‘Aye, but they are a handful to the millions out there who are trying. It’s a bit like becoming a Premiership footballer,’ he’d said, in between mouthfuls of a full English breakfast one Sunday morning. ‘Even out of all those that go through the footballing academies, only a handful of them make it. I watched a documentary about it.’
He was right, of course, but being a social media influencer is not quite the same thing. Yes, it takes hard work and commitment, but also a certain amount of good fortune. That one post going viral could make the difference between obscurity and recognition. There are makers and bakers out there uploading videos of their food, as well as people posting pictures of their kids, animals, and exercise routines. Some of the ordinary stuff has catapulted people into the realms of celebrity status. Take Joe Wicks and his exercise videos that got us all through lockdown, for example.
‘And I don’t know why you don’t get back into your singing,’ Dad had advised. ‘Maybe you ought to audition for one of those reality shows you seem to enjoy watching.’
‘I agree,’ said Mum as she sipped her tea. ‘You have always had a lovely voice.Britain’s Got Talentwould be a good show to go on.’
‘Hmm maybe, but there is a lot of stiff competition on those shows, I’m not sure I would be good enough.’ I shrugged, feeling apprehensive at the thought.
‘You’re a damn sight better than some of those singers on the radio that sound like a strangled cat when they have to perform live,’ said Dad, helping himself to another slice of toast. ‘I needed earplugs watching half of them on TV performing at Glastonbury.’
‘Well maybe it’s only a few singers who make it big, just like those footballers,’ I told Dad, wishing I could just focus on one thing.
‘You won’t know unless you try,’ said Dad. ‘Besides, you don’t actually need to be famous to earn a living as a singer, do you?’ he reasoned. ‘And as you seem to post all kinds of different things, it beats me why you don’t show some footage of you singing,’ he said, not for the first time.
Perhaps he has a point, and I did attend a performing arts college for a couple of years after all, even earning some money singing at pubs and occasionally weddings, that sort of thing. For some reason though, I don’t really have the confidence to show myself singing online.
Maybe I would not like the criticism, even though some of my posts already attract negative comments anyway. One bikini shot had someone tell me I needed to put some weight on, which I absolutely do not. It prompted a whole online discussion about body shaming. I guess everyone is going to have an opinion and you need to be thick-skinned to accept that.
Perhaps I ought to invest in a microphone and head off to the city centre and do some busking, instead of booking a holiday. But I just have this feeling that one day I will be successful, maybe even famous, and perhaps then I will reprise my singing career. Maybe Dad’s right in saying real success as a social media influencer does only happen to a handful of people. But I am determined to make sure that by working hard enough, I will become one of that handful.
I had been considering Dad’s comments, thinking that maybe I should not be going away again, at least until I have secured a new job, when the wedding invitation arrived.
My old high school friend Tasha, now living in Australia, has decided to have her wedding in Santorini so that her family and friends, including some who live in other European destinations, are able to attend.
Tasha always possessed the focus that I lacked, determined that she would make something of her life, even if it meant moving away from her family and friends. I can’t imagine being that far away from my own family, especially my gran, who relies on me quite a bit, but maybe I would have to rethink that, if fame and fortune came calling.
Tasha will be marrying Owen, a successful property developer, and they are footing the cost of an apartment, having rented out a whole block. Not in Fira exactly, the most photographed place in Santorini, but in Perissa a twenty-minute drive away. All I will need to pay for are my flights, and a wedding gift as my gran has already insisted on giving me some spending money, with the words ‘Who else can I spend my money on?’ And ‘You do enough for me.’
Finishing our coffees, we head into town so Lulu can buy herself some new trainers, and I need to look for a new bikini.
Lulu and I became friends when Lulu – who is almost twelve years older than my twenty-eight years – took me under herwing when I started working on the catalogue phone line. She patiently trained me, and laughed when my hand would fly to my mouth, mortified after accidentally cutting someone off in the middle of a call, insisting that I would get the hang of it. And I did get the hang of it, and enjoyed every minute of my job that I stayed in for four years.
I’m sad not to be working there anymore, but then I believe everything happens for a reason. Maybe I am destined for bigger and better things.
‘I wish I was coming with you,’ says Lulu as we walk. ‘Santorini looks heavenly, if all those travel programmes are anything to go by.’
‘So come,’ I urge her. ‘You can be my plus-one, I’ve already told you that,’ I remind her.
‘I know, but I don’t have any holidays left until my new annual leave starts in December.’ She sighs. It’s currently early June.
‘I’m sure you could take a few days. I’m flying out Thursday, but maybe you could get a flight Friday, take an early finish from work? Surely Phil would agree to that? He might even let you take a day or two from next year’s holidays to add on to the weekend?’ I suggest.
I know that Phil the manager has a soft spot for Lulu, although she doesn’t appear to notice.
‘I suppose I could ask. Maybe stay for four or five days, including the weekend. That sounds good,’ she muses. ‘Ooh Santorini. Imagine all that sunshine.’ She sighs, looking up at a distinctly dull sky.
‘Yes! Oh, Lulu, it will be a lot of fun. And you deserve a break.’ I loop my arm through hers, her shoulder-length curly brown hair bouncing as we walk. Lulu is one of those effortlessly stylish people, and today she is rocking a long black dress, with a bright-green blazer thrown over. I am wearing tight gym wear, with ablack body warmer over the top, a gift from a local supplier in exchange for an online review.
‘That I can’t argue with,’ she replies with a wide smile.
Lulu had her children young and, by the sound of things, still runs around after her offsprings, who don’t seem to lift a finger. He husband buggered off two years ago with a woman he met at the gym after he turned forty and decided he wanted to get in shape.
Heading into a busy department store, I linger at the perfume counter, giving myself a little sample spray. The prices of some of the scents on sale are eye-watering, and I think of the copies I get sent through the post and endorse on my page. They cost a fraction of the price and are pretty good, although the scent can wear off quickly.
A gorgeous bloke in a smart blue suit is looking at the men’s colognes, and I toss my long hair over my shoulder. He gives me a little smile, before he is joined by his girlfriend, who kisses him on the cheek. Oh well. I don’t suppose the men’s cologne counter is a place to flirt with someone anyway. Santorini on the other hand…
‘What do you think of this colour?’ asks Lulu, showing me a rust-coloured eyeshadow.