, but there’s nothing new there either. Just tons of comments from the sycophants, begging them to return. I hesitate for a few minutes, wondering whether or not to do it, but in the end I can’t resist adding my thoughts. I need to know what’s happened.

  Yes, Henry, how are things?

  14 January 2017

  From: gottheblues@hotmail.com

  To: violet@violetisblue.com

  Life’s not fair.

  That’s what I tell myself.

  But it’s more fair for some people, isn’t it, Violet? It’s more fair for you. I wonder if it’s because you were born beautiful? Is that why everything in your life has slotted into place so perfectly? First the cool job, then the handsome husband, then the beautiful children, then your struggle with bereavement and PND and that clever decision: to monetise it by talking about it online. Why not? When life gives you lemons … It was a stroke of genius.

  And that’s why I admire you so much, Violet. But there are people who don’t believe that your “struggle” was genuine. You do know that, don’t you? They think you made it all up—that your postnatal depression was just a front, a clever marketing ploy to launch your YouTube channel, after the internet came and swallowed up your magazine career. I’m not so sure. I’ve seen the way you cry sometimes on camera and I can tell that you’re not faking it.

  But the weird thing is, no one would watch if I spilt my guts to all online. No one would care. Why is it that some people are born under rainclouds not rainbows? No matter what we do, nothing goes right for us.

  I hope you sometimes think about us, Violet, as you sit there in your beautiful house surrounded by your beautiful family. The unlucky ones. You do know there are people out there who would kill for what you have?

  What I wouldn’t give to swap places with you, Violet. What I wouldn’t give …

  GoMamas

  Topics>Mummy Vloggers>Violet is Blue>Violet’s Whereabouts

  5 December 2017

  Sadandalone

  An
yone know where Violet lives? I’m really worried about her.

  Horsesforcourses

  Nope, only that it’s somewhere in north London. Why, what are you going to do?

  Lasttotheparty

  She lives in Islington. Not sure where exactly—one of the roads off Upper Street I think.

  Neverforget

  I was going to ask the same thing. How can we find out?

  Horsesforcourses

  You can check on Companies House—Violet is Blue is a registered brand, right? So they must have a listing there. Might have their home address details on.

  Sadandalone

  I tried that, but it’s just some address in Essex. I Googled it and it’s an accountant’s office.

  Horsesforcourses

  Bugger.

  Sadandalone

  What about Skye’s uniform? Any way of identifying it and working out what school she goes to? Might help narrow down the area?

  Horsesforcourses

  Are you mad? What are you going to do? Hang around outside her school until the end of the day and follow her home?

  Lasttotheparty

  Not such a bad idea! Ha. Would that technically be stalking though?

  Coldteafordays

  Jesus. You can’t do that!

  Lasttotheparty

  Look guys, I’ve blown up that image Henry posted of Skye from last year—her first day at school. You can definitely recognise the badge from it—it’s an oak tree with St Edward’s written around the top.

  Neverforget

  And the prize for biggest stalker of the day goes to … Last!

  Lasttotheparty

  Ha ha, very funny. I’ve looked it up and it’s just up by Essex Road station …

  LILY

  My phone flashes in my hand. A text message from Susie.

  Where are you really? If you’re actually sick and not just skiving, I’ll pop over after work and cook you some soup! Sus x

  I shove my phone back in the pocket of my navy coat. Susie wouldn’t understand, she’d think I was crazy. It’s taken three different Tube lines to get me here, but finally, I emerge at Angel station. I haven’t been to Islington for years. Upper Street is packed with creative types, headphones firmly stuck in ears, heads down over their phones, rushing past as though there’s just nowhere near enough time in the world for them to get to where they need to be.

  I’ve been up since five, mulling over my plan in my mind, trying to decide whether or not to go through with it. I decided, at about 6.05am, just before Archie the human alarm clock screamed for my attention, that I had to. I owe it to them, especially after everything that’s happened. And I need to know that they’re all right. If everyone stood by and did nothing when they thought someone might be in trouble, then what kind of world would we live in? As well as that, having a mission—to find out what’s happened to her—has given me a sense of purpose I’ve been missing. But it’s a positive one this time.

  I stop off at a tiny cafe just opposite the station for a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant. As usual, I haven’t had breakfast today, but the adrenalin from what I’m doing has made me hungry. My eyes continually scan the people around me, just in case I might spot her. Is this her local? Does she come here often? I looked at all the different restaurants and bars she followed on Twitter when they first moved to Islington, Googling each one in turn to see what they were like. I don’t remember this place being on the list.

  There was a pub though, a really cool pub that had a microbrewery attached, down one of the back roads. Somewhere only locals would find. There were pictures of them all there too, before Marigold was born. Skye, Lula in her buggy … she was so young then, so cute, the spit of her dad. Violet sitting on one of the picnic tables outside, her feet on the bench, swigging from a plastic half pint cup. Those wide blue eyes twinkling, a nose of sudden freckles, enjoying the best stretch of sunshine in London we’ve had for years. I can’t remember the caption—something about the beer. I’ll admit I was upset about the beer, as she was breastfeeding. But then someone left a comment chastising her for drinking it, and she replied that it was alcohol-free.

  I should have trusted her, known she knew what she was doing. I let her down.

  “Where are you now?” I mutter under my breath.

  “Sorry, love?”

  I look up. The man behind the cafe counter is holding out my change.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say, taking it from him. “I was miles away.”

  Back on the street, I stand and eat the croissant in three giant mouthfuls, trying not to think about the three pounds that sixty seconds of pleasure cost me. I sip the coffee slowly, taking my phone out of my pocket and using Google Maps to guide me. It’s a bit of a walk to St Edwards but thankfully I should be just in time. I’m grateful again to have a childminder who’s prepared to take Archie from 7am. I don’t know how people who send their children to nurseries manage it.

  As I draw closer to the school, I feel my heart beginning to throb in my chest. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I wonder if she reads all her comments, if she has her favorite fans. Usually she just replies to one or two, with bland things like “thanks very much xoxo” and “you too! X.” In fact, there’s no proof that she leaves those comments at all. They’re so generic they could easily be done by her management team. The thought makes me want to cry.

  I can tell I’m close when I see them all: small people in green uniforms, being tugged along by harassed parents. My heart begins to thump. Am I really about to see her?

  Following the directions on my phone, I round a corner and suddenly the school is in sight: a redbrick building, dating back to Victorian times no doubt, with several incongruous modern additions jutting out from each side of it. The gates are open, the small square car park at the front filled not with cars but with people. Parents chatting, kids running about. Noise, so much noise, but smiles too, blazoned across tiny faces, lighting up this winter morning.

  I cross the road and linger next to a postbox, watching the coming and going. I’ve set myself an impossible task—the place is so crowded, the likelihood of me spotting Violet and Skye is minuscule. But I’m here now, so I try to think positively. If I don’t see them this time, I’ll just have to come back at 3.30pm when the kids get collected.

  But then I turn around, leaning against the postbox and suddenly, there they are. On the other side of the road. I spot Skye’s crazy ringlets first, bobbing along as she skips down the pavement. Slightly behind her is Henry.

  Henry is doing the school run?

  I swallow. He’s too far away for me to make out the expression on his face, but he’s alone. No sign of Violet, or the other kids.

  I catch my breath, pull myself upright and wander towards them. I need to hear their conversation when they get to the school. Will one of the other parents ask how Violet is? I don’t know how friendly she is with them all.

  As Henry comes closer, I notice how terrible he looks. His face is dark as thunder, the bags under his eyes deep. Spurred on by curiosity, I find myself walking straight up to him, buried in a crowd of parents going the other way after dropping their kids off.

  He’s a few paces away now, and finally he looks up and speaks.

  “Skye, come back!” he says, but his voice is a bark. Aggressive, irritated, threatening. Nothing like the man I’ve seen in the background of so many of Violet’s videos. King of the sarcastic eyebrow lift, that’s what she used to call him. But there was always a cheeky glint in his eye, the confidence that comes from growing up with money, and that same gaze of adoration whenever Violet was centre stage of proceedings. I suppose he did luck out—he’s handsome, but she’s a beauty. A beauty with brains too.

  Skye stops short at her father’s voice. They’re just a metre or so away from me now, so I stand still on the pavement and fiddle with my phone, looking up and around me, pretending to be lost.

  “Yes, Daddy,” Skye says, and the sound of her sweet voice floods
me with relief. She’s the same Skye we all know and love. I want to jump on the forum and tell everyone, but I’m being ridiculous. Why wouldn’t she be? She’s only five. Whatever’s going on with her mother’s work is of no interest to her.

  Oh Skye. You poor angel.

  “You can go in yourself, can’t you?” he says, but his voice is weary now, the anger gone. “Just go straight in, like I told you.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Skye says, but she’s looking down. She gives a tiny sigh.

  “I’m not sure about this,” he says, but he’s looking over her head. Several of the mothers seem to be staring at him, clearly as surprised as I am.

  “Please, Daddy. It’s the first rehearsal today!” she squeaks. “It’s SO important! Please!”

  He ruffles her hair, but I would have expected more: a hug and kiss at the very least. Violet and Skye have a sequence of hand gestures for a greeting, it’s the cutest thing.

  I turn away as Skye skips past me and races into the school gates, her bag swinging from her gloved hand. I can’t believe he’s let her go in alone, but to give him some credit, he does wait to make sure she’s safely inside. Then he looks up, and there’s a split second where our eyes meet. He frowns at me, a puzzled look on his face, but then he rolls his eyes and turns around, walking back in the direction he came.

  * * *

  I know this is what I came here to do, but I’m still quite surprised to find myself actually following him. It helps, of course, having an anonymous kind of face. Mid-length mousy brown hair. Average height, average looks. Nothing to make me stand out from the crowd.

  I keep a few paces behind Henry, following him all the way back to Upper Street. I expect him to head for the Tube—after all, presumably he should be at work today—but he walks straight past it. Maybe he’s getting the bus. If he gets on a bus, I won’t bother to follow him. I know where he works anyway: everyone does. The Edit offices are in Mayfair, just off Berkeley Square. But he walks past the bus stop too.

  Eventually, he stops outside a glass-fronted building. I hang back a little. It looks like a really posh cafe, or restaurant, on the ground floor of a relatively newly built office block. He fiddles with his phone and then puts it to his ear. My breath is coming quickly, steaming in the cold December air.