Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  “What do you think Mummy’s date will say about that, Archie?” she says.

  “What’s a date?” Archie asks, staring at me.

  “Ignore Auntie Susie,” I say. “She’s being silly. Now, you, come on, it’s bath time. Book away, please, let’s go get your towel and pyjamas.”

  “You look great, Lily,” Susie says. “You should wear that kind of thing more often.”

  I smile. The outfit was inspired by Susie, and tucked into my jeans with the top two buttons undone, the blouse makes me look about a hundred times more sophisticated than usual.

  Violet would be proud.

  “Thanks. Now, he should go to sleep really easily after his bath—he’s worn out. But if there are any probs just give me a ring.”

  I linger in the doorway, my plan for the evening suddenly seeming ridiculous. I hate not being the one to put Archie to bed. What if something happens to him while I’m out?

  “We’ll be fine,” Susie says, shooing me towards the front door. “Honestly. Now go!”

  * * *

  The temperature has fallen over the last few days and it’s absolutely freezing as I make my way from Angel Tube, carefully following the map I screenshotted on my phone. Acacia Avenue is a good ten minutes from the Underground and I walk steadily, nerves heightening with every step. As I pass the cafe I saw Henry in with that woman, I pause. It’s all shut up, of course, the chairs stacked on top of the tables. I still have no idea who that woman was, or why Henry was meeting her. And why was he crying? Who is this woman the neighbors have seen coming and going? Are they the same person?

  As the roads grow more residential, the number of people passing me on the street thins out, although the traffic is at a standstill alongside me, belching out pollution. It’s crazy that I ended up living in this clogged up, congested city, working at its heart and bringing my child up so far from nature, so far from everything I was once passionate about. It’s almost like some cruel joke. And worst of all, I can’t afford to escape.

  The houses along the main road were grand once but now they’re divided into flats, with scruffy front gardens and food waste bins pushed over by animals. I walk past them, taking in the stringy curtains hanging at the windows, every other one decorated with Christmas lights or candelabra.

  My map tells me to take a left turn. Another residential street, the Edwardian houses identical, lined up like soldiers. They’re getting bigger now I’m off the main road, and the gardens are tidier, the front doors painted in tasteful shades. Acacia Avenue is just ahead, a turning off the right, tucked away in the middle of this grid of roads. I pause for a few seconds on the corner, peering down the street. Violet’s house is mid-way, on the right-hand side. Her garden must face south, which would explain the bright sunlight in all her kitchen vlogs.

  The street is quiet, but the houses are ablaze with lights that beam from the windows. These houses are bigger still, semi-detached, not terraced, and as I make my way along the pavement I see they have basements too. Once I’m a third of the way down, there’s another shift in atmosphere. Is it the cars neatly lined up on the street, that are now suddenly larger, with personalised number plates? Or the fact that the front gardens here are immaculate, all clipped box trees and window boxes full of heather? Most of the houses have closed shutters in the front windows, but a few are open, and I can see right into the front rooms.

  I stop outside the first house with open shutters. The lights are off inside, but further back there’s a reading lamp switched on, next to a shiny black grand piano. That’s not the first thing I notice though. The first thing I notice is the magnificent Christmas tree in one corner, next to the marble fireplace. It’s like something out of a Victorian painting—immaculately lit and decorated, not a garish bauble nor piece of tinsel in sight. And underneath it there are already presents, all wrapped with matching paper and enormous bows. A picture-perfect scene.

  The cold December air burns my nostrils.

  I continue my walk, my footsteps suddenly seeming louder in my clodhopping boots. Or maybe I’m just noticing them more now I’m approaching Violet’s home. In the distance I can hear the hum of traffic, punctuated by the wail of an ambulance or police siren, but there’s something uncannily still about Acacia Avenue. No wonder Violet’s neighbors heard them fighting.

  A few seconds later, I’m outside number thirty-three. On the other side of the road I can see her front door. I recognise the color immediately—a zingy green, standing out against the pastels and greys of the neighbors. Violet has used this front door as the backdrop to so many of her Instagram photographs—especially her “‘outfit of the day” posts. The doorway is even more magnificent in the flesh, nestled at the top of a run of steps, and completed by an impressive arched window above.

  There’s a streetlamp directly in front of one of the first-floor windows. I wonder if that room is Violet and Henry’s bedroom, and if so, if the light keeps them awake at night.

  I looked up the address on one of those property websites last night. Violet and Henry paid £2.7m for this place two years ago. I knew she was successful, and that he was too, of course. But still. I can’t even afford to buy myself a new winter coat.

  I steel myself and cross the road. The shutters in the window on the ground and lower ground floors are resolutely closed. But the curtains are open in the room upstairs, behind the streetlamp. There are no lights on, as far as I can see. Not even in the hallway. Either they’re all out, or they’re all in their huge kitchen-dining-living space at the back of the house, on the lower ground floor. It’s Saturday night, they’re probably watching Strictly Come Dancing—Skye’s a huge fan. She does ballet on Monday evenings, and her teacher thinks she’s got real potential. She’s certainly built for it—petite but strong, with long slender legs.

  My heart thuds with the sudden realisation that Violet might not be OK. Something serious might have happened. Something terrible. Do I really want to know?

  As I linger on the pavement, my phone buzzes in my handbag.

  How’s it going? Hope all ok! Ellie x

  I can’t let her down. I can’t tell her I got this far and then wimped out. And after all, I’m not doing anything illegal, am I? I’m just knocking on someone’s door, pretending to have the wrong address.

  That’s when I remember. I forgot the wine! I was meant to bring a bottle, to make it look more authentic, like I really was going for dinner at a friend’s house.

  Too late to do anything about it now. I push myself forward and march up the steps, pressing my finger hard on the ceramic doorbell before I have the chance to back out.

  YVONNE

  Still no sign of Violet. It’s been nearly a week now and aside from anything else, I miss watching her vlogs. It was part of my routine. A toxic part, but a part nonetheless. Some people call what I do “hate-watching” but it’s not that. There are plenty of online “celebrities” I could hate-watch—like that awful Mama Perkins and her wonky fringe. Not only irritating to look at but irritating to listen to. My feelings for Violet go beyond hate; they’re something else entirely, something I don’t know how to identify. There was a perverse pleasure in watching Violet and Henry, analysing each and every interaction. And now they’re not here, and it’s Saturday night and I’m alone with nothing to do.

  I am sitting in the living room, drinking more raspberry leaf tea, trying to focus on what really matters: my own life. Strictly Come Dancing is on mute. The colors, lights and dresses blur before my eyes as the grinning dancers on screen whizz around the dance floor. Simon is post-match, at the pub with his mates.

  It’s non-negotiable, this weekly pub session after the football. He’s cut back on the alcohol since the consultant’s verdict but still. I hate it when he goes out without me. What will happen when the baby is born? Will he continue to bugger off to the football on Saturdays, and come home at midnight sweating booze from every pore, like he did when we first met?

  Added to this, I still haven
’t heard any more from the police. What if they haven’t taken me seriously? I put the cup of tea down on the coffee table. I always get like this in the two weeks before my period starts. Some women complain of PMT for a few days beforehand, but for me, the hormonal rollercoaster lasts almost half of the month. I am angry. At everything. At Violet. At Simon. At what happened. At my own body.

  I take some deep breaths. This month is different. I need to remember that. I rub my stomach, a sense of calm washing over me as I think of my baby. It’s going to be OK. I’ve got to focus on what I can control and not on what I can’t.

  I consider doing some work—I’ve got some editing left from my baby shoot on Thursday. I was going to do it on Monday, but it’s only 7pm and I’ve got hours left before Simon gets home. No messages on my phone. I need a distraction.

  I pick up my laptop from underneath the coffee table and lift the lid. Before I do anything else, I visit Henry’s Instagram and Twitter accounts. But there’s nothing new there, not since the photo of him with the bowl of oats.

  I stare at his face again.

  My skin starts to prickle. What has happened to her? Is she OK? Why aren’t they telling people? I feel myself begin to fall down the rabbit hole and I can’t bear it. I can’t bear not knowing.

  “Don’t you care about your family at all, Henry?” I say out loud to his inane grin.

  Pushka hears me and gives a little purr of approval, climbing up from the rug and settling down on the sofa beside me. I stroke her head absentmindedly, before typing familiar words into the search bar in Google. My computer remembers the page, and I click and wait for it to load.

  There it is, the sales listing for Henry’s old flat in Kensington. I look at it often. They sold it two years ago but the pictures are still online, for any determined stalker to find. I click on the images, enlarging the one of the living room. My heartbeat quickens. A huge space—almost warehouse-proportions—dominated by a battered leather sofa, an antique trunk used as a coffee table, a gigantic cowhide rug underneath it all. Everything was super-sized in that flat. There’s a bar area off to one side, underneath an original film studio light used as a lamp, with all their favorite spirits lined up on top, each bottle almost empty. They were such party animals when they first got together. But in the corner of this overwhelmingly masculine space is something else. Tidied away, yet still sticking out like a sore thumb. A small play kitchen, painted in tasteful Farrow & Ball shades. An overflowing basket filled with soft toys. The reason they moved in the first place.

  I click to load the next picture. The kitchen now: entirely made from stainless steel. Huge, again, the same proportions as the living room. Not my taste at all, far too clinical and cold. Perhaps that should have been a sign. My eyes fall on the gigantic island unit in the middle of the room, hosting the hob and an extractor fan that looks like some unidentifiable part of a spaceship.

  I look away, remembering the cool sensation of the island unit through the fabric of my dress as I leant back on it.

  I force my eyes back on the page, and again, in the corner, there’s a splash of color. Something that wasn’t there all those years ago. A child’s table and chair set. Bright red, Scandinavian, expensive. When they arrived, Violet went on and on about how excited she was to receive them, not disclosing that they were gifted to her by the brand’s PR team. But some followers worked it out when Mama Perkins got the same table, and there was a huge hoo-ha about it all. Leading to new hashtags, now mandatory if you want to consider yourself a respectable “influencer.” Posts must be marked as #gifted or #ad depending on the circumstance.

  I was full of jealousy back then, rage that it wasn’t me living that life. But with hindsight I’m sure she didn’t deliberately set out to mislead. She just didn’t think. She’s so used to sharing her life with a crowd of strangers online it didn’t occur to her to tell them whether or not she paid for things herself. After all, she didn’t pay for Henry’s flat, did she? She moved in, behaved like it was hers as well as his. Never occurred to her to tell people she hadn’t put a penny towards it.

  I used to feel furious that he had let her, but any fury I felt for her disappeared for good last weekend.

  It’s still so new, this feeling of sympathy for Violet. I am not sure where to put it.

  I move on to the next picture. The bedroom. A huge leather sleigh bed, dark green silk-lined walls, a wall of floor-to-ceiling wardrobes. Nothing else in there but another brown leather buttoned chair in the corner. The chair I used to sit in, watching him sleep.

  I shut the page. I don’t want to look at their bedroom, imagine them all cuddled up there, with their brood huddled around them.

  The perfect family.

  Not like my own. When my mother died it was as though my father unplugged himself from reality somehow. He was like a robot who could only muster up enthusiasm for his allotment and God. I was sixteen, an alien creature to him, something he could neither understand nor completely ignore. My mother had been fierce, passionate, larger than life. She brought him to life, and without her he had nothing to run on but fumes.

  I always swore I’d find a warm man to father my children. Someone who loved being around them as much as I did.

  I shift position on the sofa and prepare to open Lightroom. It’s nearly 9pm. Work, that’s what I need.

  But the nagging feeling that I must find out what has happened to Violet won’t leave me. I run through the options in my mind. I still have Henry’s phone number. Would he reply to a text? Or I could just go to their house, knock on the door and ask. Then I’d know for sure.

  But I can’t—it’s none of my business. The words bubble up again in my mind, popping on the surface of my consciousness. Words I can’t seem to block out.

  This is none of your fucking business!

  Simon won’t be home for another few hours. I can’t bear to be alone with these thoughts any longer, and I know he’d come home, if I called him. He’d come, because he loves me. And if he’s here I can’t do anything stupid, I can’t do anything I might regret.

  I put the computer to one side and grab my phone, punching at it until it starts to ring Simon’s number. It rings and rings but just before it goes to voicemail, he answers.

  “Babe?” he says. His voice isn’t slurred, but he sounds distracted and there’s lots of background noise.

  “Can you come home?” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “Please.”

  “What?” he says. “Hang on, I can’t hear you. I’ll go outside.”

  I wait a few seconds until the rumble of background noise has faded.

  “Are you OK?” he says, and his voice is sharper now, as though he’s suddenly sobered up.

  “Please,” I say, and even though I know this isn’t fair of me, I need to know that he’ll come, that unlike all the other men I’ve dated, he loves me unconditionally and will always put me first. “Please can you come home? Please … I need you.”

  LILY

  The doorbell is louder than expected, and I step back in surprise as the sound echoes inside the house. On either side of the huge front door are two trees, and tucked away in one corner under the stained glass side panel is a brass umbrella bucket. No umbrellas in it, but imagine just leaving that here, being confident it wouldn’t be stolen?

  A light comes on in the hallway and I hear steps approaching. I swallow, rehearsing the lines in my head. The shadowy figure behind the door grows larger as it approaches. Whoever it is, is too short to be Henry. Is it going to be Violet?

  What was I thinking? She’ll never believe my story. I turn to flee but the door swings open and I freeze.

  “Hello?”

  I feel myself slowly exhale. The woman in front of me is not Violet. She looks like she’s in her early twenties, with chin-length blonde hair. Her face is small, too small for the rest of her, with green eyes and a pinched nose. She’s pretty in an unusual kind of way, and she looks strangely familiar.

  Then I realise: she’s
the woman from the cafe. The one I saw with Henry. She must be the one the neighbors have seen, too.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice shaky. “Um.” I try to remember my lines. “Is Susie there? I’ve come for the dinner party.”

  She stares at me confused.

  “Susie?” she repeats. Her voice is cut like glass, almost aristocratic. “Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong house.”

  “Oh,” I say, cringing a little. “Is this not 36 Acacia Avenue?”

  She frowns a little, but relaxes her hand on the door.

  “Yes, but there’s no Susie here, I’m afraid…”

  “Oh God,” I say, flicking myself on the forehead. “Oh God, maybe it wasn’t Avenue! Is there an Acacia Road round here?”

  She smiles at me. I peer past her into the hall, to spot any evidence of Violet—her handbag maybe, or her parka slung on the bottom of the banisters. But there’s nothing. Just Marigold’s buggy, which I’ve seen in lots of videos. The most expensive one, by Stokke, huge and grey and reassuring. Nothing like the flimsy thing I pushed Archie around in for so long. Then my eye lands on a pile of post on a small table to the left of me. There’s a large brown parcel on top, Violet’s name scrawled in thick felt tip above the address. It’s definitely the right house.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t actually live here, I’m just…” she tails off. “I don’t really know the area all that well.”

  “Oh,” I say, “never mind.” I pull my phone out of my bag, as though to check the address, and I’m about to slink away but then a new idea occurs to me. “I’ll just look it up on my phone. I’m sure it was Road, now I think of it. What an idiot! How embarrassing. So sorry to disturb you.”

  “It’s OK,” she says, softening. “I wish I could help but like I said, I’m just watching the house, I’m not from round here.”

  Watching the house? Watching it for what reason? I strain my ears to hear any sounds of life from the back room. Lula and Goldie would be in bed by now, but Skye is allowed to stay up on Saturdays as a treat.