When he’d said he was heading to Oz, Ali wasn’t too perturbed. She even got a good couple of weeks out of the wine memes and inspo quotes the ‘break-up’ provided her. She did a bit of online dating here and there and made sure to get loads of shots for future use, to post on those nights in with Liv when nothing was going on but a bit of Netflix and Scroll. The guys were grand for a ’gram but she couldn’t say she was that interested in them – she had a habit of writing them off for the most minor of infractions. One guy kept using the phrase ‘bantz’ while another was a big fan of recounting his exploits with ‘the lads’ and after a while Ali, bored of his shite, began keeping count of how many times he used the word ‘lads’. This became a useful barometer on future dates. She now had a ten-‘lads’-and-you’re-out policy, which apparently ruled out huge swathes of the males on Tinder. The fact was it was hard to like people. And maybe Tinder just wasn’t the place to find funny, enlightened men – though there had been that vaguely promising one a few weeks ago, Sam. If only it hadn’t ended so disastrously …
Ali navigated the traffic in the weak winter sun as Kate continued to gleefully relate the ins and outs of Crystal’s public shaming.
‘Now there’s this hilarious voicenote doing the rounds from some girl saying Crystal’s all-natural body scrub gave her some fungal rash.’ Kate was giggling away. ‘I’ll send it on to you.’
Viral voicenotes were the latest gossip craze. They spread faster than HPV, and even though many had been exposed as hoaxes, they were still good for a laugh. A recent one about a well-known politician going on a Tinder date blew up so much his department had to release a statement refuting the claims. About twenty people had sent that one to Ali in the space of ten minutes.
Kate now segued into talk of her impending engagement. ‘We’re going to do it in the farmers’ market. I’m just trying to find the perfect collarless cheesecloth shirt for Paul …’ Of course, that’s his name! thought Ali triumphantly, Paul. ‘And I need to get the mani done and probably put on a few more pounds still.’ For the wedding-shredding plan, Kate reckoned she needed to be coming from a ‘slightly heavier place’, as she put it, so ‘the emotional arc would have more impact’.
Ali could see the turning for Ailesend and cut in. ‘Darl, I’ve gotta go – I’ll see you at the launch tonight. Keep me updated and remember “carb diem”!’
Ali tapped the phone to end the call and swung in through the large stone entrance that led to a long tree-lined drive up to the nursing home. It was always quiet here and a certain hopeless quiet always seeped over Ali too as she neared. Coming here to the grim place where the man who’d taught her to swim and drive – and, yeah, occasionally annoyed the crap out of her with his corny jokes – now lived was hard.
At the end of the avenue was a mostly empty car park. Ali nabbed a space and took a breath. Ailesend could suck her down on the best of days and she couldn’t go there today. She stuck in her headphones and delivered a little self-talk: ‘The wild-card nominations are a one-shot thing, Ali. Stay focused.’ She hit the Instagram icon then opened the front camera, gave her face a quick check and started a Story.
‘Hey Insta-fam, I have the most amazing project in the works – I just can’t wait to share it with you. I’m heading in to a top-secret appointment, but let’s just say that it’s going to be epic.’
Ali replayed the Story, appraising her look and delivery. Ugh, she sounded bloody constipated. She deleted the Story and began again. Many attempts later and it still didn’t sound quite right. She was about to hit Record once more when an incoming call interrupted the shoot. Mini. Oh, fuck. Ali checked the time – 10.45. That couldn’t be right. She hadn’t been trying to record the same Story for forty-five minutes, had she? Mini would freak.
Grabbing her bags, she hurriedly rejected the call, jumped out of the car and recorded her exciting-announcement Story one more time. She hit Post and started towards the main entrance, sending a rapid-fire series of one-line texts to Mini, giving the messages the urgency of a telegram, assuring her that she was just arriving at Miles’s room.
Mini responded ‘Fine’ and Ali slowed down, relaxed again. She signed in at reception and made her way down the hall to the ward where Miles resided, as a couple of DMs pinged in from followers excited about her exciting news.
Ali had only begun the exciting-news thing fairly recently. She’d endlessly watched other influencers liberally breadcrumbing pending news and announcements, envious that they had such exciting and exclusive projects in the pipeline. Then she began to twig that she rarely noticed any of the announcements panning out. Some months later, they might post something with a caption trilling about how delighted they are that they can finally reveal … whatever the hell it might be. That’s when Ali started lashing up the odd announcement Story (never a post, as that would be more trackable) and enjoying a little contact buzz, knowing that somewhere some other girl was jealous of her fabulous meetings and exciting projects.
She clicked into the first DM – ‘Hope you’re OK, hun?’ – and was puzzled. Ali stopped just short of the entrance to Miles’s room and replayed the Story. Shit, shit, shit. Just behind her chattering face was a sign pointing right for St Bridget’s Ward. Feck, feck, feck. Ali’s mind raced – they’d all think she was getting work done.
Ali went back to delete the Story but it already had over a thousand views (stats that would usually delight her). Sometimes a deleted Story was worse, people could be very quick on the screen-grabs. When an influencer drunkenly posted Ali’d immediately send a screen-grab to Kate before the girl sobered up and deleted it. Screen-grabs in WhatsApp groups were like cigarettes in prison, a form of currency to barter with your friends. Or, for more committed bitching, to post on Rants.ie threads – which obviously Ali would never do. Someone could be screen-grabbing this Story right this second.
Just then the door to Miles’s room swung open and Tabitha, one of his nurses, came out. On seeing Ali clutching the phone to her chest and looking stricken, Tabitha’s face shifted from smiling to concern. ‘Ali, are you OK, dearie?’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ Ali squeezed past Tabitha’s immense boobs and into her dad’s room, eyes darting, her mind frantically scrambling for a solution. ‘Hi Dad,’ she chirped at the figure lying prone in the bed. ‘I’m just popping to the loo.’
She ducked into the bathroom that adjoined her dad’s room, studiously avoiding looking at all the depressing paraphernalia: wipes and latex gloves and worse.
She should say something on her Stories to explain or distract. But what?
6
‘OK, Glossies launch tonight – we need to talk strategy.’ Amy was perched, her highly decorated legs entwined, on a high stool in the corner of Shelly’s walk-in-wardrobe-cum-office. Amanda, Shelly’s full-time make-up artist, was priming Shelly’s flawless skin on a neighbouring stool.
Amy hit a wall-mounted keypad beside her and a projector screen descended from a hidden compartment in the ceiling above the opposite wall. She aimed a slim silver remote at a projector perched on a discreet shelf above her head and the screen of her own laptop appeared across from them, displaying an infographic representing several mid-level Irish influencers.
Shelly shifted a bit to peer around Amanda, who was now applying muddy brown stripes to her cheeks, forehead and down the sides of her nose.
‘Go easy, Amanda,’ Amy instructed, frowning at Shelly’s face. ‘We’ve got M&S sponcon up first at 11 a.m., so just low-key, everyday-mam-in-the-park vibes but with a touch of SJP, OK? Save the Kardashian homage for touch-ups tonight before the launch.’
Shelly caught Amanda’s eye and gave a jokey little eye-roll, nodding towards Amy. Shelly was paranoid that one day Amanda would go rogue and spill on all the goings-on behind brand SHELLY so she always took pains to keep her onside, especially when Amy was being … well, Amy.
‘So, let’s talk wild-card nominations.’ Amy carried on tapping away at her spreadsheet on the iPad. ‘We need to nail this. Too many lame choices and it’ll be obvious you’re trying to limit the competition, but we don’t want anyone who’s too good. I’ve put together a shortlist here for you to look over – obviously, I’ve got a pretty good handle on these girls. They’re the usuals, uncontroversial, all under ten thousand followers, blonde, low appeal in terms of sponsored-content deals, apparently unable to put together an outfit without minimum five Penneys items—’
‘I love Penneys,’ chimed in Amanda. ‘It’s great for a few bits.’
‘No shit, Amanda,’ said Amy without looking up.
Shelly jumped in. ‘I know, Amanda. I’m addicted! Where would we be without Penneys? Sure this is Penneys.’ Shelly smiled, tugging on her silk shorties PJ set – it wasn’t, it was Calvin Klein.
Amanda pinched some of the silk between her fingertips. ‘Well, you can always tell it’s not the real deal up close,’ she admitted.
