by Sophie White
Oh goddammit.
She checked on her WhatsApp. Amy hadn’t seen the message yet.
A new update in the Insta-mums group had come in.
Hazel: Shelly? You there? You’re still on for tomorrow, I hope? We need you. We all need to stick together right now.
Shelly’s earlier irritation had evaporated, and she felt comforted by this now in the light of the @TheRealShellyDevine account. Sure, Hazel was toxic but maybe they were all as toxic as each other. Shelly had as much to hide as any of them. She probably needed to get off her high horse and stop thinking she was any different.
‘Yep I’m here,’ she typed.
Hazel: Good good. I’m adding @AlisBaba to the group, gals. Welcome. Ali.
Ali: Hi Insta-mums! glad to be back in the fold looking forward to going on a playdate tomorrow and actually pregnant for real this time!
Polly: Hi Ali. Hi Shelly, well done today on the Shella-Bella Bumps Roadshow, looked fab. I shared it in my stories.
Hazel: Of course. The SHELLY Bump Shapewear looks magic. @Ali be sure to repost Shelly’s event. We mamas SUPPORT each other. Speaking of, now that you are really pregnant, don’t forget to download my app H-App-y Mama by Holistic Hazel. It’s full of my favourite guided meditations, affirmations for expectant mamas and nutrition advice, etc. You’ll put it on the ’gram this week.
Ali: Can’t wait Hazel.
Hazel: And don’t forget, while tomorrow is emergency strategy, there’ll also be lots of lovely piccies for the ’gram so dress code is Malibu Mamas with a tonal palette of blush and white. Ali, I know you’re fond of your ‘band tees’ but these little get-togethers need to be cohesive, aesthetically speaking, for the ’gram. Also, there’ll be a costume change for the W Y N D rollout. We’ll have hair, make-up and wardrobe on hand. @Ali we’ll fill you in tomorrow when you get here.
Ali: Gotcha.
Shelly X’d out of the group and checked in with Amy. ‘Fuck. I’m on my way’ was all she’d written.
The door burst open and Amy staggered in panting.
‘Ran here. Sorry. I was supervising security bodily removing the last of the Shell-Belles. Had to pay them off with some old SHELLY stock.’ Amy flopped into the seat opposite Shelly. ‘Car will be here in five. Now, you didn’t request to follow, did you?’
Shelly shook her head violently. ‘No! I’m not an idiot.’
‘OK, OK, deep breaths, hun.’ Amy was refreshing her phone furiously. ‘I set up a quick burner and requested to follow to see if they’ll bite. All we need is a quick look at what’s on there and, if we can find out who these other two followers are. It’d be good to see @__________ there, as the best-case scenario for us is that this is them branching out.’
‘Great.’ Shelly couldn’t believe this was what they were reduced to: hoping it was just one psycho being innovative in their approach, as opposed to many coming after her all at once.
‘Boom.’ Amy punched the air. ‘We’re in.’ For a few minutes there was silence but for the clicks as Amy, hunched over her phone, snapped screenshot after screenshot of the account.
Shelly sat on her hands tensely. She was dying to rip off the maternity shapewear and get back into her joggers.
‘Fuck, we’re rumbled.’ Amy sighed. ‘That was quick. She blocked us. There’s a DM, though. It says: “You think I don’t know a burner when I see one? Hope you got a little taster of what’s in store, Shelly. BYEEEEEE’’.’
‘Shit. They think it was me.’
‘Well, it is you technically. It doesn’t matter anyhow, Shelly.’ Amy pursed her lips and looked agitated. ‘I got a good sense of it. It’s gotta be @__________. It’s loads of the pics they’d sent us. This is obviously them flexing, showing you exactly what they can do the second they feel like it.’
Shelly dug her fists into her eye sockets to try to relieve the headache gathering pace. It’s useless, she thought, feeling tears seep between her fingers and gather in her palms. This person just hates me so much. Why?
‘They could end me at any moment. They are messing with my livelihood. I could lose the house.’ She sucked at the air but felt choked. ‘They are messing with my family. What if I lose Georgie? Dan could use this as ammunition.’
‘Shelly, it won’t come to that. I promise.’ Amy came over and wrapped her arms around her. ‘The more moves they make, the more they risk making a mistake and when they do, we will be ready to catch them. I’ll show these to Detective Bríd ahead of our meeting and she will see if there are any new clues, any personal information attached to the account. They will slip up. In the meantime, appease them in the DMs. If they reference our burner account, feign ignorance. Everything will be OK.’ Amy was firm and Shelly tried to believe her but all the images @__________ had sent her in the past months played on a loop in her head – the breastfeeding ones most of all. She let go of trying to maintain any kind of composure and sobbed into her assistant’s embrace.
Chapter 16
‘Where are we even going?’ Ali shifted around uncomfortably in the back seat of the cramped Honda Civic as Mini muttered urgent instructions to Erasmus, who was driving.
The sky was beginning to lighten at the horizon but the sea lapping in front of her parents’ house was still dark. Mini settled back beside her and Erasmus pulled away from the curb and swung up the steep narrow street to the main road.
‘I told you, we’re doing the ashes. Your father has been languishing on top of the microwave in the kitchen for far too long. It’s embarrassing. Everyone’s been asking me where we put him and I can hardly say “he’s resting peacefully near his favourite condiment”.’
Ali grimaced. ‘Sheeesh. He really did push the boundaries of Bovril’s intended uses, didn’t he?’
They both shuddered.
‘The roast potatoes …’ Mini began but Ali halted her with a look.
‘Please, no. I already feel like dogshit someone’s set fire to without the image of Miles slathering Bovril on his spuds.’
‘Is the nausea not gone yet?’
‘Well, it has, but then you get me out of bed at stupid o’clock for an ashes-scattering and no one feels good at this time.’
‘It’s 4 a.m. Don’t be so melodramatic. Anyway, we have to get there early. Before anyone arrives.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Did I tell you I matched with someone on Tinder?’
Ali started at this conversational curveball. ‘What?’
Her mother looked delighted at her surprise. ‘Yes. He’s twenty-four and his name is Solomon. He works in oils. We’re meeting this week.’
‘Oh gawd. Twenty-four? And he’s a painter? Mini, he probably just wants you to represent him.’
Mini laughed. ‘I don’t care,’ she said scathingly. ‘I’m not going to date some old man, am I?’
‘No? I guess not.’ Ali tried to suppress the unpleasant image of Mini with a random old man and stifled another yawn. Yesterday had been tiring being back in the Insta-saddle. She’d forgotten all the admin of replying to comments and DMs but now that she had a real goal with the Dublin Stage Fest in a few months, it felt important to be responsive to the people who had come flocking back to her. The general sentiment was that, in comparison with all these ones and their insincere apologies online, Ali was a breath of fresh air. And they seemed to think she was gas – in Ireland people could be forgiven a lot so long as they were perceived to be gas.
The city streets were deserted and the streetlights were still lit, though the sky was beginning to streak with pink.
‘Seriously, where are we going?’ She studied her mother’s profile. She was acting crazier than usual. Tinder? Ick. She shifted and yanked on the thick waistband of the maternity jeans. Fucking hateful things. Why would you take an already uncomfortable, overheated, sweating, angry creature like a pregnant woman and then swathe her in a very thick, elastic waistband?
‘It’s so odd. I didn’t show when I was expecting you until I was at least se
ven months pregnant. Are you sure it’s not twins?’
Ali rolled her eyes so hard she actually felt a twinge in the right one. Could you pull a muscle from eye-rolling?
‘Yep, I’m sure you were the dream preggers bitch, with zero stretch marks. Listen, Sam is very tall. It’s probably just mega long. It’s definitely only one foetus. I’ve seen it. I sent you the bloody pics, though, as I recall, you didn’t even reply, even though it was a-fucking-dorable. It looks like a lava lamp, remember?’ She pulled up WhatsApp to root out the pic she had sent to Mini. ‘Behold the Tinder spawn.’ She held the phone out to her mother.
‘It’s very nice.’ She barely looked up from her swiping. ‘Look, mine’s good too, like a young Dustin Hoffman.’ Mini proffered her own snap, a young guy in a flat cap and cheesecloth shirt with a monocle.
‘What do you have, some kind of art school hipster setting on? He looks like he listens to the wireless and rides a penny-farthing to work in the charcoal chai coffee brewshop.’
‘I just set my location to Dublin 8 permanently.’ Mini shrugged. ‘Erasmus’s idea.’
‘Excellent. Thanks, Erasmus. Can’t wait for my chronically hipster step-dad.’
‘Please, Ali, this is just sex, as you well know. Erasmus, go up Gardiner Street and then hang a left and left again. This one-way system is a pain.’
It was starting to dawn on Ali just where they might be heading.
‘Mini … ? We’re not—’ Her WhatsApp pinged in her hand, distracting her from what was a very unnerving realisation.
She X’d out of the pic of the foetus and spied a new message from Sam.
You’re online. It’s 4 a.m. What’s wrong? Is everything all right? Is the Pea OK?
His nickname for the fake baby, the Sweet Pea, had been resurrected and seeing it here in the thread twanged on her heart unexpectedly. She was so consumed with trying to distract herself with her writing and re-engaging with Insta that she was able to avoid thinking about Sam for hours at a time. Then something like this was like catching her finger on a thorn. She didn’t want to care, and she cursed the swoop of hope she felt at his apparent concern.
It’s useless, he hates you, Ali. You fucked it all up. The rational voice in her head didn’t want her to get her hopes up.
But he’s checking on me, argued the part of her still nursing a persistent desire that they would somehow pull through this whole mess.
I’m OK, nothing’s wrong no need to worry AT ALL. Mini just got me out ridiculously early. We’re …
She paused in typing her response. She didn’t want it to look as if she was trawling for sympathy but maybe it would be good for him to be reminded that she’d lost her dad only a couple of months ago. Especially as they were having the big scan this week and her midwife had already warned that there was to be no more time-wasting with this going in separately business.
On Tuesday morning, they would be thrown together for at least a couple of hours in the hospital and Ali couldn’t help it, she’d been buying and returning things to ASOS maternity for the last two weeks. It was hard trying to look appealing while also looking like that YouTube video of the snake eating the cow. She’d been experimenting with a Bardot neckline … Another WhatsApp dropped in from Sam. Shit, he was losing it.
Please, Ali, I can see you typing. Are you and the baby OK????
She hastily completed her message.
I’m OK. Nothing’s wrong, no need to worry AT ALL. Mini just got me out ridiculously early. We’re just going to scatter Miles’s ashes. I’ll talk to you later?
She waited but even though the message blue-ticked, he didn’t write back. All the thrill she’d felt of him worrying about her ebbed away and she chucked the phone in her bag at her feet.
‘OK, here we are.’
Ali squinted in the early morning gloom. They were on the corner of Abbey Street. Uh-oh.
It wasn’t the most salubrious location in town, but Ali knew exactly what Mini was up to.
‘There is no way this is legal, Mini.’
Mini was resolutely ignoring her daughter.
‘Erasmus.’ She leaned forward. ‘Might be best to keep the engine running. Just in case.’ She hopped out of the car and skipped down the street towards an inconspicuous maroon door.
Oh God, was this a grief-induced psychotic break? Should she be intervening? Though, at twenty-two weeks pregnant, short of lying on top of her mother she didn’t think she could stop Mini.
‘Mini, we can’t. How do you think we’re even going to get in?’
‘One of the Tinder boys does usher Thursday to Saturday.’ Mini produced a heavy set of keys with a flourish and jangled them in Ali’s face. ‘I can be very persuasive.’
‘Oh my God.’ Ali blanched. ‘Please shut up, I can’t cope with any more Tinder Mini visuals.’
Mini leaned back from the door and threw a quick glance up and down the deserted street, then hurriedly unlocked the door. She ducked inside. Ali threw a beseeching look back at Erasmus in the car, who simply shrugged helplessly. Ugh, fuck it. Ali dove into the narrow corridor behind Mini, who was grappling with the alarm code.
‘This is bonkers,’ hissed Ali.
Finally, the alarm was disabled and Mini hit the lights. The corridor was a deep red. Red walls, red threadbare carpet and even a peeling red ceiling overhead – it felt oppressive and ominous. The walls were lined with black and white pictures of actors playing in Behan, Beckett, Wilde and O’Casey. Ali knew somewhere among them was a young Miles playing Boy in Godot. She scanned the shots but Mini was already way ahead of her and Ali knew now wasn’t the time to find the gawky teenage Miles acting opposite one of Irish theatre’s greats, Séamus Mac Liammóir, in a now-famous production.
She jogged after Mini, who was crossing a small room cluttered with furniture and mouldy boxes of ancient programmes.
Weird how all theatres seem to have the same smell, Ali thought nostalgically. The smell wasn’t exactly pleasant. It was a blend of cigarettes, burning dust and perfume and it always reminded her of Miles. She was certain she’d stood in this exact spot with him before. When she was little, he used to bring her around and annoy his actor friends during rehearsals. His restaurant was only a few minutes’ walk away and every opening night the whole cast and crew would decamp there for the after party. Ali’d loved it, her parents’ wild friends had the best fun and Miles and Mini were happiest directing the madness. She crossed the room after Mini. On the other side was the gap in the curtains that led to the stage. Some more lights came on as Mini fiddled with a bank of switches. It had to be close to 5 a.m. by now. The cleaning staff would surely be arriving soon. The Sunday matinee was usually at around 2 p.m. and by the looks of the set on stage, no one had cleaned after curtains the night before.
Ali wasn’t even sure what was playing at the moment. She felt a gust of sadness sweep through her. When Miles was alive, this theatre was part of their family. They came here all the time – he knew the year’s schedule. They would have celebrated opening night and he would have probably come again at least once during the run. How had she not been here in so long? She hadn’t come once since he had gone to Ailesend, the nursing home he’d died in. She was suddenly gripped with guilt. She could have kept coming. That would have meant something to Miles.
‘Ali? We can’t dawdle.’
For once she was grateful for Mini’s abrupt ways. She shrugged the guilt off. She could go down that hole. She’d been sucked down the guilt-spiral practically daily since the night he had died. Why did they call it grief? They should call it Guilt with a capital G.
She tentatively moved to the centre of the stage to join her mother.
‘Well, this is batshit.’ She sighed, resigned. ‘Should we say something?’
Mini cleared her throat.
‘Miles, I know you would have enjoyed knowing that the national theatre is your final resting place, not least for all the auditions you didn’t get! Now you’ll be on the Abbey stage for eve
r and there’s nothing that fecker O’Shea can do about it.’ She momentarily dropped the tone of gravitas to fill Ali in on O’Shea. ‘Bitter little prig never gave Miles a single bloody shot, not even in a minor role. Anyway,’ she resumed her solemn speech, ‘Miles. You always said you felt so lucky and I think you actually possessed the secret to being happy. You made the lives of everyone around you so full of fun and love and …’
Ali pushed the tears from her cheeks as Mini’s voice cracked on the empty stage. Ali stared at the seat Miles liked to reserve, B13, front and centre, and the sudden realisation that he would never sit there again, that he quite simply didn’t exist anymore, hit her full force in the chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mini continued through her own tears. ‘What I wanted to say, Miles, was that you were wrong. You weren’t lucky; we were the lucky ones. We are the luckiest to have had you in our lives.’ Mini twisted the lid of the plastic container the funeral home had given them. It was naff as hell, a plastic fake urn.
Ali stepped up and stood shoulder to shoulder with Mini. She closed her eyes and thought of Miles bashing out a song on the battered old piano backstage after a raucous closing show years ago. She could see him so clearly, tossing his blond hair back, his eyes half closed as he sang about the lucky old sun with nothing to do but roll around heaven all day … She searched inside for a scrap of relief. The lucky old sun was Miles now, she told herself. He was free from the prison of his illness. She tried to believe this, to feel it.
‘We love you, Miles darling,’ Mini whispered. ‘You’re free.’
‘Dada,’ Ali murmured as the sobs rose through her chest. Then an odd whooshing sound and dust in her mouth. Her eyes snapped open to Mini’s yelp of ‘Oh feck!’
‘Oh feck?’ Ali leapt back from the dust cloud that was enveloping them and the rest of the stage. Mini had upended what looked like a bag of kitty litter right in the middle of stage left. ‘What is this stuff?’ Ali cried, spluttering.