Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  Ellie sits back.

  “God, we are a bunch of weirdos,” she says, laughing a little.

  “What was your other idea?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

  “Oh,” she says, and the tinge of pink rises to her cheeks. “Well, it’s my PR head, I’m afraid, I just can’t help myself. I’m friends with quite a lot of journalists. I was thinking of asking one of them to look into her disappearance. They’re all a bit snobby about influencers, social media stars—they have nicked most of their jobs, after all. But there’s one friend, in particular, he does a lot of in-depth zeitgeist pieces. He doesn’t have kids so he probably has no idea who she is, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t appreciate the value of a story on her. Especially if she’s gone missing, and even more especially if Henry has had something to do with it.”

  She pauses, takes a sip of her water. “I was thinking … I was thinking of giving him a tip off.”

  HENRY

  Amy has gone to the hospital to see Violet, leaving me with the worst company of all: my own thoughts.

  I tried to explain it all to her. Things were different back then. Before the Internet came and shat on everything. Citizen journalism, they called it when it first emerged. As though it was some kind of great movement, some emancipation of the masses.

  I remember my editor at King, Bertie Letts, telling the Features desk to do a piece on its pitfalls, like they were somehow going to beat the phenomenon at its own game by doing so. He was so pleased with himself, thought he’d caught the crest of a wave and crushed it, when of course he’d just fanned the flames.

  Twenty years on and I still think and write in hackneyed metaphors. It’s a compulsion. Perhaps that’s why my wife is so successful. She doesn’t speak like she’s swallowed a load of tired old phrases. She’s honest, relatable, “one of us.” I know this, because the many articles about her keep telling me so.

  Like so many of its brothers, my first magazine closed five years after I left it. I wasn’t particularly sad to see it go. Bit of a kicker for my mates who were still there, of course, and they all emailed me the next day, virtual cap in hand. Thankfully I’d seen the inevitable coming as King got steadily less regal and so I moved on as quickly as possible, managing to secure my position at The Edit. Not without an enormous amount of arse-licking on my part—the deputy editor was the son of a friend of my uncle’s, and the old boys’ club had ensured when a vacancy came up, mine was the first name they thought of. My title was junior commissioning editor back then. It was an easy gig. People were so desperate to have the kudos of the magazine on their CVs that they practically begged to write for me.

  Three promotions later and now I’ve got the best title of them all: Creative Director. I’ll be here till the end now. The end of me, or the end of the magazine. I’m not sure which will come first. After last week, the odds are even.

  It was there though, on King, that sexist old “lads’ mag,” that I first met the woman who was to shape my life. She was an assistant on the picture desk, when picture desks had such people. We’re lucky to even have a picture editor these days, and when he walks past you can practically smell his fear and desperation. But back then they were one of the many serfs doing the hard work so their bosses didn’t have to. I noticed her straight away—or the top of her head anyway, above the desk divider. Something about the way she held herself—her back ruler-straight, not a hair out of place. The other women who worked on the mag dressed like lesbians. And not the good kind.

  We were a big team back then. Fifteen full-time members of staff, and at least ten regular freelancers. It was fun, what I remember of it. Lots of alcohol, weekly trips to the Corner Club. On Friday lunchtime we escaped to the pub and no one ever went back to the office. Our editor didn’t care—he was rarely there, anyway. It was on one of those drunken Fridays that I first got talking to her. We were wedged up against one another at the bar, bonded over the apathy of the bar staff.

  She wasn’t blonde, so she wasn’t really my type. But as she started drinking, she loosened up and I was amazed to discover she had a filthy sense of humor. I had been wrong about her. So very wrong. Five minutes into our conversation, she called me a pussy.

  A fortnight ago, Bertie was arrested on historic sexual harassment charges. Not a great surprise given what happened. They’re coming for us all now, these women we drank with.

  Still, it’s always a pity to see one of your idols torn down like that. And men are simple creatures—they’ll take whatever they can get. That’s what women always seem to forget.

  YVONNE

  It took far longer than I expected at the police station, and now I’m running late to meet Katie. There was a lot of waiting around for the right person, and they left me sitting on a hard plastic chair in the reception area for nearly forty minutes. It was almost as though they were doing me a favor, rather than the other way round.

  But at least it’s done now, another thing ticked off the list. All I can do is sit back and wait, to see how things progress. I’ve done my bit.

  While I was waiting to speak to someone, I made my notes in my diary. I’m still updating the app, of course, but I’ve also decided to keep a paper trail. After all, you never know with technology. It’s notoriously unreliable.

  Five days post ovulation (DPO)

  Temp: 36.85

  Symptoms: Bloating, constipation, fatigue. Dry CM (cervical mucus).

  Sex: No.

  It’s too early for any of it to mean anything. There’s a reason they call it the Two Week Wait torture. It’s almost impossible to concentrate on anything but what might—or might not—be going on in your body. Whether your uterus is about to fail you or not, for the fourteenth month in a row.

  Once I’m home, I tuck the diary behind the cookery books on the shelf in the kitchen. It’s not the sort of thing I want Simon to find. Not that he’d go looking for it, he’s not that kind of man, but still, if he needed a piece of paper he might open it to rip one out, and God knows his mind would be blown if he discovered my meticulous records. Even down to the positions each time, and whether or not I had an orgasm.

  Some people think you’re supposed to share everything in marriage. But I’m sure Violet’s non-stop chatter about her postpartum piles didn’t exactly get Henry’s blood racing.

  Pushka sidles up to me as I make my way through the hall. She stares at me and opens her mouth mutely.

  “Oh Push,” I say, putting my handbag down on the stairs. I lean down and stroke her soft head. “You’re going to make me even later.”

  In the kitchen, I take a pouch of tuna and anchovies in wild rice from the shelf in Pushka’s cupboard and spoon some carefully into her bowl.

  * * *

  The restaurant is a chain. A decent one, but still nothing worth shouting about on Instagram. Not like the fancy places Violet is used to, where the waiters wear matching blue waistcoats and there are bells on each table to call for service.

  Katie is already waiting for me as I wander in, and waves me over to the table.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I say, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “Not to worry, darling,” she says. “You look great. Got us a bottle of red, as it’s steak.”

  I screw my face up. It’s 5 DPO; the likelihood is that the embryo hasn’t implanted in my womb yet, which means we’re not yet sharing a blood supply. But still, is it worth the risk? Not this month.

  “Oh,” I say, sitting down. “Listen, I … about the wine…”

  “Oh God, you’re not drinking?”

  “I drove here, sorry,” I say.

  “Well, you can have one,” Katie says, leaning forward and starting to pour me a glass. I stop her short with my hand.

  “No, I can’t,” I say. Dammit. No going back now.

  “Oh Yvonne!” she says, putting the bottle back down. “Are you pregnant?!”

  I shake my head.

  “No,” I say. “Sorry to disappoint. But we’re going to see a special
ist, you know, about starting IVF privately next week, and I want to make sure I’m in top condition. I know it makes me a massive bore.”

  Her face falls.

  “Oh, I see,” she says, “of course. I totally understand. Never mind. All the more for me!”

  I ask for my steak to be well done, just in case. I forgot what it was like to have to worry about these things—no soft cheeses, no runny eggs, no sushi. Violet posted a photograph of herself eating sushi when she was pregnant; she got a load of criticism for it.

  I wish I could stop thinking about Violet. Will I ever be free of her?

  When my steak arrives it’s grey and tough, tasting of nothing. My hand rests on my stomach. All these little sacrifices, just for you.

  “Are you enjoying the off-season?” I ask Katie, as we chew in unison. “I know you had a really hectic summer.”

  “Thirty-seven weddings in total, believe it or not,” she says, taking a swig of wine. “It nearly killed me. Thank God it’s over.”

  I met Katie on our photography course seven years ago. Both more mature than the other students, both slightly damaged by men, both looking for a new start. Katie’s five years older than me, and she drinks and smokes like a sailor.

  “Thirty-seven,” I repeat. “That’s incredible. You’re a machine!”

  “Yeah, well, we spent most of it on a kitchen extension, unfortunately. This is the problem with blended families, all the effing kids. The amount of food they get through! Always coming and going, like Piccadilly bloody Circus…” She stops short. “Oh God, sorry. How insensitive of me.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, smiling. “I don’t want five kids. One would do me just fine.”

  Katie smiles at me sympathetically.

  “Yeah. Sometimes I wish I’d stopped at one. Oh fuck, I’m getting trollied here. Sorry. It’s been ages since I had a night out.”

  “How are things with Tony?”

  “Oh, you know,” she says, briefly staring off into the middle distance. “Once the teenagers have been dropped off at whatever party they’ve been invited to, we just collapse in front of the TV. We’re so dull.” She pauses, gives a sigh. “You’ve always been so much … fun, Yvonne.”

  My ears begin to burn. Fun. For years that’s how I was described, carrying it around like a label. The life and soul. The one you want at your party. Butter wouldn’t melt during the day, but get a few drinks in her and she’s anyone’s!

  Fun was the word they used, but easy was what they meant.

  After our plates have been cleared away, we both order pudding. Not particularly because we want any, but neither of us want to go home yet.

  “So,” Katie says, spooning cheesecake in her mouth. “How’s things with Simon? Is the making-a-baby stuff still affecting things?”

  I look down at my lap, screwing my napkin in my hand. Focus. The temptation to tell Katie everything—all of it, my entire plan—is overwhelming.

  “It’s not the most romantic of situations,” I admit. “I think he’s finding it tough. Especially as, you know, it’s all his fault.”

  The words are out there and I pause, hearing them echo in my mind. Another failure to resist, another load of personal information blabbed freely.

  “Oh really?” Katie says, eyes widening. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, we had a test. He’s got really rubbish sperm.” Too late for discretion now, all that’s left is damage limitation, making light of it. I laugh, but the sound is choked. “Wouldn’t have guessed that when I picked him. He did a lot of cycling in his twenties. Might have something to do with it. Or just bad luck. He’s been on vitamins to try to improve them—believe it or not, high doses of vitamin C can really help. I’m trying to stay hopeful, but what with my age and everything…”

  “They can work miracles these days. My friend Liz just had her baby at forty-five. Third round of IVF—third time lucky.”

  There’s always a story—always some miracle. It’s all very well if you have the money, but we can barely afford one round of IVF.

  “Well, I don’t think the percentage chances are great,” I say. “I’m just praying that the vitamins have improved things to a point where it will happen naturally. But if not, they can do this thing—sperm washing, I think they call it. Where they pick the best ones and then use them with my eggs. As I am sure you can imagine, Simon’s thrilled about the whole prospect.”

  I feel a gut-punch of guilt. That was a betrayal of Simon’s privacy that he doesn’t deserve. I want to wind all the words back into my mouth and back down my throat into my lungs where they can’t be heard. Why do I always do this? Keep nothing back, keep nothing sacred? TMI, that’s what my so-called friends used to say as I overshared freely in the pub about my latest sexual disaster. Too Much Information. On the surface they loved the stories, thought I was hilarious, but I should have realised that they were laughing at me, not with me.

  “Oh darling!” Katie says, reaching out and taking my hand across the table. “But remember what that nutcase promised you—pregnant by Christmas!”

  I laugh.

  “Yes. She’s running out of time.”

  “We’ll sue her if it doesn’t happen!” Katie says, squeezing my fingers. “It’ll work out. Don’t you worry. You’re the most determined woman I’ve ever met. You’ll get your happy ending. I’m sure of it.”

  I flash her a quick smile, thinking how clueless she is. Well-meaning, but clueless.

  Everyone knows there’s no such thing as a happy ending.

  GoMamas

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

  8 December 2017

  Horsesforcourses

  How’s everyone doing today? Still no news in Violet land.

  Bluevelvet

  No, but you know what? I’ve been thinking about it more. I reckon she’s just had enough of the whole online scene. Remember that thread on the forum, about a month ago?

  Horsesforcourses

  Oh God. THE “instamums” thread. Yeah, people were brutal.

  Bluevelvet

  Well, she always says she never reads anything on forums. But what if she found it? What if she saw what people were saying about Skye, about her playing up to the cameras? I think if someone slagged my kids off—especially a load of strangers who haven’t even met her—then I’d just think f*** this and be done with it. Or maybe Henry asked her to stop. Maybe that’s why they were fighting.

  Neverforget

  I think there’s more to it. I think something’s happened with Henry. He’s got a temper on him, remember. And the ambulance!? It’s too coincidental.

  Coldteafordays

  But he wouldn’t hurt her, would he? I’m imagining all sorts now. Remember a few months ago when she had that massive black eye? And she made a joke about walking into a street sign whilst holding Lula’s hand?

  Neverforget

  Walking into a street sign? One step up from walked into a door. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.

  LILY

  “Like I say, I won’t be long.” I put Archie’s bedtime beaker on the work surface. “Milk’s in the fridge. Not too much. He might be cheeky and ask for a snack too, but he’s only allowed toast at this time of day. No Nutella.”

  “Right,” Susie says, her smile fixed. “Got it.”

  It feels weird having her here, in my space. It’s strange to have the two sides of my life mixing like this, and I’m suddenly worried she might start poking around my things. I pause for a minute, watching her as she pulls her phone out of her back pocket and starts tapping it. No, it’ll be fine. She’ll probably spend the whole evening on Tinder.

  Back in the living room, Archie is sitting on the sofa, thumb jammed in his mouth.

  “Thumb!” I shout and he yanks it out, wiping it on his trousers. “You’re spoiling your teeth.” Susie looks at me. I shouldn’t have snapped. Three-year-olds don’t care about their teeth, that kind of discipline doesn’t work. It
just scares them into submission. And anyway, they’re only his milk teeth. They’ll fall out soon.

  “Shall we … read a book?” Susie says, clapping her hands together. I think she’s regretting her offer to babysit now, despite all the times she’s insisted she’d love to.

  “Ladybird heard,” Archie mumbles, pointing to the pile of books stacked next to the television. “Please.”

  Susie looks confused. I roll my eyes.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It’s his favorite. What the Ladybird Heard. He knows it off by heart, bless him. You won’t have to read it, he’ll probably talk over the whole thing.”

  “What?” Susie says. “But I thought I was going to get to do different voices!”

  Archie’s eyes widen and he tugs on her arm.

  “You can do voices if you want to, Susie,” he whispers.

  I leave them to it and go through to my bedroom to finish getting ready. In order to make my story more plausible, I’ve put on an old dress, and clipped half my hair back. What’s that expression? You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. That’s what my reflection says to me. My skin is mottled, the dark rings under my eyes showing through the layers of concealer I’ve heaped on them. It’s started to congeal slightly, in the corners. I pat it with my finger, trying to blend it back in.

  I might not be going on a date, as I told Susie, but there is a very real possibility that I’ll see Violet, and I don’t want her to look through me the way most people do. Someone’s mum. That’s what I am, that’s all I am, that’s all anyone ever thinks of me. It hasn’t bothered me until now—I was never the glamor puss, after all, but once upon a time I was attractive, healthy, full of life, constantly kissed by the sun thanks to all my outdoor pursuits. James was the same, always tanned … I push the memories away.

  I return to the living room fifteen minutes later in slim-fitting jeans and a black silk blouse, red lipstick self-consciously splashed across my lips, my hair loose around my shoulders. Susie looks me up and down, giving a long low whistle.