Ali’s own meagre following had been building steadily since she’d joined last year but it was an uphill battle. She’d tried every trick in the ‘how to become an influencer’ book but thus far her biggest fans seemed to be her own burner accounts (@JamieC, @SheilaMalloy and @KerryConnor) who, combined, had about sixteen followers but were frequent and enthusiastic commenters on all of Ali’s pictures.
Coming up in a few months was the social media event of the year, the Glossies, where Ali had hoped to be nominated for Best Newcomer but really, at this rate, she’d be more likely to be hit with another bout of cystitis than make a splash in the influencer pool in time for it.
Just then, a new post dropped into Shelly’s feed. The pic showed a radiant new mum Shelly cradling her baby, captioned:
#tbt when @BabyGeorgie was the most perfect baby and I was bathed in all the new mum love vibes, and #blessed with the most wonderful breastfeeding journey thanks to NaturPro9400 the #supplement with the most effective blend of vitamins to promote milk supply and bonus (!) it does wonders for your hair and nails too, ladies. #spon #ad #NaturPro9400 #workingmama #collab #brandambassador #supplement #lovethis #workwithshelly #georgiedevine
Georgie Devine was only three but she had her very own Instagram account (189K followers) and endorsement deals and was brand ambassador for several well-known products including, somewhat bafflingly, a de-icing agent for cars. At least, I don’t have to sell my baby on Instagram for a bogus supplement, Ali thought cattily.
Leaning in and peering closer at the picture, Ali could see it looked like Shelly had done a bit of photoshopping on a little rash on Georgie’s cheek.
Then Ali felt mean. She couldn’t blame Shelly for cashing in on that sweet baby dollar; you have to work with what you have in this game. The problem was Ali didn’t have much by way of aspirational fodder for Insta.
She lived with Liv, who’d been her best friend since Ali had mistaken her for a foreign-exchange student on day one outside St Margaret’s secondary in Killiney.
‘Where are you from?’ she’d asked the small girl with dark hair, brown skin and headphones around her neck.
‘Bray,’ Liv had responded flatly.
‘Ah.’ Ali had been thrown.
‘We have Indian people in Bray, like.’ Liv was sarcastic.
‘Yeah, alright. I’m not a racist.’
‘You just assumed I was foreign!’
‘Well I’m not the biggest racist here then.’ Ali indicated the other kids in uniform awkwardly milling, waiting for the doors to open at 8.15. ‘I’m talking to you, at least.’
It was a gamble, but luckily Liv had laughed and that had been that for them, friends ever since. Though, while she loved her, Liv wasn’t much of a one for Prosecco boomerangs. Ali usually called on Jess, Clara and Kate, their school gang, who were much more up for nights out, though irritatingly they’d all coupled up in recent months and were forever making arbitrary trips to Ikea with What’s-his-name-again and staying in for takeaways and Netflix.
You’re twenty-fucking-five, Ali wanted to scream. You’re supposed to be out making the most of your youth. Though now at the midway point, Ali felt her twenties had been a bit of a dud thus far. A useless degree in Drama Studies and English and a ropey economy meantDurty Aul’ Townwas the only thing between her and all-out failure, aka an unpaid internship. Writing was lonely and hard and when her Insta started to take off with her #wellness posts, selfies, carefully curated #OOTDs and behind the scenes posts of #TVlife onDurty Aul’ Town, she’d switched her focus almost instantly.
She saw so many other girls being plucked from Insta to go on to TV-presenting gigs and modelling gigs, getting book deals, make-up deals, tan deals – surely it would get her somewhere, even if she wasn’t exactly sure where she wanted to go right now. It could only be a matter of breaking in. She made sure she went to all the media events in town, trawling for freebies to open on her ’gram and being snapped for the social pages.
Liv liked going out, but her tastes ran more to pints and experimental instrumental metal gigs than anywhere the influencer crowd flocked. If Ali wanted to do a selfie when they were out, she’d practically hide rather than face Liv’s ribbing. Anyway she much preferred staying in with Liv. Watching crap TV and offering their own sarky commentary was more fun.
They’d moved in together during the second year of college. The house had belonged to Liv’s granny and looked and smelled accordingly but it was close to Dublin City University, where Liv had studied sociology and psychology and, after a year’s break, had now plunged into a two-year master’s in sociology with a view to pursuing academia. Social media was, in fact, her area of research. Ali had a major trek out to work and her mum’s house on the south side, but Liv’s parents charged them next to nothing, plus it was close to Ali’s dad, Miles.
She waded through the sea of clothes that covered most of the carpet towards the far corner of the room, where she’d fitted a small section of pale laminate wood-effect flooring on top of the frankly offensive brown carpeting that Liv’s granny was so devoted to – it covered the floor of nearly every room in the house including, most creepily, the bathroom.
Ali cleared the faux-marble-topped dressing table in her ‘Insta-studio’, swept a face wipe over her face and scrubbed at last night’s smudged eye make-up. She switched on an enormous ring-light mounted to the wall to her right beside a large round mirror and appraised her face. The lasting effect of Esso wine meant her wide brown eyes were looking more than a little bleary and her dirty-blonde hair which fell in waves past her shoulders was attempting to form a single giant dreadlock. She consulted the time – 7.20. Better get going. Mini was never late and it’d be a terrible shame to cut into her berating time. She whacked in some eye drops and began the lengthy hair battle. Ali’s face had come good since the days when the boys at school had called her a ‘fugly dog’. She’d had a pretty intense awkward stage spanning about a decade – who didn’t? And options for self-improvement were limited back then; you couldn’t just filter yourself into oblivion in every pic. After such a shitty adolescence, Ali saw her creamy skin and high cheekbones as a form of karmic redistribution.
Of course, the definition of ‘pretty’ had changed drastically, even over the last couple of years, and Ali, like most of the influencer crowd, had made some subtle improvements. Her top lip had always seemed a little thin so she’d had it filled last year – which meant, of course, that her bottom lip definitely looked a little thin so she’d plumped that one up as well. A little filler in the cheeks and Botox around the eyes were all pretty standard but lately she’d been more and more concerned with her nose. It was more prominent than she liked, though that would be a different level on the surgery scale. Filler you could do on a lunch break but noses were an undertaking.
Liv, naturally, did not approve. ‘You’re looking more like that crazy cat face lady by the day,’ she’d erupted when she found Ali scrolling through #newnose on Insta one morning.
Mini hadn’t even mentioned the little adjustments. Either she thought they were an improvement or she was too preoccupied with work to notice. Mini Riordan was a key player in the Irish art scene – her gallery, Ait Art, represented the biggest artists and she chaired about a million boards. Plus Mini had Miles, Ali’s dad, to deal with, who they would no doubt be discussing over this coffee. Ali grimaced at the prospect.
Ali propped her phone up on the dressing table and hit View All on the Stories function while she moisturised her skin and began hurriedly painting her face.
‘Hey guys!’ A peppy, faux-American-by-way-of-Dublin-4 accent squealed out of the phone. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been on for a while …’
Ali scoffed. ‘You were on last night, Laura! I think we can survive without you for a couple of hours.’
‘It’s been a crazy morning …’ Laura continued earnestly.
Already? Please. Ali rolled her eyes.
