Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  And now, for thinking I could just meet someone new, get a new job and live my life as though none of this Violet business ever happened.

  Of course I wasn’t going to get my happy ending. How hilariously stupid that I ever thought I might.

  I look across the road at the off-licence. Unthinking, I march towards it, not even caring about the money as I thrust a ten-pound note across the counter in exchange for the first bottle of vodka I see.

  YVONNE

  I am sitting in the car, frozen with fear, as Simon pulls into our driveway. The Range Rover is looming large out of the corner of my eye, blocking in next door’s battered Toyota.

  Just a few more seconds until we have to get out, and then it’s game over.

  It’s pitch dark outside, and I turn my head slightly, squinting to see if I can spot Henry in the driver’s seat. Wondering if there’s a way I can get a message to him not to do it, to leave us in peace. But there’s no way he’d be able to see my expression from here. And no way that he’d care, either.

  My brain races, trying desperately to think of a reason—something I’ve forgotten, perhaps, that we need to go back for—any reason not to go in the house. But it’s pointless. He knows where we live now, and he’d just come back. He’d sit outside until he caught us. There’s nothing I can do.

  I’m gripping the sides of the passenger seat and then my ears are filled with the shrill ringing of Simon’s mobile phone. It makes me jump, and he picks it up from the cubby by the handbrake.

  “Sorry, babe, it’s Jamal.”

  I nod. “No worries.”

  Simon turns off the engine and leans on the door. I listen to him answer the phone, and as he drones on about shift schedules between Christmas and New Year, I run through that night again in my mind. Wondering if there’s any way out. Anything I can do or say to escape the inevitable.

  * * *

  I remember it so well. Henry’s text had come out of the blue. I had only been home for an hour and was lying on the sofa, my throw over my legs. I admit, I was feeling smug about it all, even considering telling Jade that our plan had worked. Simon was enjoying one of his football-and-pub sessions, and wouldn’t be back until midnight at the earliest.

  Need to see you. Urgently. Can you come back?

  I tried calling three times but he didn’t pick up. I sat back down on the sofa, deciding to ignore him. I didn’t need anything more from him.

  But then my phone pinged again.

  Please. Can’t talk. Just come.

  It didn’t sound like him. It was my curiosity that compelled me to get back in the car and return to Islington. It was 7pm when I arrived. I remember because I checked whether I needed a parking ticket or not.

  Violet was away at her parents’ for the weekend, with the kids. It was Henry’s idea to meet at their house earlier on—for lunch, he said. Simon had been at work as usual. I didn’t mind. The timing was perfect—the day before I was due to ovulate—and I was beginning to get desperate. So we ate lunch, and I just about coped with being perched on a bar stool surrounded by huge canvas photographs of the five of them. After all, I knew the inside of the house well—I had been there so many times before through Violet’s blog. It was smaller than it looked on camera.

  There was a massive vase of lilies on the island unit in the kitchen. I wondered if she always had flowers like that in her kitchen, and how much it cost her, but other than that, I felt nothing about being there, in their space. Perhaps I should have felt more shame.

  After a lunch ordered in from a deli round the corner—little pots of sundried tomatoes and artichokes and lumps of cheese, followed by chunks of chewy sourdough—we inevitably went upstairs. Not to their room—I insisted—but one of the spares. It was brief and to the point, any nostalgic passion I’d felt for him long worn off. He seemed to enjoy it, and the timing was critical. I lay in bed afterwards for as long as I could manage without it looking suspicious.

  “Not getting up?” he said, after coming back from the bathroom. He’d had a shower, was rubbing his hair with a towel, and the words circled my brain, a description I’d read in a novel once. Washing me off. He was washing me off.

  I smiled—sticking to my tactic of only speaking when absolutely necessary—and scrabbled around for my knickers, which were hanging from one corner of the bed.

  “I hope you’re going to wash the sheets,” I found myself saying as I redressed. The afternoon light was beginning to fade and the huge shutters were open at the window, but as we overlooked the back of the house, there wasn’t much chance of us being seen. Violet and Henry seemed to have the biggest garden in London.

  “Well…” Henry said, grinning. “I suppose I was hoping there might be a repeat performance tomorrow. If madam was up for it?”

  “I can’t tomorrow, we’re having lunch at Simon’s parents’.’ Saying his name aloud in that room, in that company, pricked me with guilt.

  Henry nodded.

  “She’ll be back mid-afternoon anyway,” he said. “Next time.”

  Next time. Would there be a next time? It was hard to tell. Last month had been a failure; the timings were off, which was why I was here now. It all depended on how long it took for my plan to actually work.

  I pulled up at the house, after turning the day’s events over in my mind throughout the journey. Part of me was worried that he’d decided he was now in love with me, or something equally ridiculous and inconvenient. But part of me was also worried that I didn’t completely hate the idea. It was a huge weakness, a massive Achilles heel. I had spent so many years recovering from what he did to me, making sure there was nothing but contempt left, but the line between love and hate is so finely drawn, and it’s so easy to find yourself standing on the wrong side.

  I ran up the stone steps quickly, clueless to what awaited me. The lights were on inside, the hallway ablaze. I stared down at the umbrella stand in the porch for a few seconds as I waited for Henry to open the door. It was solid brass, and I found myself wondering how often it had to be cleaned, and who did it.

  In fact, I was looking down at it when the door opened, and when I looked up, expecting to see Henry, there was Violet. Eyes blazing, nostrils flaring, like an angry horse waiting to trample an opponent.

  * * *

  We stood there, staring at each other, for several seconds.

  “Hi,” I said, eventually. It was worth a shot. Why would he text me when she was in? It didn’t make sense. “Sorry, I think I might have the wrong house…”

  She didn’t speak. Instead her features shifted, from anger to confusion then back to anger again.

  “You?” she said. “You’re … you did our wedding photographs…” Her frown deepened. The downlight above her head cast unflattering shadows across her face. She looked older than me. That’s what children do to you. Drain the life from you, like tiny little vampires.

  “Jesus Christ!” she shouted, and then she started to cry. She was shaking as the realisation dawned on her. “Our fucking wedding! Did you meet at our fucking wedding?!”

  I froze, like a deer caught on a country road by the glare of headlights. Then there was a sound from behind her, footsteps lumbering down the stairs, followed by a shout.

  “Vi!” the voice called. “Who is it?”

  Henry stopped on the bottom step and our eyes met briefly. The look he gave me urged me to deny everything. There was anger there, as well as fear. As though it was all my fault.

  After all this time, he still wouldn’t take responsibility for anything.

  “You texted me,” I said, looking over Violet’s head straight at him.

  He frowned at me, shook his head, looking at me as though I was an idiot.

  “It was me. I texted you,” she hissed, and I looked back at her. “We came home early to find Daddy hanging the spare room sheets out to dry. That was suspicious enough. I’ve known there was something going on for a while now, but I thought it was just me being paranoid. But then I saw you
r messages on his phone…”

  “Vi! You’ve totally got the wrong idea…” Henry shouted from his position on the stairs.

  “I’m sorry, Violet,” I said, ignoring him. “Henry and I have known each other for a long time. Nearly twenty years.”

  In that second, I didn’t think about Simon, or the repercussions. I didn’t think about anything at all. There was nothing but hot white fury that he was going to dismiss me again, just like he did last time. Like I was nothing but a piece of rubbish he’d had the misfortune to come across.

  “I suppose we just never got over losing our baby,” I said, and as she fell to the floor, sobbing on the doormat at my feet, I found myself smiling. Just a little.

  HENRY

  I tried to deny it, but even though she kept sobbing, over and over, Violet wasn’t a fool.

  “Her,” she spat at me, pointing at Yvonne, who was standing tall in the doorway of our home. “Our fucking wedding photographer!”

  “She’s crazy, Vi,” I said, trying to pull her towards me. She shoved me backwards. “She’s been obsessed with me since the wedding. I’ve been trying to tell her it’s not happening, but she’s so persistent. I felt sorry for her … I only invited her round earlier today to tell her that she has to leave me alone for good. That all this stalking has to stop.”

  I glanced briefly at Yvonne. Her mouth was set in a tight line, but her eyes were wild.

  “What’s she talking about?” Violet shouted. “She knew you before! What baby?”

  “I told you,” I roared. It was always the easiest way to shut women up, and with satisfaction I noticed Violet shrinking back from me. “She’s a fucking mentalist. She’s obsessed with me! Been stalking me for months! It’s your fucking fault, all this filming, putting our whole fucking lives out there online for all the mental people in the world to find out where we live! I bet she’s the one who sent you those crazy emails!” I paused, lowering my voice. Enough of the anger. “Please. Shut the door, let’s talk this through.”

  Violet pulled herself upright, turning to face me.

  “I want to hear what she has to say,” she said. She took a step back from me, towards Yvonne. “I don’t believe you. If this has been going on for ages, why didn’t you tell me about it? And why didn’t you let me call the police when I wanted to?”

  She turned and pulled Yvonne into the hallway.

  “You,” Violet said, spitting again, “are you going to tell me exactly what’s going on. Now.”

  For a few seconds the three of us stood there, frozen like stupid characters in a play wondering whose line was next. Eventually Yvonne spoke. I tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn’t look at me.

  “We met years ago,” Yvonne said. “When we both worked on King magazine. I was the picture assistant; he was one of the commissioning editors. We had a … relationship. I got pregnant. But the baby died at twenty-two weeks.”

  She didn’t flinch as she said the words. Violet’s face was a mask now, her eyes red and streaming. I knew she believed her, believed every word that was coming out of her mouth.

  “Henry dumped me when I got pregnant. Said he was too young to be tied down, told me he wasn’t the marrying kind. He had a girlfriend, too, it turned out. A proper one, from the right social background, not like me. I was too common for him, apparently. Mother didn’t approve. He’s nice like that, your husband. But we…”

  “Daddy! I really need you to see this!!”

  I turned to the voice. Skye was standing at the top of the stairs, in her pyjamas. She stared down at us all, a wrinkle of confusion on her smooth forehead as she spotted Yvonne.

  “Skye,” I said, angrily, but my voice was hoarse from shouting. “Mummy and Daddy are busy. Go back upstairs!”

  “No, you have to come now, Daddy! It’s so funny!” she said. “It’s Lula! She’s fallen asleep in the bath.”

  And after that I don’t remember any more. Just the panic as I tore up the stairs.

  The blind panic and the horrific realisation that this was how I was going to pay for what I had done. That what I thought was already bad was about to get so much worse. Worse than I could ever have imagined.

  YVONNE

  In the water, her hair billowed out behind her like candy floss. She was face down. Unmoving.

  The time it took for us to register what was happening seemed to last for hours. But surely it could only have been a few seconds before we were hauling her out, and everyone was screaming.

  Amid all the noise, a voice in my head piped up, repeating the same thing.

  I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this.

  * * *

  We are still in the car. There’s a thump from the boot: some of the Christmas shopping giving up and tumbling over.

  “Cheers, dude,” Simon says, ending the call to Jamal and turning back to me. “Sorry about that, babe. Let’s get inside.”

  I put my hand to the door and find that I’m shaking uncontrollably.

  “I…” I say, but no words come. Simon looks at me, confused. But he doesn’t speak, he just stares into my eyes.

  “I love you,” I say, grabbing his left hand with mine. It’s taken all this time to realise it, to properly appreciate it. “Just remember that. I love you.”

  He gives me a puzzled smile and kisses me.

  “I love you, too,” he says, his eyes wandering to my stomach. “And that little one in there.”

  He opens the door, and before I have the chance to say anything else, he’s out of the car and collecting the shopping from the boot. I fumble at the handle of the passenger side, desperate to get out, as though I might throw myself in front of him like some kind of human shield, blocking whatever it is Henry is about to tell him.

  I stand up, and there he is. Henry. Standing in front of his stupidly large car, staring directly at me. He takes a step towards us. I open my mouth to speak, but before I have the chance to say anything, Simon does.

  “You all right, mate?” he calls over at Henry. He’s standing directly under a streetlight, and the light is as harsh on him as it was on Violet that night.

  Henry continues walking towards us, and I grab Simon by the hand.

  “Don’t,” I say. The only thought thundering through my brain now is that he mustn’t find out that the baby might not be his. He must never find out. “Let’s…”

  Henry reaches the edge of our driveway and stops, his eyes never leaving us.

  “Let’s go inside,” I whisper, tugging on Simon’s sleeve. For a second, I meet Henry’s eyes, and instead of being filled with rage as I’d expected, they are full of a melancholy I haven’t seen since the day of the funeral, when he turned up unexpectedly. I’d emailed him the details, not expecting him to show up, but then he did, and I wished he hadn’t come at all. He refused to speak to me. He refused to even look at me. He blamed me, in the same way my father did. He’s just like my father. A misogynist through and through. That was always the problem, I just couldn’t see it at the time.

  “Please,” I say, my voice pitiful. I’m not sure if I’m speaking directly to Henry or Simon, or even to myself. There are a few tense seconds when time seems to stand still. My hand is resting on my stomach and as Henry’s eyes flicker across my body there’s a shift, like a light going on. I don’t know if he knows, if he can tell.

  “Sorry, mate,” Henry says, looking past me at Simon. I realise Simon is clutching the Mothercare bag, that Henry is staring straight at it. “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

  And with that, he presses a button on the remote in his hand. The car’s indicators flash and then the headlights come on, and before I can bear to breathe out, he’s climbing back into his car, and driving away.

  GoMamas

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

  22 December 2017

  Horsesforcourses

  Is there anyone still out there? If so, you might want to know that there’s finally been an update. And it’s not a
good one, I’m afraid. Take a look at Violet’s blog—her management have released a statement.

  Coldteafordays

  Oooh! Back in a sec!

  Coldteafordays

  Oh my god, that poor child. That’s terrible.

  Bluevelvet

  So, so upsetting.

  Horsesforcourses

  The poor family. I feel absolutely awful for all the speculating we did. It makes sense now—the ambulance, the screaming, everything. I can’t believe we thought Henry had beaten her up. And all this time … poor Violet, what must she have been going through?

  Coldteafordays

  *Hangsheadinshame*

  Bluevelvet

  I’m off to have a good, long hard look at myself.

  Horsesforcourses

  Me too.

  Bluevelvet

  Does anyone know which hospital she’s in? Not for sinister reasons I promise! I was thinking we could send her some flowers …

  LILY

  I wake with a pounding head and a stomach that feels like it’s full of gravel. There are unexpected sounds coming from my living room, and I frown in confusion. Luke’s voice, higher and more enthusiastic than I’ve heard it before, and Archie’s familiar appreciative squawks as the two of them play some unidentifiable game.

  I shut my eyes again. I want to hide in here forever. My memories of yesterday post-6pm are fuzzy and indistinct. A vague recollection of a teary phone call to Luke, begging for his forgiveness, then nothing more. I don’t even remember picking Archie up from Anna’s.

  But the fact Luke is here is a good sign, isn’t it? Whatever Ellie told him can’t have been that bad.

  Reluctantly, I swing my legs out of the bed, feeling for the carpet under my toes. I pull on my dressing gown. My whole body aches as I tiptoe towards the living room. Luke looks up as he hears me approach.

  “Ah,” he says, and in my hungover state I can’t interpret the look on his face. “Feeling better?”

  “I…” I say, but can’t find the words.