Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  “She’s fine,” he says. “Actually, as soon as she went back to work, she was fine. She loved her job—she’s an optician—and she missed all the interactions with people when she was on maternity leave. Guess she felt like she was failing as a mother by being desperate to go back to work. It was that obvious, sadly.”

  I give him what I hope is a sympathetic smile.

  “One last question before we go in,” I say, as we queue behind a bunch of women outside the front door. Somehow the answer seems vital, essential almost to my sense of hope for the future. For my … recovery. “Does she … does she still watch? Still care?”

  Luke looks at me, and perhaps I’m imagining it, but it feels as though he understands how loaded my question is.

  Of course, a little, he says, his gentle voice the balm my fear needs. “Like breaking any addiction, it’s hard at first, but she’s fine now.”

  I wish I could hug him. As we shuffle forward in the queue, I think of the word he’s used, the word I’ve ignored for so long. I turn it around in my mind, trying to take ownership of it, to accept it of myself. Addiction. I have an addiction.

  YVONNE

  There’s no escaping Jules. She’s stuck to my side, as unwanted as a piece of chewing gum on my shoe, and I can’t see any way of peeling her off. I told her I was going to the toilet, and she even said she’d come with me, that she needed it too.

  We’re sitting in the third row from the back, side by side, and she’s flicking through the slim pamphlet that was left on our chairs, reading the biographies of the panel members, commenting from time to time. I’m fidgeting in my chair, barely listening to her ramblings, suddenly struck by nerves. Or is it excitement? On the last page of the pamphlet there are details of a JustGiving page, urging people to donate if they can, to support the flexible working appeal. When I read it, I feel a ripple of irritation run through me at the sheer blinded cheek of it. How much money has she donated, I wonder?

  Then again, the event tonight was free. The refreshments were sponsored, but someone must have paid for the venue. Perhaps she does put her money where her mouth is, after all.

  Violet’s bio is in the leaflet, and so I read it idly. No one has mentioned her not turning up tonight. Only five minutes until curtain up. I pull my scarf up around my face, so it covers my chin.

  “Blimey,” Jules says, thrusting the leaflet under my nose. “One of them is an MP.”

  “Yes,” I say. “She’s the Minister for Women’s Rights.”

  “Quite an event then,” Jules says, taking a long sip of her second cocktail. “Your mate Violet must be very influential.”

  That word again. Influential. I don’t know when this new description became popular, but over the past few years it’s been influencer this and influencer that. A catch-all term for someone who has a large following across not just YouTube but Instagram, Twitter and Facebook as well. The thought that she is actively influencing people seems dangerous somehow. Especially given what happened.

  “She is,” I say, digging my nails into my jeans. The waistband is tighter than usual.

  The chatter in the room dies down as bun-haired woman climbs the stage, holding a bundle of papers in her hand. Behind her is a long trestle table, set with chairs. She gives a brief smile to the audience and then turns her back to us, walking along the table, placing name cards in front of each seat. I strain my neck to see past her, to see what’s written on the card in front of the middle chair.

  She turns to face the audience in the centre of the stage, blocking my view. She’s holding a microphone now, picked up from the table.

  “Ladies and…” Her voice fills the hall, making everyone sit up straighter. She smiles over the microphone as the crowd falls silent. “Gentlemen! I’m so pleased to see that there are gentlemen here tonight! Thank you for coming out on such a cold night. I hope you didn’t have to miss too many Christmas parties to be here. I’d just like to talk you through how this evening is going to work. First of all, we’re going to have talks from each of our panel members, and then there will be a general Q&A session at the end. Afterwards, we’d love it if you would stay behind and enjoy a drink, and hopefully mingle a little with each other.”

  I glance at Jules. She’s staring straight ahead.

  “Now before I introduce you to our panel, I’m afraid I have a little bit of sad news. As you know, our panel host tonight was meant to be Violet Young, but I’m afraid due to personal reasons, she’s unable to join us.”

  There’s a collective groan.

  “However,” she says, her free hand floating upwards as if to quieten a bunch of unruly schoolchildren, “I am very excited to announce that taking her place is her husband, Henry Blake. We’re so pleased to have a man on the panel—in fact, it was an oversight not to have included one—and Henry is an avid supporter of women’s rights. So, first of all, please welcome Henry Blake!”

  There’s a ripple of applause that grows louder as it spreads. I shrink back in my seat as he climbs the steps and waves. This was not what I was expecting. Not what I was expecting at all.

  * * *

  The panel discussion is as predicted: women complaining about their lot while simultaneously showing off that they have managed to break the mould somehow, that they have overcome the odds by “making it work.” There’s some half-hearted chat about change, and how much better things are in Scandinavia, but no one seems to have a plan, or offer any advice on how we can improve things.

  It’s frustrating though. I was hoping for answers. I thought if Violet turned up she might explain her online disappearance and reassure me that all was OK, but her absence is just making me worry more.

  Henry, to his credit, looks uncomfortable and out of place, pulling at his collar and making jokes into the microphone when the women ask him for a male’s perspective. I trace his features with my eyes for signs of guilt, but there’s nothing there. But then, I remember how easy it was for him to wash away any sense of responsibility, all those years ago. He’s a master at it.

  He does look tired though, and older than the last time I saw him. During the Q&A session at the end, I hoped someone would have the courage to ask him what’s happened to Violet, but nobody did.

  At the end of the talk the bun-haired lady gets back on the stage and thanks everyone a little too profusely for “giving up their precious time” and then makes a big show of thanking Henry for “saving the day.” The four women on the panel sitting next to him turn down the corners of their mouths as they clap along with the audience. And rightly so, why he got the biggest fuss of them all is beyond me. People are such fools. He’s not even that famous.

  Throughout the talk, my eyes never left his face. I’m overwhelmed by how much I know about him. About how easy it would be to stand up and shout it all out to them all, to watch his face crumple with humiliation, their mouths fall open in disgust. I couldn’t though, of course. My plan is at stake, and it matters more than him, or me.

  Bun lady invites us to stay behind and “network,” and with alarm I see the guest speakers stand and wander down the steps to the side of the stage, heading for the back of the hall. I expected them to slip off, but no. Henry is swept along, and I watch him, smiling awkwardly, patting a few people on the shoulder as he makes his way towards the crowd.

  “Are you going to stay?” Jules says. My eyes meet hers.

  “Um,” I say. What’s the easiest way to get out of here?

  We are standing at the end of our row of chairs, my hand clutching the back of mine. Thankfully Henry and the women are across the other side of the room, in a huddle, holding their highball glasses and chatting.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, shrugging, resting a hand on my stomach. “Pregnancy. I’m exhausted. I’m afraid … I’m afraid I’m going to have to make a move before I turn into Cinderella.”

  “Of course,” she says, with a faint smile of disappointment. “Lovely to meet you anyway. And good luck with the baby, and everything!”r />
  I smile again, and pull my heavy winter coat over my shoulders, knotting my scarf around my neck and tucking my hair underneath it, and then I leave the room, slipping past Henry with my head down until I’m safely back on the street.

  My footsteps land heavily as I pace my way back to the Underground. She must still be in hospital. I haven’t learnt anything tonight, and my desperation is mounting.

  HENRY

  I’ll remember that twenty minutes in the canteen with Yvonne for the rest of my life. The way she told me, very slowly, with that peculiar confidence I’d always seen in her, what she was planning.

  “You’ll lose your job,” I said, but then, with horror, I noticed her eyes filling with tears.

  I reached out across the table and took her hand in mine.

  “He’s an arsehole,” I said. “You know that. I know that. But he’s the boss. Just keep your head down and keep out of his way.”

  “How can you say that?” she hissed. “He pushed me against a wall, he had his hands…” She started crying properly then. I felt my blood pressure rise.

  “Oh darling, I know, I know,” I said, in as soothing a voice as I could summon. “But you know what he’s like … he was drunk…”

  She sniffed loudly. The dark look in her eyes returned. “I was frightened,” she said. “Really frightened.”

  But she didn’t look frightened. She looked vengeful.

  “Find another job first,” I said. “Trust me, you don’t want to make an enemy of Bertie Letts.”

  “It’ll be too late by then,” she said. “No one would believe me.”

  “No one will believe you now,” I said. I stroked her hand. It was true. “Darling, listen. People saw what you were wearing … they’ll think you encouraged him.”

  She looked away.

  “I’ll help you find something else,” I said, smiling. Henry the Hero, it was my most comfortable role. “I’ll ask around. You’re good at your job, I’m sure you’ll be snapped up.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” she said, but she didn’t sound thankful at all. There was a beat, and I found myself holding my breath. “I appreciate it. But I might not need another job. There’s something else you should know.”

  “What?”

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, and suddenly her face lifted, as though someone had pulled a camera out and asked her to smile. “I’m pregnant, and the baby’s yours.”

  * * *

  In hindsight, telling her I’d “sort it” wasn’t the best reaction. But I honestly thought that was what she wanted to hear. I offered her the money to go private. I even found out the details of a clinic just off the King’s Road. I tried to be sympathetic. I laid out all the ways in which it would ruin her life to have that baby. But she didn’t listen.

  She had these insane ideas. Of giving up work to live with me, us raising the child together.

  I was backed into a corner. And there’s no smoke without fire, as my mother would say. These women with reputations that lingered like bad smells, well, they brought it on themselves. What did they expect?

  I made a mistake. It was wrong. And part of me knew it, even as the words slipped out. But don’t forget, I was so young myself.

  We were back at my flat that same evening, after work. Crisis talks. I’d had to feign a late-night meeting to put Camille off, and I could tell from the tone of her voice that she didn’t believe me. It felt like the tide was creeping in closer, from all sides, ready to wash me out to sea. My carefully constructed life was beginning to disintegrate.

  When reasoning with Yvonne didn’t work, I tried pleading. When pleading didn’t work, I became a cunt. Like I said, it was just panic. Immature, stupid panic. I wasn’t equipped for this. No one at Harrow teaches you what to do when you accidentally knock up one of the skirts in your office. She told me she was taking contraceptives. It was just meant to be a bit of fun.

  We were standing in the kitchen. I had been chopping cherry tomatoes, with the notion of cooking pasta, trying to make the evening “normal.” She was glaring at me, leaning against the island unit, watching my every move. She blamed me for everything, so it seemed. For talking her out of reporting Bertie, for not using a condom—even though I’m sure I’d asked, and she’d said it would be fine. All my consoling had come to nothing; my reasoning had failed too. What did she want with a baby at her age anyway? I didn’t know then what I know now. That she was so obsessed with me, that she thought we were special.

  Eventually it was all too much. I put the knife down on the chopping board. One tomato rolled off the kitchen counter and on to the floor.

  This couldn’t be happening, not to me. My father was angry enough with me about my life choices as it was; this would tip him right over the edge.

  “Look, Yvonne. You’ve slept with half the fucking ad team,” I hissed in her face. “How do I know it’s even mine?”

  It only took a second. I saw the knife flash through the air, and then it was too late.

  LILY

  “I’m going to try to speak to him,” Luke says, when the talk ends.

  “Really?” I ask. I didn’t expect him to be so brave. But then again, he’s a journalist, I guess this is what they do: ask people questions they don’t want to answer.

  The talk was interesting but now it’s over I feel frustrated and sad. There’s something about hearing these powerful, clever women speak and share their insights that’s reawakened my old ambitions. Made me remember who I used to be, before I was left alone, struggling to bring up a baby. All those dreams I’d had, washed away by my situation.

  I remember those dark days shortly after Archie was born, when I’d imagine myself doing exactly what my mother had done. And then I’d found Violet, and Ben had offered me a nice safe office job, and slowly things started to look more hopeful.

  A nice safe office job. But what was nice and safe about something that made you feel borderline suicidal, that drove you to drink more alcohol than you could rightly afford? And the irony of course is that now I’m at risk of redundancy.

  These women, though, these women seem to have overcome all the odds. I suddenly see myself as an impartial outsider might do, and I look lost. Like a bottle thrown into a river, bobbing along wherever the current takes it, half drowning. No, not drowning. Sinking, slowly but surely.

  “Want to join me?” Luke says, his eyes shining. He’s smiling at me, and the image of his open, warm face is immensely comforting. He doesn’t see me as lost. I don’t know how he sees me, but it’s not like that.

  “Oh,” I say, staring across at Henry. Most of the audience have left now, but there are still around fifty people left, bunched up across the back of the hall. Henry is in the middle of the biggest huddle, holding a bottle of beer and smiling at something one of the women is saying. He’s not flirting, exactly, but he also doesn’t look like someone who’s recently suffered a tragedy. “What are you going to say?”

  “I’m just going to be upfront,” he says. “Ask him what’s happened to Violet, tell him I’m writing a piece on influencers and the impact it has on their children.”

  I swallow. I think I’d be less nervous if he’d told me he was going to go over and start a fight with him.

  “But … he’s like a politician, he’ll just squirm his way out of it … he’s not going to admit to anything in front of all these women.”

  “Maybe not,” Luke says, “but I think it’d be interesting to see him under pressure. You coming?”

  I nod and follow him across the hall.

  Instead of waiting for a natural break in conversation, Luke pushes through the cluster of people around Henry and addresses him directly.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. His voice is firm and commanding, and the women fall silent. Henry takes a step backwards, his eyes narrowing.

  “Just wondered if I could have a word? Great speech, really enjoyed it. Glad to hear you’re so passionate about women’s employment
rights. I’m a reporter with The News and Mail.”

  The women’s eyebrows lift with interest. Henry’s lips turn down at the edges, ever so slightly, and his jaw tightens.

  “Is it about the flexible working campaign?” Henry says.

  Luke twists his face, his head at an angle as he shakes it.

  “Not exactly,” he says. “But I’m sure we can add a plug to the cause if you’d be happy to talk to me for a few minutes.”

  There’s a flash of something like anger in Henry’s eyes, that quickly gives way to something else—a look of exhaustion. I’ve never been this close to him before, but from here I can see the purple rings under his eyes, that the lines on his forehead are actually deep grooves. He looks like an old man, and yet he’s only forty-five. Despite all this, there’s something ruggedly handsome about him. He doesn’t look like a journalist, or a metrosexual—he looks strong, masculine, the kind who wouldn’t blink at being asked to chop logs, or climb scaffolding. Only his clothes give him away; the chocolate velvet blazer, the shiny brogues.

  The women all stare at Henry, suddenly aware of the tension. But Luke is a disarming opponent: scruffy but determined.

  “Mate,” Henry says, giving a deep sigh. “I’m here to talk about the issues that really matter. Namely, ensuring that women who give birth don’t lose their careers as payment for doing so. I’m afraid I don’t have time for anything else.”

  There’s a murmur of assent among the women. They all gaze at Henry as though he’s said something profound. I feel a sudden certainty that I don’t like him, that all my suspicions were right. He’s too smooth for his own good. Then there’s an uncomfortable realisation; in some ways he reminds me of James.

  “Your wife was sad not to make it tonight, I presume,” Luke says, ignoring everything. His eyes are locked on Henry’s, as though they are the only two people in the room. “What’s the difficult personal matter she’s been dealing with?’”