Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  I’m officially 4 DPO. Four days post ovulation. I keep opening my fertility app even though I know there’s nothing to see yet. I’ve been charting my temperature every morning with a thermometer, recording the satisfying spike—or “thermal shift” as the fertility professionals call it—which confirms I did indeed ovulate as expected, on Sunday.

  The doorbell rings and I carry the plate from my pineapple to the sink before going to answer it. I’ve been up since Simon left at 6am, and my hair and make-up are perfectly in place. Never knowingly underdressed, Katie always says about me. I pull down my skirt a little, wrapping my huge cardigan around me before I open the door.

  The delivery man behind it hands me a parcel and asks me to sign for it.

  I take it from him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Cheers,” he replies, before stomping off down the path.

  I take the box through to the living room. It’s exquisitely wrapped, as I thought it would be. I did a research group a few years ago when I was short of cash. It was all about customer experience, and whether or not packaging played a part in the overall impression of a company. Pretty obvious if you ask me. Everything’s about packaging, from products to people. It’s all how you look on the outside these days.

  Before I open my parcel, I make myself another cup of raspberry leaf tea. My fourth this morning. Disappointingly, it doesn’t taste of raspberries.

  Back in the living room, I slice through the tape holding the box together and open the flaps. Inside is another box, in the palest grey, tied in a bow with a white satin ribbon. I lift it out and pull on the ends of the ribbon, gently easing the lid from the box. It’s all so beautifully done—the perfect gift for an expectant mother. A handwritten note lies on top of tissue paper flecked with stars.

  Dear Yvonne,

  Thank you for your Little Stars purchase. We hope you and your baby love them as much as we do!

  Love,

  The Little Stars team xxx

  I peel the sticker from the tissue paper and gently fold the layers back. Inside is a snow-white fleece babygrow, along with a tiny white hat in the same material, organic cotton and bamboo, decorated around the edges with silver-thread stars. It was an extravagance, and there’s no way I’m telling Simon about it, but Jackie, the housewife from Monday’s baby shoot, gave me a fifty-pound tip. It’s one of the brands Violet’s kids always wear, and I couldn’t resist. I lift the tiny piece of clothing up towards my cheek, feeling its softness against my skin.

  And then I climb the stairs to our tiny spare bedroom. It’s meant to be my office, but it’s more of a dressing room really. I open the wardrobe, moving my collection of summer shoes aside to reach for the box at the back. It’s heavier than I remembered.

  I pull it out, lay it on the carpet in front of me and lift the lid. Inside are all Nathan’s clothes, just as I left them—folded and washed and ready to wear. They’re in perfect condition. After all, they’ve never been worn.

  I take the babygrow and lay it over them, the little hat folded neatly on top. Then I sit back, smiling. A new start.

  * * *

  I’ve got just enough time before this afternoon’s shoot, so I take Simon’s laptop upstairs and get into bed. It’s chilly, even with the heating on full blast, and anyway, it’s important that I get enough rest during these two weeks. I try to imagine the tiny ball of cells floating—or is it bouncing?—down my fallopian tubes towards my womb, waiting to attach themselves to the inside of my uterus. Sometimes visualising things helps. Or at least, it’s supposed to.

  I open the lid of the laptop and start my task, the nerves heightening at the thought of what I might discover. Violet’s social media accounts are still missing. I try to imagine what she’s doing. Where is she now? What’s happened? What’s she thinking? But it’s impossible to fathom. I take a look at Henry’s accounts. There’s a new tweet. My breath catches in my mouth. Perhaps this will be it: the answer to all my questions.

  Starting the day right. Have really enjoyed the seven-day get-your-oats challenge. Definitely makes a change from my usual fry-ups, or breakfast of coffee only, and it’s been great trying out all the different flavors of Johnsons Oats. They’re easy to make, too—just add water and microwave. Perfect for the time-poor. Three thumbs up. #johnsonsoats #ad #spon

  I click on the image underneath the tweet to enlarge it. He’s holding a bowl of porridge up to his face, grinning like a monkey and holding one thumb aloft in approval. No sign of his missing wife, no mention of where she might have gone.

  Cunt.

  I scroll down to read the comments. People have such short memories. Love Johnsons Oats! Apple and cinnamon is my favorite! Hardly anyone has bothered to mention Violet, but a few people have tagged friends, to draw their attention to the image. Look, Caz, guess everything must be OK then?

  I feel the anger start to simmer, my breathing quickening as my heart pounds. How dare he. How fucking dare he. Just publishing his scheduled posts promoting this rubbish, as though nothing’s happened. How can he just ignore all the questions, all the fans wondering, worrying about where she’s gone, and continue with his vacuous job as though she doesn’t even exist?

  I’m actually shaking now. I stare at his face, the hard set of his jaw, the way his eyes have shrunk with age and the toll of sleepless nights. But that grin is still there—those perfectly white teeth, the lopsided smirk, the glint in his eyes that says he’ll always get away with everything.

  And it’s that disgusting grin that convinces me that I have to go to the police. Any doubts I have been entertaining over the past week evaporate. I have to do this. Men like him disgust me.

  GoMamas

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

  7 December 2017

  Horsesforcourses

  So guys, a friend of a friend knows Violet’s next door neighbor. Apparently on Saturday evening she heard Violet and Henry screaming at each other. Like properly screaming, through the walls. It was so bad it woke up this woman’s newborn. Then—and this is the best/worst bit—an ambulance arrived. She couldn’t see who it was for, and she didn’t want to go outside and stare like a horrible rubbernecker. But still! WTAF has happened?

  Sadandalone

  Oh my god!!!!

  Bluevelvet

  I’m really upset to hear this. I thought they were rock solid.

  Horsesforcourses

  Do you remember earlier in the year though? All that business with Mandy? Maybe something did happen, she lost her temper and …

  Neverforget

  Who knows what goes on behind closed doors…?

  Bluevelvet

  Did your friend find out any more, Horses?

  Horsesforcourses

  Yes, she said she hasn’t seen Violet since. But weirder still, there’s been some other woman there, coming and going with shopping and stuff. Letting herself in with a key. It’s not her cleaner. She’s never seen her before, doesn’t know her name. It’s just SO weird now, Violet’s been missing for four days and there’s been nothing. Not even a statement from her management.

  28 January 2017

  From: gottheblues@hotmail.com

  To: violet@violetisblue.com

  I’ve known you for a while now, Violet. Of course sometimes you make questionable decisions, as we all do, but I always thought you were pretty morally decent. But every now and then you do something, and it makes me want to cry. And today was such a day.

  I was bored, suddenly remembered your other email address. Not your official one on your website, but the one I found in the bowels of the internet, one night on a particularly exhaustive search. Youngviolets81@live.com. (By the way, the “81” is a dead giveaway of your real age—you might want to think about changing that.) Realised I’d never Googled it before.

  In the address went, and up it came, straight away. Your eBay account name: youngviolets81. I almost laughed out loud at the shock of it. For some reason, I could
n’t picture you bothering with something like eBay.

  345 transactions, 100% positive feedback. What were you buying? I clicked to see.

  But then my own naivety slapped me round the face. You weren’t buying anything. You were selling. Selling, selling, selling. I clicked on every single listing for the past six months. There were so many things. SO MANY THINGS. I was so stupid, I didn’t understand. But then I read the descriptions, and I realised. What a fool I had been.

  Unwanted gift. Collection from Barnsbury, N1.

  Unwanted gift, still new in box. Collection only from N1.

  Never used. Collection only please, north London!

  All the big-ticket items. The ones you once said you gave away to family and friends, or donated to charity. Brand-new pushchairs, the latest high chairs, immaculate Moses baskets lined with lace … all unwanted gifts from PRs, turned into cold, hard cash.

  What a let-down. Charity begins at home, eh, Violet? In a great big mansion in north London.

  LILY

  I’m early, for once, and so I sit in the window of the cafe, watching for Ellie. I have no idea what to expect, what she’ll look like—I didn’t think to describe myself to her either, so I hope she works out who I am. There aren’t many other people in the cafe, which is strange given that it’s lunchtime. It’s one of those tiny places tucked down a side street that you’d only know about if you were a local.

  I’m too nervous to have much of an appetite, but when my jacket potato arrives I shovel it into my mouth anyway. I check my phone periodically—she’s late, but she has a high-profile job at a PR agency, so I guess it’s to be expected. At exactly twelve minutes past one, I hear the door to the cafe creak open and she comes in, looking around to find me.

  She’s far more glamorous than I ever imagined any fan of Violet’s to be, dressed in a bright red dress and an ankle-length cream coat. Her hair is dark, almost black, pinned up neatly, and she has two enormous gold hoop earrings on that quiver as she turns her head.

  She spots me, hunched in the corner, parka falling off the back of my chair. I pull my grey cardigan around myself. I don’t want her to notice the dungaree dress—if she’s as big a fan of Violet as I am, she’ll know that it’s just like the one she has.

  “Lily!” she calls, waving over at me. “I’ll just order something and join you.”

  I nod back, smiling, forking in the last of my potato. I’d rather not have to eat in front of her.

  “Sorry, couldn’t find the place!” she says, breathlessly, pulling out the chair opposite me. She’s carrying a bottle of sparkling water.

  “Oh, sorry it’s a bit scruffy,” I say. “Sure you’re used to far more salubrious venues! It’s just usually quite quiet, and about half the price of the places like Pret.” As soon as the words are out, I regret them. I think of the lunch I’d cobbled together for myself this morning—leftovers from our dinner last night. I’d made tuna pasta, but there was no tuna left in it, so this morning I’d torn up one of Archie’s cheese strings and scattered it through. How relieved I was to have an excuse to bin it before I came here.

  “No, it’s great,” Ellie says, looking around. “I need to find more of these kind of places. Secret Soho. You know what I mean.”

  She pauses, staring at me.

  “You look really familiar,” she says, frowning. “We haven’t met before, have we?”

  I shake my head, give a small laugh.

  “Nope, don’t think so,” I reply. “I get that all the time though. Must have one of those faces.”

  “Must do.”

  “Do you work nearby?” I ask.

  She nods, taking a sip of her sparkling water straight from the bottle.

  “Yep, just round the corner actually. Just off Dean Street. You?”

  “We’re above the eco-friendly shoe shop behind Carnaby Street.”

  “Wow, very fancy! What is it you do exactly?”

  “Um … I work for a tech company. We mostly design apps for brands, but we do a bit of web development too.”

  “Gosh, you must be very clever then.”

  I smile, look down at my empty mug. Now that she’s up close, it’s obvious that Ellie is older than I thought she was. Her skin has that delicate quality about it, a collection of fine lines around her eyes.

  “Not really,” I say. “I’ve got more of a … support role. And you work in PR?”

  “Yes,” she nods, rolling her eyes. “Awful, isn’t it? I’m an account director for some global healthcare brands. It’s full on, but I enjoy it. A lot of travel involved. Luckily my husband works from home, so he helps out a lot with the childcare. Although, it’s not helping out when it’s your own children, is it? What is it Violet always says to Henry? It’s not babysitting when it’s your own kids!”

  “Do you think Henry wanted kids?” I say.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I didn’t say this on the forum but one of my colleagues knows Henry really well, worked with him years ago. By all accounts he was quite the party animal, certainly not the sort of man who’d settle down with a member of the breastapo and care about whether or not the yoghurt they ate was organic. He really wasn’t that kind of man. She changed him. But I suppose she has that quality, doesn’t she? She draws you in.”

  I nod.

  “She’s the first person I ever really watched online.”

  “She’s the best of the mummy lot,” Ellie says. “Not perfect though—do you remember that time she left the kids together on the trampoline and they ended up banging heads? God, that was so irresponsible. I can’t believe she actually put that video up—did you see the comments she got? Served her right, really. And she’s not always good about disclosing things—you know they got a massive discount on Henry’s Land Rover?”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah, I know the guy who works on that account. Really dodgy.” Ellie pauses, staring past my shoulder. “I absolutely loved her up until then. Went off her a bit when I found out about that.”

  “‘Do you trust Henry?” I say. “I can’t believe this stuff with the ambulance…”

  “Well, he’s certainly besotted with her.” The waiter brings over Ellie’s lunch and sets it down in front of her—a dressing-less salad with a sliced hard-boiled egg. “But then there’s the stuff about this other woman letting herself in and out of the house … Could be a new assistant, I suppose … Although I thought after Mandy she swore she’d never have another. What a disaster that turned out to be. I never liked her. Violet’s got rubbish taste in people, I have to say!”

  I swallow. “Your friend, the one you said knows Henry, what does he think?”

  My words are tumbling out, and I find I’m slightly breathless.

  “They lost touch several years ago—just after Violet got pregnant. I asked him to drop him a line, find out what’s going on, but he said that would be too weird. But listen, I’ve had a couple of other ideas. Just wanted to run them past you. I always wonder … my husband, he says I’ve got an obsessive nature, but sometimes you can’t help it, can you? I love people—it’s why I do what I do. And Violet has…” She pauses again. “Well, she’s always felt like a friend to me.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say, stroking the paper napkin on my lap. “I think we’d all get on really well in real life.”

  “Oh me too!” Ellie says. “So listen, I wanted to tell you a couple of things. One, I know Violet’s address.”

  I gasp.

  “How?”

  Ellie’s neck flushes slightly.

  “Oh, she’s on the media database we use. Doesn’t have a PO Box like most of the big bloggers for some reason. Prefers to get stuff sent direct to her than to her agent. Anyway…” She reaches down and pulls her shiny black handbag on to her lap, taking out a piece of paper and unfolding it on the table in front of me.

  My eyes take in the letters, my brain immediately storing away the number of the house and the postcode.

  “Is that de
finitely her address?” I ask. It sounds posh, the number familiar. 36 Acacia Avenue. Then I remember. A year or so ago, there was some post on the table behind Violet in one of her blogs. A big brown parcel, the address scrawled in huge letters on the top. I’d screen-grabbed it and zoomed in on my phone, managing to read the number, but not the rest of the address, which was out of focus.

  “Yes, one hundred per cent. I confirmed it with a friend who works in our consumer division. She worked with Violet on a campaign for Joy soap last year. Sent her loads of stuff. By all accounts she was really lovely to work with, which is a relief.”

  “Wow,” I say, pulling the piece of paper closer towards me.

  “Yeah, I know,” Ellie says, resting her chin on her palm. “Anyway, I live down in Surrey now—we moved out when the twins turned two. So there’s no way I can go to Islington and hang around outside her house to see if she’s OK. Not that I’m suggesting anyone should do that but…”

  “I’ll do it,” I say, snatching up the piece of paper.

  “Are you sure?” Ellie says, surprised.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ll get a sitter.”

  “I thought you lived west?”

  “I do,” I reply. “In Act … near Chiswick. But it’s fine. It’s good to get out of the house—I might even try to catch a film after.”

  “OK, great. Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’ll go on Saturday night,” I say, folding the piece of paper back up and putting it in my handbag. “I’ll report back any findings!”

  “What will you do?” Ellie asks. “Are you going to ring the doorbell?”

  I take a sip of my tea.

  “I could do, I suppose.” I shrug. “Could pretend I was lost. I’ll dress up a bit, say I’m meant to be having dinner with friends, but that I’ve got the wrong house number.”

  “It might be that you see her anyway, through the window, and can tell she’s fine. In which case, I don’t suppose you need to do anything.”

  “No, exactly,” I say, nodding vigorously. “Let’s just see what happens.”