Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  “Of course,” I say, and I follow him into his office.

  “No easy way of saying this, Lily,” he says. He swallows. “As you know, we didn’t close as many new clients as we had forecast this quarter. We’re having to undergo some cost-saving measures and I’m afraid your job is at risk.”

  As he speaks, I try to look upset, or surprised. I’m unable to fake either emotion. I wonder what James would think if he was here now. As the time goes by, I feel less and less able to imagine how he would feel, what he would say about things. He would probably say it was a shame, tell me that I was bright and that I’d find something else easily enough.

  But that was always his problem. He didn’t take things seriously enough.

  “At risk?” I say. Does this buy me a few more months at least?

  “Yes. We’re hopeful we’re going to win LogicProTech, which you may know is a big client…” He pauses for a second, squinting at me slightly.

  “Yes, sounds promising,” I say, nodding enthusiastically.

  “We’ve had a verbal, but the MD is dragging his feet,” Ben says, looking past my shoulder. “If he doesn’t sign before Christmas, I’m afraid we will be looking at redundancies in the new year.”

  The new year. That’s OK then. Just let me get through Christmas, let me make sure Archie experiences it like the other kids. That’s all I want. I need to hold it together for him.

  “Right,” I say, blinking. “OK.”

  Ben leans forward on his desk.

  “Christ, Lily,” he says, suddenly confessional. “I never meant any of this … I thought … I wanted to help you. In your interview, when you talked about losing your husband so tragically … But I’m not sure … we’re the right fit. I mean, do you even like working here?”

  “I love it!” I say, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my jumper. “Honestly! It’s such a great team, and all the developers are so funny with their little quirks, and Susie and I have got a great relationship and what we’re doing is so exciting, being disruptors and stuff; I mean, who wouldn’t want to be at the forefront of all that and … and…”

  Ben shakes his head, one eyebrow rising.

  “‘It’s OK,” he says. “Really. You don’t have to pretend.”

  “I’m not pretending!” I say, standing. I push my chair back. “I’m passionate about this firm. We’ll win LogicProTech, and everything will be OK. You wait and see.”

  Ben frowns at me, and without saying a word, waves his hand towards the door. I’ve been dismissed.

  * * *

  My breathing comes in fits and starts as I take my phone to the ladies’ toilet, keeping my fingers crossed I don’t bump into Susie on the way. I lock the cubicle door behind me and put the lid of the toilet down, sitting there for a few seconds, waiting for Henry’s Instagram to load again.

  The Wi-Fi is even weaker in here, but eventually I see him. Henry. I feel myself relaxing. That face, so handsome, so self-assured. The man who has it all. He’s sitting at his desk, the wall behind him a collage of mini magazine pages. He’s leaning forward on his elbows. His expression is sombre, thoughtful. He’s trying to look important. Henry; the protector. Henry; every woman’s dream man.

  Anyone with a pulse looking at this picture couldn’t help but want him, and he knows it.

  The whole thing is precisely staged, and my toes twitch as I scroll down to read the caption.

  Disappointed to read the stories in the papers this weekend. I know my wife and I live life in the public eye from time to time, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t entitled to a private life, to take some time to withdraw. Perhaps people should focus their energies on their own families, and then the world would be a better place.

  If it’s an attempt to silence his critics, it has backfired spectacularly. The comments are bitter.

  Sorry, mate, you put yourself out there, you lay yourself open to this!

  So you’ve bumped her off then?

  Where’s Violet, Henry? Not seen in public for over a week? Suspicious much?

  From time to time? Don’t you mean ALL the bloody time? #oversharers

  I look at his face, tracing the contours of his cheek with my finger. He looks older now. Perhaps it’s the shadows across his face, or the fact he’s not grinning as he usually does.

  “What have you done to her?” I whisper.

  GoMamas

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

  11 December 2017

  Horsesforcourses

  So what do we all think of Henry’s latest insta?

  Bluevelvet

  He’s hit her or something. Definitely. He must have done—think about it, that’s why she’s not been able to go out. He must have done something that she can’t explain away as an accident.

  Neverforget

  I’m glad Violet’s gone. I know Skye’s only a child, but she was becoming increasingly repulsive. Let’s be honest here—that scene with her “singing” Tomorrow and staring at herself in the mirror while Violet told her how brilliant she was. Ugh. She wasn’t even in tune!

  Bluevelvet

  That’s pretty harsh, Never, but I know what you mean. She’s certainly precocious for her age. As my mum would say.

  Horsesforcourses

  You can’t call a child repulsive!

  Neverforget

  Sorry but I think they’re all repulsive. Attention-seeking narcissists. Good riddance. Now, how do we get rid of Mama Perkins too? *Evil cackle*

  YVONNE

  9 DPO.

  According to my app: Implantation day!

  The blastocyst travels down the fallopian tube towards the uterus. Implantation is made possible through both structural changes in the blastocyst and endometrial wall. The zona pellucida surrounding the blastocyst breaches, referred to as hatching.

  In my womb, an everyday miracle is taking place. Meanwhile, I have finally heard back from the police. They’re taking me seriously, want me to come in and firm up my statement.

  I kiss Simon hard on the mouth as he comes out of the bathroom.

  “Hey,” he says, smiling at me with surprise. I am so happy today, so incredibly happy. Must remember to write that down in my diary.

  I pull his arms around my waist, staring up at him. He’s tired, something he’d never admit to. He’s been working too hard, taking on as many extra classes and shifts as possible. And all for nothing. No, not nothing. We can put the money to another use now we don’t need to pay for IVF anymore. A new kitchen, perhaps.

  Simon’s got the morning off today though, finally, and we’re going to go to the farmers’ market shop and buy our Christmas tree. My idea. He wanted to work on his plan for this postpartum fitness programme, but I talked him out of it.

  He follows me downstairs and I wait while he gets ready to go. I’m so used to seeing him in gym gear that it’s a thrill to see him in normal clothes. Smart jeans, actual shoes rather than trainers and a light wool jumper that hints at the shape of his chest underneath.

  Pushka comes into the hallway, her tail quivering with interest.

  “All right, Push,” Simon says. She purrs in gratitude as he picks her up. He’ll be such an amazing father. It’s all going to work out.

  I need to put this Violet business behind me.

  “How’s the rest of your week looking?” he asks, as we pull out of our driveway.

  “Um, not too bad,” I say. I deliberately didn’t book any shoots this week. This might be the most important week of my entire life, and I’m not going to jeopardise anything by twisting myself into unnatural positions while trying to photograph drooling newborns. “It’s quiet this time of year. People are so busy with Christmas parties and stuff.”

  “Sure,” Simon says, nodding. “Not long now until our appointment.”

  I glance over at him. It’s so unlike him to bring it up, I suddenly feel suspicious. But he can’t know that I cancelled it. The appointment was in my name, and they don’t have his nu
mber.

  “It’s going to be great,” I say. I think of the tests, secreted in my wardrobe, still wrapped in the Boots carrier bag I took them home in. I’ve got an excuse prepared to give Simon about the appointment: the consultant we are due to see is going to have a car accident the day before. Nothing serious, just a strained wrist and a touch of whiplash. But she’s going to have a few days off and will be back in touch to rearrange our appointment.

  I haven’t thought beyond that conversation. I don’t need to. Because before they call me back to rearrange, I will be able to tell Simon about our miracle pregnancy, and the consultant’s carelessness at the wheel will be long forgotten.

  I don’t allow the possibility of things not working out to enter my mind. After how far I’ve come, everything we’ve been through, it has to work this time. It just has to.

  * * *

  Later that evening, when our tree is set up in the tiny bay window of our living room, I sit with my laptop, checking Violet and Henry’s social media accounts. I can’t help myself. Her situation has been on my mind all day, no matter how much I try to push it away. She keeps popping up, the memory of her huge eyes staring at me in horror, the sound she made, visceral and gutting … My jumper feels itchy against my neck and I tug at the collar, my fingernails scraping against the skin underneath in an attempt to relieve the sensation. How can I continue to live like this, full of joy at finally getting what I want, but not knowing if she’ll ever wake up? I close the lid of my computer, look across at my phone, pull it towards me then open my messages. Then I look up Henry’s name in the search bar, and begin to type.

  Hello, I know I’m probably the last person …

  “Here you are!”

  I glance up, startled. Simon has come through from the kitchen, and is holding out a glass of something fizzy. He’s been cooking a proper roast, at my request.

  “Oh!” I say, taking it from him. “You made me jump.”

  His eyes fall to the ground. “Sorry.”

  I lay the glass down next to me on the side table.

  “It’s fine. Thank you for the drink.”

  “Appletiser. Non-alcoholic. Don’t want to mess up our test results when we go to the clinic,” he says. “We’ve been so good for months, can’t let our guard down just because it’s Christmas.”

  I smile. My phone is sweaty in my hand, and at the edge of my vision I can see Henry’s name at the top of the screen. I try to hold Simon’s gaze, desperate for him not to ask what I’m doing. He leans down and kisses me lightly on the lips.

  “Who’s Henry?” he says.

  I feel sick.

  “Photographer friend,” I say. Lie upon lie upon lie … “Bit of an arse, actually. Just telling him I can’t assist on his shoot next week. Patronising git.”

  He smiles, then turns to leave the room.

  “Don’t want the potatoes to burn,” he calls as he disappears back through the door.

  I look back down at my phone. The screen has faded to black. I throw it across to the other sofa, as though it’s blistered my skin. Then, the tears start to come. I’m trapped in a hell of my own making, and there’s no way out.

  Simon doesn’t deserve this. He’s so trusting. What would he think if he knew what I was really capable of? He knows nothing of my obsession with that fucking family, of my encyclopaedic knowledge of Violet and Henry.

  The only time Simon ever caught me watching her was on our honeymoon earlier this year. Being in a different place made me careless. Simon’s a traditionalist in many ways, and so he booked the honeymoon. South Africa. Wine-tasting and then four nights in Cape Town. I have no idea how he afforded the trip: I never asked. Maybe Pat gave him the money, maybe he sold one of his bikes. He can’t ride them since his injury, so it would have been a fair swap.

  It was in South Africa that he caught me. I was lying on the huge bed, the muslin curtains billowing at the hotel’s windows. We had a terrace beyond, overlooking Table Mountain. It was a blissful day. We’d just been for a swim in the pool and had returned to our room: the heat of the midday sun making us feel like true honeymooners. No contraception, of course. I had thought it would be easy. He was in the cave-like bathroom, having a shower, and I took the opportunity to pick up my phone and check Violet’s page. It was habit more than anything else: we were three days in to our honeymoon and I hadn’t looked before. There was something to be said for a new life washing away the pain of the old one.

  But it was still there; that compulsion to see what the woman who had stolen my life was up to. As it turned out, not much: she and the two kids were making cupcakes. Simon had left the shower running and come back into the bedroom to get clean underwear. I hadn’t heard him return—I was tucked up at the top of the bed, naked under the white sheet, phone on my lap. I suppose he thought it would be funny to sneak up on me. That’s the downside of a younger husband. He thinks things like that are amusing.

  “Who are they?” he whispered in my ear.

  I remember my reaction well. I threw the phone across the bed and jumped up, pulling the sheet against me.

  “Fuck!” I shouted at him. “You scared me.”

  “Jesus, Von,” he said. “Sorry … I didn’t…”

  “Don’t creep up on me!”

  I panicked. I thought he might recognise her from the gym and start asking questions. If it hadn’t been for her, I would never have even met him. Two years ago, I saw an advert for a trial day at the Peter Daunt gym in Highgate and leapt at the chance to spy on my nemesis. The irony was, she didn’t even go to the gym that day, but Simon gave me the guided tour, as well as his phone number.

  Eleven months later, he had transferred to the Chiswick branch of Peter Daunt, and we were on our honeymoon. I had never shouted at him before. We were in new territory, all of a sudden.

  “All right,” he said, frowning. “Calm down.”

  Then, before I knew it, the feelings I had repressed for so long all came out. In one huge tear-filled gush. How Bertie had crept up on me all those years ago, cornering me outside the toilets and pushing me against the sticky wall. Memories I had tried so hard to forget. The way I mouthed Help me at a man who passed us, only for him to wink and raise his hands and eyebrows, as though defenceless himself. The way Bertie’s sweaty hand felt as he pushed it into my knickers. How I’d struggled to fight him off, my screams going unheard, lost under the pulsating music coming from the room next door.

  I told Simon how, eventually, I just gave up, let Bertie touch me where he wanted. Anything to make it end.

  He asked me if I’d reported him, and I tried to explain how I didn’t feel I could, but although he tried his best, he didn’t understand. Men hardly ever do, even the sensitive ones. How impossible it feels to stand up against the weight of the patriarchy, how unlikely it feels that anyone would believe you, or even care. And I was in a desperate situation—I couldn’t afford to lose my job. And then there was the business with Henry. No one would have believed me. Not back then, anyway.

  Simon held me as I cried, stroking my sticky hair away from my forehead, telling me he’d never frighten me like that again.

  Later that evening, at dinner in a small seafood restaurant overlooking Camps Bay, he had asked me again. Who was that woman I was watching?

  “Just some stupid YouTuber,” I said, and my tone was enough to make him leave it at that.

  LILY

  James was really good at detangling Christmas tree lights. It’s funny the things that take you back, sticking arrows in your throat at the most unexpected of occasions.

  We’re listening to Mr. Tumble’s Christmas album—it usually makes me want to stuff my ears with cotton wool but today I don’t mind it. Archie seems to know all the words—or approximations of them—and he’s gleefully singing along as I try to untangle the mass of green cord.

  “Let’s just test the lights first, Arch,” I say when the last bulb is finally laid flat. First job done. I try not to think about the next one�
��hoisting our old and sad artificial tree into place. I’ve had to move the huge toy box from under the window to accommodate it, and suddenly the living room has gone from looking cosy to looking cluttered.

  I plug the lights in and thankfully, they all spark into life. I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t—the little spare cash I had this week went towards the set of oversized glittery baubles Archie begged me for in Tesco.

  “They work!” Archie squeals, jumping up and clapping his hands.

  “Yes, they do,” I say, breathing out slowly. A warm glow of relief spreads through my body. I can do this. He can have a Christmas stuffed full of joy and magic, just like Violet’s kids.

  Last Christmas Archie was too small to have much of an idea what was going on, but he’s three and a bit now, and he’s been talking about Father Christmas since I first mentioned him back in September. My only worry is that he’ll be disappointed with his presents. I’ve been collecting bits and pieces for months, but there’s no one “big” gift. At least Sylvia and my dad will spoil him—they always do. Over-compensating, I suppose.

  “Tree next!” Archie says, padding over towards it. It’s folded up in the doorway.

  “All right then!” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  The tree spent the year underneath my bed and looks rather worse for wear but it’s lighter than I remember and I manage to click it into place and set it in front of the window without too much effort. Archie hands me the lights and I wind them round the trunk as carefully as possible, remembering James’s advice about hiding the cables and setting the bulbs to rest on the foliage. It feels like just yesterday he was here with me.

  I pause for a second, clutching the end of the lights in my palm. I sniff, pinching my nose and squinting the tear away. When these waves wash over me, I sometimes wish Archie wasn’t here, so that I could sit down, pull my arms around myself and just sob. A good, long sob. That’s what I need, on a regular basis. But I rarely have time. Not with a three-year-old around.