Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  It took a few seconds for me to understand what she was doing there, but then I realised. And as I realised, I realised something else. She wouldn’t be here just that morning, but all day. She would be there, even as I said my vows. If not literally in my face, then in the background, staring, watching, recording. Which was worse?

  I felt my throat constrict, tugged at the collar of my shirt.

  “All right, sir?” Andrew asked me, as I looked up at him. “Not too late to change your mind!”

  “Fine,” I said, but I pushed past him and closed the door of the en suite.

  “Not being sick in there, are you?” he joked, tapping on the heavy mahogany door. “I’ve got some Scotch out here if it’ll help…”

  I stood at the basin, leaning on the sides, staring at my face in the mirror. The color had drained from it, my skin almost as white as the single rose that sat against my lapel. A bead of sweat formed on one side of my forehead, glinting in the light from the window above the toilet behind me.

  I wasn’t hot, though. It was December. The house was old. On the coldest mornings, the insides of the windows were covered in slivers of ice. Violet thought it was romantic, but she’d never had to live there.

  The doorbell sounded out. I heard my mother downstairs, welcoming them in. It was only a matter of time before she would be making her way up the huge curving staircase, before she knocked on the door.

  It was only a matter of time before we were face to face.

  I had spent so many years trying to forget her. Atoning for my sins. But I should have known I never could.

  * * *

  Everywhere I looked, all day, she was there. Or rather, her camera was, her face hidden behind it. I had no idea what she was thinking, what she was doing.

  After the ceremony passed by in a blur, I took myself off to the toilets. So many people, in my face, congratulating me. Making jokes about how Violet had finally tamed me. Telling me she must be special.

  “What can I say!” I said to them all. “A man’s got to admit defeat at some point.” And Violet had rolled her eyes, and everyone had laughed, and then I’d gone over and kissed her on the forehead, as if to rub out the idiocy of my previous statement. What did she even see in me?

  In the gents, I locked myself in a cubicle and sat on the toilet lid. Tried to convince myself that it was a mistake, some kind of weird accident. But I knew it wasn’t. No way. This was Yvonne. Nothing about her was accidental. It was all meticulously constructed, her carefree façade, when in truth she was in control of everything the whole time. If you peeled off her skin, underneath you’d probably find a mass of cables and electronics. Robotic. Single-minded.

  After the wedding breakfast, I went outside for a fag. I needed to escape the hordes of guests, many of whom I barely recognised, although they all seemed to know me. I crept round the back of the catering tent, where there was just enough light from the kitchen for me to light my cigarette, and I stood there, watching the smoke hang in the air as I exhaled.

  The day had gone to plan, apart from that one thing. Violet had grabbed me at the end of the photography session, pulled me into the cloakroom. Someone had finally taken Lula from her, and it was the first time we’d been alone all day. She kissed me hard, pushing me against the wall, and I could taste the champagne on her breath, mixed in with tobacco. She never smoked. I smiled at her, told her how beautiful she was, and she lifted her wedding dress to reveal her legs underneath, pushing her hips against my trousers. I was grateful then, for my primeval instinct, for the fact that I’m a man and my brain doesn’t interfere with anything below my waistline. She was eight years younger than me and sexy as hell. My new wife.

  Afterwards, we held each other for a while, slumped against the wall. She told me how much she loved me and I murmured the same back. We were sweaty, stuck together, her silk wedding dress almost indecently thin against her skin. I stroked the back of her thigh underneath the fabric, my head resting on her shoulder. I wanted to stay in that cloakroom forever.

  * * *

  By the end of the night, I was very drunk. Violet had disappeared to bed with the baby, telling me to stay and enjoy myself. Someone had brought out shots, and my head was spinning.

  I went outside again to get some fresh air, wandering down the lawn-lined walkways, looking at the moon. Alcohol had pushed Yvonne back to the past where she belonged. I assumed she had left, but as I strolled further I reached the car park, and saw something I recognised.

  She was leaning over the car boot, loading it with equipment. I stared at her for quite a while, taking in her shape underneath her clothes. I stopped walking, but it was too late. She turned and saw me.

  “Congratulations,” she said. She’d already said it to me earlier in the day, but her tone was entirely different now. Vicious. “She’s … impressive. So much for your bachelor blood.”

  I was drunk, arrogant, thought it would be OK now Violet was safely tucked away in our room.

  “Yvonne Adams,” I said, throwing my hands up into the air. I laughed, long and loud, like an idiot. “Well well well. What the fuck are you doing at my wedding?”

  She glared at me then. There was a silence that hung in the air, leaving me feeling stupid, suddenly. And then she narrowed her eyes, slamming her car boot shut.

  “Go to hell,” she said, calmly, before climbing into her car and driving off.

  22 May 2017

  From: gottheblues@hotmail.com

  To: violet@violetisblue.com

  Hi Violet,

  Long time, no see. You’re pregnant again. Congratulations! How many children are you going to have with that man?! No, but seriously, I’m THRILLED FOR YOU.

  We’d all guessed ages ago, but you probably know that. It’s always quite obvious. Your face bloats up when you’re pregnant. It’s just the water retention—don’t take it the wrong way. Just part of that magical pregnancy glow.

  Three kids. You’ll have your hands full, for sure. I didn’t think much of Skye’s reaction when you cut into your gender reveal cake and she saw the inside was pink. She was so desperate for a baby brother, wasn’t she? Is it the first time she’s realised that life doesn’t always go to plan? That there are some things you just can’t control? Guess it’s tough when you’re used to getting everything you want all the time. Not that I’m saying your kids are spoilt, but …

  You know what, Violet? I’d be the same. I’d buy my kids all the crap under the sun if I could afford it. That’s what mothers do, isn’t it?

  Still, Skye’s getting older now. Not sure it’s really right to film her sobbing her heart out because she’s getting another little sister when she wanted a brother. Bit intrusive, don’t you think?

  Did you notice the way Mandy laughed at her when she ran off crying and flopped herself down on the sofa?

  I’ve told you before, Violet, and I’ll tell you again. I don’t like her, and I don’t trust her.

  LILY

  I open my eyes slowly. They feel dry, even though they’ve been firmly wedged shut. Something’s not right. And then I realise; I’m on the wrong side of the bed.

  I’m on James’s side of the bed.

  Memories float into my mind like blurry clouds. James, lying next to me as I fall asleep. James, gone when I wake up.

  I’m sorry, Lily. I never meant to lead you on.

  And then the worst thing of all, all that time later.

  I’ve met someone else. She doesn’t want us to be in touch.

  That hollow feeling in my stomach as I lurched out of bed, ready to face another day staring at my phone, hoping for a text that would never come.

  I’m facing the curtains, which have been pulled together but not properly, the middle gaping open like a wound, spilling light into the room. I glance around, not wanting to lift my head. I can hear something; someone. In my flat.

  I roll over in the bed and sit up. My bedroom door is open, and from here I have a straight view to my kitchen. Luke is standing,
with his back to me, whistling and doing something with my toaster.

  He hasn’t gone. He hasn’t left me.

  I smile, despite my thumping head, and look around for my phone, finding it dumped on my dressing table. It’s nearly out of battery, but it tells me that it is 9.15am. 9.15am!

  Of course, after we left the pub and came back to mine, the rest of the evening is a blur. I know I insisted he come in, and I have a vague recollection of opening the bottle of red Sylvia brought me yesterday—a special one from their last booze cruise to Calais. I was meant to be saving it for Christmas.

  But what happened after that? Did we just chat and fall asleep?

  I look down. I’m in my pyjamas. My clothes are dumped, as they always are, on the chair by my dressing table. The room looks the same as usual for first thing in the morning—messy, but no sign of any gay abandon having taken place. Perhaps Luke slept on the sofa. Or in Archie’s room? But if so, why is my bedroom door open?

  I look back towards the kitchen, still half hidden under my duvet. Luke turns and sees me, smiling broadly.

  “Morning, sleeping beauty,” he says, waving. “Breakfast is nearly served.”

  I rub my eyes with my fists, suddenly aware of my appearance. In the mornings I usually look like an absolute troll. I smile at him and pull my hair around my face as much as possible. He turns back to the toaster and starts buttering fiercely, and I seize the opportunity to run to the bathroom.

  It’s clear I didn’t take my make-up off before going to bed last night, as the winged eyeliner that girl put on me in the pub toilets is still there, smeared across my eyelids. My lips are dry and stained from lipstick.

  I can’t believe he’s still here—better than that, he’s in the kitchen, making me breakfast. I set about making myself presentable. I wash my face thoroughly, the hot flannel like a balm against my skin. I smother it in moisturiser. There’s not much I can do with my bird’s nest of hair, but I run my fingers through it, giving it a little lift, and try to convince myself that the bedhead look is still in.

  I pull my dressing gown on over my pyjamas, wincing as I spot the splodge of Archie’s porridge that’s been dried on one arm for about a month. And then I go through to the kitchen, perching on the one bar stool.

  “Perfect timing,” Luke says, grinning. He’s so nice. How can he be so nice? It doesn’t seem possible. “Hope you like bagels.”

  “Where did you…” I begin, confused. I’m not the sort of person to have bagels in my house. And then I see something else: smoked salmon and a fresh box of eggs with only three eggs in it.

  “I nipped out to Sainsbury’s Local while you were still asleep,” he says. “You left your keys on the side. Coffee?”

  He’s done all this—just for me.

  “Oh my God,” I say.

  “Steady on, it’s only breakfast,” he says, but he’s grinning again, as he tips perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs on to my bagel, and lays strips of smoked salmon on top. “I put the heating on too, hope that’s OK. Hope you like eggs. And salmon.”

  “I do,” I reply, pulling the plate towards me.

  “Wait!” he says, pulling an expression of mild horror. “You need the pièce de résistance!”

  I frown, but then he turns back to the chopping board by the sink and picks up half a lemon, squeezing it over the salmon.

  “Pepper?” he says.

  “Yes, please.”

  We sit—me on the bar stool, him on the tiny patch of kitchen counter—and eat our eggs. I’m ravenous, and I try to remember the last time I ate breakfast properly, like this. Usually I just finish off whatever Archie’s left, or grab a banana and eat it on the way to the Tube.

  “So,” I say, when I’ve finished. “About last night…”

  “Yes,” he replies. He’s still grinning at me. “Didn’t quite turn out how I expected either.”

  I think back to our original reason for meeting—to watch Violet host a panel talk on women’s employment rights, and can barely remember it. The whole thing—the whole crusade—seems to have lost all importance. Susie always teases me about my obsession with Violet, telling me if I had my own life I wouldn’t care so much about hers. She was right, of course she was right. It was that obvious.

  “I can’t…” I say, sipping the strong coffee he handed me. “If I’m honest, the details are a little fuzzy…”

  “Don’t worry, we didn’t do anything…” he says, and there’s a kindness in his eyes. “Nothing non-PG anyway. I slept on the sofa.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Not that I didn’t want to…” he adds, suddenly looking uncomfortable for the first time. He sighs, puts down his plate. “I really like you, Lily. But I understand that … well, you’ve been through a lot. I don’t want to take advantage.”

  “Oh,” I say, again. I smile half-heartedly, as I feel something edging over me. A sense of regret. No, not regret. Guilt. For not telling him the truth about James. Why oh why did I tell everyone on the forum that he’d died? It was so stupid, so unbelievably stupid to make up nonsense like that just so a load of strangers would feel sorry for me. I never imagined it leading to this. I think of Archie, at my dad and Sylvia’s, playing happily and thinking his mother is at home applying for jobs, working her hardest to get them out of the massive hole they’re in. Not standing around in her dressing gown eating eggs with a man she barely knows.

  I look back at Luke. He’s frowning slightly now.

  “Sorry, I…” I say, giving a useless shrug. “I’m just not very good at this stuff. Out of practice, I guess.”

  “No pressure,” he says. “I was going to leave you to it, actually. Just thought it would be good to get something inside you before I did…” I start to giggle. “Oh God.” He hits himself on the forehead and rolls his eyes.

  “Sorry. You know what I mean,” he adds.

  “Thank you,” I say, trying to pull myself together. “For everything—for last night, for this morning. For letting me sleep. I haven’t slept like that in years.”

  “Glad you had a good rest,” he says. “You seemed a little worse for wear last night. At one point, you were rather furious with life.”

  My face flushes.

  “I don’t remember much of it,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be daft,” he says, taking our plates and soaking them in the sink.

  “What are you doing today?” I ask, suddenly desperate to keep him here. The thought of a day alone, sitting at my geriatric laptop, filling in job application after job application for jobs I don’t really want fills me with gloom.

  “I’m meeting a source,” he says, tapping his nose and smiling. “Someone who knows Violet pretty well. Or used to, at least. A friend of Ellie’s.”

  “Oh,” I say. Violet again. Where is she now? “Is that all you can tell me?”

  “Afraid so,” he says. “I just don’t know if it’ll lead to anything concrete yet.”

  “What about the hospital lead? Now we know it’s The Royal London?”

  “It’s not really my style,” Luke says, padding towards the living room and lifting his jacket from the arm of my sofa. Fragments of memory filter back to me—the two of us, tangled up together uncomfortably. The ferocity of the way I kissed him. “And he could have been visiting for any number of reasons. It might mean nothing at all.”

  “If he’d done something to her,” I say, the coffee starting to kick in, “then surely the police wouldn’t let him near her?”

  “Not if she hasn’t pressed charges,” he replies. “Domestic abuse cases are notoriously hard to see through. If she forgave him, then there’s nothing anyone could do.”

  I sigh, suddenly wishing I’d never heard of Violet, or Henry, or her children. All the hours I’ve wasted on her, when I should have been living my own life.

  “Now, listen you,” Luke says, leaning down to kiss me on the forehead. “Good luck with the job applications. I’ll call you later.”

  YVONNE<
br />
  12 DPO.

  The sun streams through our bedroom window. It’s a rounded bay as befits the thirties architecture of our house, and the windows are uPVC, with anachronous leading that chops the panes into little squares, cutting out much of the light. But this morning, they look beautiful, I think, as I lurch reluctantly out of sleep. Simon is already up, playing a game on his phone. It’s his day off. But more than that. It’s D-day. The day everything has been leading up to.

  Finally.

  “Morning, m’lady,” he says, putting his phone away. “What time did you get home in the end?”

  “It was really late,” I say, and he reaches down to kiss me briefly. “You don’t want to know. Took so long for them to sort out the trains. Glad I didn’t wake you.” I shake my head. I don’t want to think about last night, the way Henry looked at me. He won’t give me the answers I’m looking for, but on the journey home last night I saw on GoMamas that he’d apparently been spotted coming out of The Royal London Hospital, which means she must still be alive, at the very least.

  And tomorrow I’m going back into the police station to go over my statement.

  It’s all going to be OK. The past will soon be dead and buried.

  Today is a day to look forward. It’s all about the future, what the fortune teller predicted, the closure, the curative reward for all my suffering. I should be tired—I’ve barely slept—but I’m the opposite. I’m completely wired, as excited as a child on their birthday.

  “Cup of tea?” I look up at him, teasingly.

  “Sure,” he says, and he bounds out of bed. He pulls on his dressing gown and heads for the door.

  “Herbal!” I call after him as he leaves. “I don’t mind what, but herbal, please!”

  I settle back down underneath the duvet and lift my phone from the bedside table. It’s 10am now. I imagine Henry, lying in a drunken stupor on the floor of his stupid man cabin. Full of regrets. Good.

  Several minutes later, Simon strolls back into the room, holding a tray.

  “Chocolate croissants,” he says. “Your favorite. Seeing as it’s my day off.”