Definitely not green eyes.
What filter or app is that, because I want it.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you, it’s just ...’ I am lost for words. ‘I can’t believe it’s you. I love your travel blog so much. I’ve basically been copying your trip, I’m obsessed, I love you. Me and my friend Eva love everything you do.’
She sighs. ‘Well it’s all a load of shit, you shouldn’t,’she says, but it is not said unkindly. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Er, Alice. What do you mean it’s a load of shit? It’s not ... it’s not shit! It’s wonderful, you’re wonderful!’
‘Hi Alice,’ she says wearily. ‘It’s really nice to meet you and I’m sorry to shatter your illusion. I’m just having a bad day and you caught me in a moment where I’m really totally sick of it all. Sick of pretending.My life is shit, and my travel stories are mostly bullshit. I haven’t been out of Australia in three years, it’s all old stuff from my twenties.’
‘But ... but ...’ I am lost. She’s not in her twenties? I thought she was abouttwenty-three.
She goes on, not seemingly able to stop. ‘I’m sorry but I’m sick of it, I’m sick of having to be this slick, glisteningthingall the time. Nobodycares about the real me. They don’t care that I have neck acne and a bad back from years of hostel beds. They don’t care about my irritable bowel syndrome from all the food I’ve eaten that wasn’t cooked properly from faraway places. Nobody cares that I really want to be a science fiction author, writing novels about zombies. My management says I can’t do it because it doesn’t fit with mybrand. They say my sponsors will pull out if I don’t stay on message, and then how will I live? I’m too old to do anything else now, and I have afive-year gap on myCV.’
She pauses to take a long drink from her takeaway cup of coffee. The smell wafts towards me and I realise it is decidedly not coffee. I gape at her like a dumb fish.
‘I’m just miserable, y’know?’ she continues. ‘But I’m notallowed to be sad, because that’s notcool. Actually, no, that’s not true. It is actually cool to be sad for, like, five minutes. It’s cool to write a really poignant, “honest” post about feeling low, and how everyone gets sad. That will get you praise and maybe a feature with, like, theGuardian. But then you are meant to get better and stop moaning because everyone is bored of hearing aboutit. The internet – my followers – don’t want to know how I really feel every day. They follow me for escapism. They want to believe their life can one day be perfect – like mine. But fuck it, fuck them, fuck everything. That isn’t real life.’
She stops to wobble on hercoffee-shop stool, pulling at her joggers, like she cannot get comfortable.
I don’t know what to say but I suddenly feelfor her so intensely. I am one of those people she’s describing. I didn’t want Constance Beaumont to have flaws. I wanted her to be a2Dshimmering Mary Poppins. Practically perfect in every way. She is meant to represent what we all could’ve won if we’d been so beautiful, so rich, and so privileged – like her.
‘Oh, Constance, I’m ...’
She interrupts me. ‘You know Constance Beaumontisn’t even my real name? It’s amade-up name my management chose for me because they thought it sounded cool. Do you want to know what my real name is? Janet Morris. Do you want to know what my middle name is?’
‘I mean ...’ I hedge but she is on a roll.
‘It’s Janet,’ she spits. ‘My name is Janet Janet Morris. My parents called me Janet Janet Morris.’
‘Well that’s, er, nice ...’I try.
‘No, it’s not!’ she exclaims. ‘It’s fucking unimaginative and ridiculous. But the stupid thing is that Iwantto be bland. I dream of being bland. I want to be Janet Janet Morris again. I liked bland Janet Janet Morris!’
There is silence and I put my hand gently on her arm.
She looks at it like she doesn’t understand the gesture. After a moment she continues. ‘Sorry Alice, youseem really nice, and I’m sure you didn’t want to hear all this. You caught me at a bad moment, is all. I was debating whether to post a picture of my cat. I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes, trying to work out if I can post a picture of my sodding cat. It’s not a beach or a chic, previously undiscovered B&B, so I don’t know if I’m allowed. I don’t want to ask my management because theyalways say no. But I want to post a picture of my cat! It shouldn’t take me half an hour to work this out. That isn’t a life, is it?’
I shake my head.
She sighs. ‘I just want to sit at home, eating Toblerones –PLURAL– and not sharing pictures ofFUCKING BEACHES. I don’t even like beaches! I hate sand! It gets everywhere. In your bag, in your clothes, in your knickers, in your butthole.I hate it.’
‘Um, well, I know this is easy for me to say,’ I start slowly. ‘But ... screw it, Janet—’ That is so weird to call her ‘—I think you can take a chance and post a picture of your cat. And maybe even a Toblerone. Maybe a cat lying down near a Toblerone? And I don’t want to freak you out, but maybe you could even ...’ I pause dramatically, ‘... not post anything at all.’
She looks at me and for a moment I think she might start crying. Instead, she bursts out laughing. I start laughing too, and we laugh together.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she says at last, wiping her eyes. ‘The truth is, I do have a lovely life, and I do know how lucky I am. And I mostly quite like travelling! But I think people see it as this magic answer to all their problems. They will travel toPhuket, discover their true self, have some kind of spiritual awakening and everything will be perfect in their sad little lives at long last.’
All right Janet Janet, no need to get personal.
‘And sure, it can be loads of fun, and a great time away from real life,’ she continues, unaware of how close to the bone she’s getting. ‘But when you get home, you’re still going to be you, aren’tyou? You’re still going to be the same person, with the same obsessions and worries and insecurities. You can change the setting around you for a while, but if you’re sad, you’ll still be sad lying under a palm tree, won’t you? Things aren’t going to be magically solved. Life is so much more complicated than we think, isn’t it? And so am I. I want to bemulti-faceted, Alice. I want to be a wholeperson, not just a travel automaton with dewy skin.’
‘Well that’s fair enough, Janet!’ I say, defiantly. ‘And I promise you, I’ll still follow you on Instagram if you post cat pictures. I’ll even stick it out if you post ones with your real eye colour.’
She laughs again, gratefully. ‘You noticed that, huh?’ She sighs. ‘Thank you. I know you’re right. It’s just hard. I know I need to changethings and I think I might sack my management. They’re kind of shitty to me. I reckon they just see me as amoney-making product on their books. They don’t want to risk me changing and chance losing that fifteen per cent. But damn them! I want to be the real me! And maybe I could use a pen name or something for thesci-fi writing?’
‘That’s a great idea!’ I say enthusiastically.
Thereis a pause while we look at each other, smiling. Two strangers. Two idiots just trying to get through this weird, messy life.
She stands up.
‘So,’ she says, and she sounds like she has something important left to say. ‘Do you, like, want a selfie or something?’
