Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  He’s right, they are my favorite, but I don’t usually allow myself to have them. Everyone knows the old “eat for two” rule is a myth. It’s only in the last trimester that you should really pile on the maternal fat stores, in order to prepare your body for breastfeeding. But still. Today’s a day of celebration.

  “Hold that thought,” I say to him, as he places the tray on the bed. I slide my legs out and stand up. I’m wearing my long silk nightdress, a Christmas present from him last year and his eyes rove across my body appreciatively. “Back in a sec.”

  I walk slowly across the carpeted hallway towards our bathroom. It’s the only room we could afford to do up when we moved in, and I love it. All calming spa-like colors, with a huge stone bowl for a basin, and built-in oak cupboards. The floor is warm under my feet—an indulgence but one that was well worth the money.

  It’s a stunning bathroom. Similar to Violet’s en suite—I’m not denying that I took inspiration from her house tour vlog. Nothing wrong with that. It’s not like she will ever see it.

  I reach into one of the cupboards and take a test from the pile I neatly lined up at the back of the top shelf yesterday. I open the wrapper but there’s no hesitation this time.

  Afterwards, I lay it on the side of the basin as I wash my hands, not allowing my eyes to wander near until the three minutes are up. Once they are, I pick it up and look at it. In my excitement my eyes take a few seconds to focus.

  I walk back to the bedroom, clutching the test. I should have thought of better ways of doing this, but now the moment’s here I’ve run out of ideas. My head is filled with white noise, buzzing and diluting any rational thought. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve thrust the test into Simon’s hand, and am staring at his confused face.

  “I know I should have waited,” I say. “But I knew. I just knew…” The tears come from nowhere, cascading down my face.

  “What?” Simon says, looking down at the little white stick with its clear blue letters. Pregnant 2 weeks. “What? I don’t understand!”

  “I told you!” I say, climbing on to the bed, disrupting Pushka, who seems to have snuck in and made herself at home while I was on the toilet. “I knew this month it was going to work! I just knew it!”

  “But…” Simon says, still staring at the test. His hand begins to shake, just a little. “I thought it was so unlikely … my sperm … they said…”

  “I told you—all the vitamins and antioxidants! There was a ninety per cent improvement in sperm morphology in some of those tests—it’s worked!” I squeak into Simon’s ear as I wrap my arms around his neck. The sleeve of my nightdress falls into the bowl of cereal in his lap, soaking it with milk, but I don’t even care. “So much of infertility is a mystery—you hear all the time about couples getting pregnant just before they start their first round of IVF. I knew it! It’s all the healthy eating … the timing … Having sex every day. Everything we’ve done. We tried so hard this month … it all paid off.”

  “Yvonne,” Simon says, finally looking me in the eyes. His own begin to fill up. Just a little, but enough for me to notice. “I’m going to be a dad.”

  “Yes, babe, you are,” I say. I climb back across the duvet and take my place beside him in the bed again, reaching for the tray with my breakfast on. The croissant smells delicious. I wonder when I’ll start to go off things like this, when the nausea will kick in. I try to think back to last time, but then blink the thoughts away. I mustn’t compare. This is a new experience. A new pregnancy. A new baby.

  I look over at Simon. His bowl of cereal is still lying in his lap, but he’s staring ahead, at the wall opposite our bed. Staring ahead and grinning, his eyes unfocused.

  I take a big bite of my croissant and shift back a little, resting my back against our buttoned headboard. Something hard jabs at my thigh, and I reach down to see what it is. My phone. I’ve finally taken back control, and I want to cry tears of joy.

  I don’t care about you anymore, Henry, I think. I don’t care. She’s alive. I’m pregnant again.

  It’s over. It’s finally over.

  HENRY

  I know it’s a cliché, but it was like an itch that needed scratching. It had been a more than a year since I’d last seen her, when she’d gatecrashed my wedding. I suppose, deep down, some part of me still felt guilty about how it had all turned out. Guilty enough to Google her one afternoon, when I was bored at work. I’m a journalist. Naturally curious. And Vi would never know. I wasn’t hurting anyone.

  A couple of keystrokes, a couple of clicks and there she was, looming large on my screen. That face. Seeing it so close up, in such high definition, brought back a confusing mix of emotions. Guilt, relief, lust. Pity. All mixed up in one big fuck-up ball of mess that lodged itself at the pit of my stomach as a reminder of all that I’d done wrong.

  After she left Bennet Media—after the whole, awful business—she disappeared for a while. She had only lasted a couple of months on the women’s magazine. I heard rumors from friends of friends that she’d gone to stay with her dad in Bedford. It seemed plausible enough, although she’d never talked about him much. Not sure she really liked him. I never asked anyone outright how she was. I didn’t want it to get back to her, didn’t want to give her any ammunition. If I’m honest, it was a relief to have her off the scene, and she fell to the back of my mind.

  But then, when I Googled her, there she was again. Back online, fronting a slick new website, offering her services as a wedding photographer. I nodded approvingly at the huge image on the homepage. A couple entwined in a cornfield. It looked more like a magazine photoshoot than a real wedding, but there was no denying her talent.

  I scrolled through the images, suddenly panicked, wondering if there were photos of my and Violet’s wedding on there. But then I remembered the way the other chap had introduced her, as his “second shooter.” Made some joke about her bringing up the rear, claimed she was brilliant at capturing the “reportage” moments, whatever the fuck they were. Her shots of the day were the best though. When the finals had come through, Vi and I sat at the kitchen table and clicked on them one by one on my laptop. Vi had tears in her eyes, and there were moments where I thought I might go that way too. She had a talent, Yvonne. For capturing you at your most vulnerable.

  I clicked back on her biography page, reading the bland, colorless summary of her life, which mostly amounted to “loved art at school, then after an ill-advised foray into the world of magazine art direction”– ouch—“found my passion in capturing the raw emotions felt on the most important day of many people’s lives.” She claimed to be based in Middlesex but “willing to travel!” No word of a husband, or life partner.

  My leg began to twitch up and down under my desk as I read. Like I said, it was an itch that needed scratching.

  I justified it to myself, as I so easily do. I wanted to see if she was OK. What happened was awful for me, but worse for her, no doubt about that.

  I had never told Violet about the baby. The stupid thing was, if I had, she probably would have been sympathetic. A little jealous, perhaps, a little hurt that I’d not shared it before. But she would have held her arms out, and hugged me, and told me how terrible it must have been. And she would have asked after Yvonne. Probably would have wanted to meet her.

  At the wedding, I’d been drunk and I was so rude to Yvonne. It was the shock of seeing your past right in your face like that. At your wedding, of all places! But I shouldn’t have laughed at her like that.

  It was an apology. That’s all. She probably wouldn’t reply. She probably never wanted to hear from me again.

  I clicked on her Contact page. There was just a form there, no direct email, and I started to type into the tiny box.

  Hi Yvonne,

  Nice site! Glad to see you are doing so well. I feel bad, about the wedding. I was drunk, being a prick, as usual. I don’t know, I guess it was just the shock of seeing you again, after all that time. But you looked gorgeous, so well …r />
  I paused, deleted the last sentence. It sounded like a come-on.

  You looked great. Glad to see you’ve made a success of yourself—not that I’m surprised.

  I tried to ignore the itch, but I couldn’t. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Are you married? Seeing anyone? Hope you’ve settled down and are happy. Would be great to have a catch-up drink sometime, if you fancied it. No pressure, of course. Tell me to fuck off if you like. I probably would.

  Take care of yourself, H x

  I clicked Submit without reading it over, and leant back in my chair. The itch was scratched, but I didn’t feel better. How could I? I wouldn’t ever feel better.

  Not until she told me, face to face, that she forgave me.

  LILY

  I’m sitting in a cafe opposite the office, trying to pray. Well, not pray exactly—I’ve never been religious. But I’m asking the universe very, very nicely, if it might consider letting me get the job I just interviewed for. Because for the first time since January, I feel excited about work again.

  It’s a relatively junior position—press assistant for a small charity helping single parents—but it’s the first job I’ve actually felt passionate about since I gave up my career. And although it’s not conservation work, saving parents rather than saving animals somehow feels a bit more appropriate given my situation. I understand these people; I’m one of them.

  Even more excitingly, the salary is slightly higher than my current one, and they’ve just taken in a massive amount of funding, so there’s room for progression. I’m hoping the PR manager who interviewed me could see my enthusiasm was genuine. There was lots of talk of working with influencers, partnering up so that they could support the charity’s work. I can’t think of a more perfect job for me.

  The interviewer was really impressed when I said I was friends with Violet.

  I sip my Christmas-themed coffee and stare out the window at the crowds wandering down Ealing Broadway. That’s another massive bonus—the office is so close to home. Maybe the universe is aligning, giving me a break for once. I take my phone out, re-read Luke’s message, asking me how it went. I type a reply.

  Really well, I think! She said she’d let me know before the end of the week. Fingers crossed. How’s your day going? X

  I lay my phone down on the table in front of me, my finger running over the cracks in the screen.

  It’s so easy to talk to Luke. Effortless. In the same way it was with James at the beginning. Until it all went wrong, of course.

  James is an arsehole. But Luke and me. It’s working. No awkward pauses, or struggles to think of what to say. The conversation just flows. But it’s making me nervous, how easy it all is and how well things seem to be going.

  He texts back immediately.

  Where you at? I’m at a loose end in Hammersmith—could come and meet you? X

  It’s the first time he’s put a kiss at the end of a message.

  I spend the next twenty minutes scrolling through Instagram, waiting for him to join me. Henry hasn’t updated his page since before the talk, unsurprisingly. He hasn’t tweeted either. Violet is still AWOL. I search Henry’s name as a hashtag, just to see if anyone has said anything online about him. There are a few sycophantic tweets and pictures of him at the event, leaning forward into his microphone, his arms raised and gesturing.

  I scroll to read the comments underneath the pictures, looking for anything revealing. But there’s nothing. I open the GoMamas app on my phone, navigating to the “Violet is Missing” thread on the forum. Someone has added what Luke revealed at the event, that Henry was seen coming out of The Royal London Hospital, but no one has really bothered to comment on it. How can these people call themselves true fans?

  I open my private messages. The one Ellie sent yesterday is still there.

  Hi Lily, hope you’re well. Do you have time for lunch again this week? There’s something I need to talk to you about … bit awkward over messaging. Drop me a line when you’re free. Ex

  I swallow. I’ll have to reply to her at some point, but right now, I don’t know what to say. It’s clear she’s surprised about how things have developed with me and Luke but there’s something else about the tone of her message that makes me feel uncomfortable. Like my clothes are suddenly itchy.

  I wish I could remember everything I’ve shared on GoMamas. That’s the problem with spilling your guts out on Internet forums. You think you’re anonymous, hiding behind your username, and that nothing you’ve said can be traced back to you, but it’s simply not true. I certainly never imagined I’d end up dating someone I met through a forum friend. What might I have said in the past to have put her off me? Or to make her think Luke deserves better? I dread to imagine what rubbish I’ve spouted on there after the best part of a bottle of wine.

  I feel a pang of nostalgia for the uncomplicated way I met James, six years ago. It was in a bar. At the end of a long night, I was in the cloakroom queue, raffle ticket in hand, waiting to collect my jacket. He walked past and caught my eye before joining behind me. He pushed in front of the people behind me in the queue to introduce himself, and I was impressed by his confidence and his charm. The woman behind the cloakroom counter rolled her eyes at our flirting and I felt like a film star, lit up by the attention.

  I know I was too keen, that at twenty-four he was too young to settle down, that he still wanted his freedom. But it was my first proper relationship, and I was so sure we were meant to be. I suppose I got a little carried away. It’s still so hard to believe how badly it all turned out.

  Luke interrupts my trip down memory lane by leaning down and patting me on the shoulder. I jump slightly in my seat.

  “Oh! Sorry!” I say, smiling up at him. “I was miles away.”

  “Hope you were somewhere nice,” he says, unwrapping his scarf and laying it over the back of the chair next to me. He turns to look at the menu behind the cafe counter. “Freezing out there. What do you fancy? My treat.”

  “Is it lunchtime already?” I say, stupidly. I’ve been sat in the cafe for over an hour. It’s been so nice to just be sitting still, just existing.

  “It’s twelve,” Luke says, pointing at the huge clock on the wall opposite. “I’m starving. I’m going to get avocado on toast. You?”

  I smile.

  “Same,” I say. “Let me…” I reach into my handbag and pretend to fumble for my purse, but he puts his hand on my arm, gently.

  “On me,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  The food arrives and it’s only then that I realise I’m actually hungry. I’ve been so distracted thinking about the job, a new future.

  “This is amazing,” I say as I slice into my toast, and Luke laughs at me.

  “You know you’re far too easily pleased,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I need to broaden your culinary horizons. So tell me more about the job?”

  “Oh it’s just … it’s perfect! I don’t know why I didn’t have the courage to apply for things like this before. And the commute would be so much better—I’d save a fortune. In the summer I could probably even walk; it’s only about twenty-five minutes by foot. Or get a bike … ha!”

  “It sounds great,” Luke says. “I’ve got everything crossed for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I pause. “So what’s the latest with the article?”

  “Yeah, bad news,” Luke says, looking genuinely cross for a second. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look anything other than cheerful. “The paper has pulled it. Decided it’s too aggressive to mention Violet and Henry, as Henry is such a powerful figure ‘in the industry.’ But without them as a case study, the whole thing falls apart. My commissioning editor was as gutted as me, but her boss had the final say.”

  “But all your work!” I squeak, trying to imagine spending all those hours on something, only to be told no one wants it anymore. “Will you still get paid?”

  “Nope,” he says, spearing at the salad on the
side of his plate. “I’ve spoken to the commissioning editor, should be able to get a kill fee. But I might just try to hawk it elsewhere. Someone will pick it up. I’ve got some friends. I’ll ask around.”

  “It’s not finished yet though, is it?” I say. “I mean, we hadn’t got to the bottom of what actually happened to Violet.”

  Violet. Like an unhealthy relationship that drags on and on until one day one of you finally snaps and there’s no going back. In the past week, I feel like I’ve broken free of her spell. I don’t really care what’s happened to her. No, that’s not completely true. Of course I care. I’ll never not care about Violet. But this time, it won’t affect me. It doesn’t affect my life.

  “It’ll come out eventually. So what’s next?” Luke’s voice cuts through my thoughts and I look back up at him.

  “Sorry?” I say.

  “What’s next for you today? I’ve got to get back home; I’ve got an exciting film review to write—400 words on the latest Marvel franchise.”

  “Ha! I look forward to reading it. As for me … Sylvia is bringing Archie back at four,” I say, looking at my watch. It’s nearly half past one. “So I’ve got a few hours to get some Christmas shopping done.”

  I think of the comforting bundle of ten-pound notes zipped into the inner pocket of my handbag. I’ve saved ten pounds a month since the beginning of the year, to make sure I had enough to give Archie a decently filled stocking. It’s taken all my willpower not to dip into it before now, and I’m so relieved I haven’t.

  “Oh God, I haven’t even started mine yet,” Luke says. “What a cliché, right? I’ll be the man on Christmas Eve tearing round Westfield, spending twice as much as he budgeted out of sheer desperation. Then again, wouldn’t be Christmas if I didn’t.”

  I laugh. And that’s when I realise. This is the man I’ve been waiting for all my life. Not unfaithful, deceitful, horrible James. But kind, decent, loving Luke.

  Luke and Lily. It even sounds right.