‘It’s 53,000,’ said Shelly quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘You’re doing some sponsored content with Toyota at the moment. Don’t call me pathetic, please.’
Dan looked down at his wife and his face appeared to soften slightly but he looked detached. ‘You’ve changed so much, Shel. When I married you, you wanted to be a serious actress. You had real ambitions. I can’t even believe that you take this shit seriously.’ He indicated the phone, clutched as always in her right hand.
‘Screw you, Dan.’ Shelly formed the words quietly but confidently. ‘You’re a snob – this just offends your Malahide sensibilities. I’m having fun with this and I enjoy it. And my followers need me. I get messages every day from the women I’m inspiring and empowering.’
At this, Dan did the worst possible thing: he laughed. He walked all the way out of the room laughing and that hurt. How had it gotten to this point? They used to be good together, didn’t they?
Shelly returned to the kitchen, her stomach roiling. She’d already been up at 6.30 quietly puking in their en suite, running the taps so Dan wouldn’t hear.
She posted the first video of Dan to her account just as Amy breezed in, breakfast roll in hand. The smell was like an assault on Shelly’s already sensitive gag reflex and she immediately leaned forward and threw up in the kitchen sink (Belfast, naturally – it would have cost a fortune but she’d agreed a few #spon posts of Baby Georgie having her bath in it and the sink people had fallen over themselves to give it to her).
‘Eh, gross.’ Amy was clearly less than impressed with her boss’s gastric greeting.
‘Sorry,’ came a slightly echoing response – Shelly was still head-in-sink waiting to make sure there wasn’t any more to come. ‘I’m just feeling a bit sick.’
‘Yeah, I’m getting that,’ replied Amy, who had hoisted herself up on one of the high stools around the marble-topped peninsula (‘Nobody gets islands anymore – it’s all about the peninsula now – they’re so much more … London!’ as Shelly had enthused on her house-tour video commentary) and was surveying her boss impassively.
‘What?’ Shelly wiped her mouth and spoke carefully, still uncertain if she was finished puking. She saw her assistant’s pretty green eyes widen.
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ Amy said emphatically as she held up her hand. ‘You’ve been skipping your run lately. And you ate a pastry-based canapé at the Great Lengths Hair Extensions dinner the other night.’
Shelly knew she’d never stood a chance hiding it from her but, even for Amy, this was a fast rumble. She leaned in for another vom just as Amy gasped, ‘O-M-fucking-G, are you up the pole?’
Shelly had hired Amy two years before. She was a gifted manipulator of the various vagaries and whims of the Instagram algorithms. Shelly had created a good foundation when she began Instagramming just after Georgie was born, but by the time the little girl had turned one, the SHELLY brand had become a micro industry and more than she could manage by herself. Amy was also a far better strategist. Whereas Shelly had essentially stumbled into this strange new breed of success, Amy knew how to play the game, and since her arrival reach, engagement, opportunities and profit had grown exponentially. She was, however, not even remotely on-brand herself.
Amy was slight – she could probably pass for twelve though she was actually twenty-six. She’d grown up in the Liberties with her mum and dad and four brothers, which maybe contributed to her staunch refusal to take any crap from anyone. She had two sleeves of vivid tattoos snaking up each skinny arm and meeting across her shoulder blades. More flowers and birds and mythological creatures adorned her calves and thighs, and Shelly was forever reminding her to cover up at the various events Shelly made paid appearances at. Amy Donoghue, it seemed, was confident enough in her indispensability to flagrantly ignore this instruction.
She adjusted the vintage cat-eye glasses perched on her elfin face and immediately launched the app she used to track Shelly’s schedule. ‘When’s the due date? We have so much to organise.’
‘I’m not officially pregnant,’ Shelly managed to splutter, slowly straightening back up. ‘Well, as in I am but I haven’t even told Dan yet. It wasn’t quite part of the … em … plan,’ she whispered.
Though was that really true? Shelly wondered.
While Dan had been categorical about not wanting another child, ever since Georgie had turned three Shelly had begun to yearn for another baby. That’s not to say that she’d done this on purpose. Of course not. She might have been a teeny bit careless with her pill a couple of times (Dan didn’t even take part in contraception efforts) but she hadn’t gone behind his back or anything … Though whether Dan would see it that way was another story. Things had been tricky between them. Dan didn’t exactly take SHELLY seriously as a real business.
She tried to ignore his snarky comments, but last night as she’d been arranging the table for a dinnertime post for Georgie’s Instagram (‘Delicious dinner with mommy and daddy thanks to @organicbabynomnom #eatgreenbabyorganicbaby #growingstrongbabies #spon #ad #georgieisdivine #shellyisdivine’) he’d been derisive.
He’d just arrived in from work and was leaning against the peninsula (‘It seems odd to have it jutting out from the wall like this – can we not just get an island?’ had been Dan’s take when renovating the light-filled kitchen extension) and swigging a bottle of Tiger.
‘What are you whoring the poor child out for tonight? A crate of own-brand baked beans, a hotel break in Kilrush?’ He’d said it like he was joking but Shelly could hear the tightness in his voice.
‘Dan! God! They’re actually organic sweet potato fries and kale pesto and Georgie’s loving them.’
‘Right.’ He’d looked sceptical and then announced he was heading out with some of the lads from work.
He’d come back at 3 a.m. Shelly hadn’t been able to sleep and heard his fumbling progress through the darkened house and up to their bedroom on the third floor of the sprawling detached house in Portmarnock they’d bought five years ago, the year they’d married. Luckily, Georgie was a heavy sleeper and so didn’t even stir as Dan walked into at least three pieces of furniture en route to the bed.
‘What are you talking about “not part of the plan”?’ Amy was frantically tapping things into her phone and apparently ignoring the potential fallout of Dan Devine learning that he had unwittingly impregnated his wife again. ‘It’s a feckin’ brilliant plan! The SHELLY Instagram enjoys a major boost in engagement whenever we re-share pictures from when you were pregnant. Any post of you holding Georgie or #TBTs you’ve done to when you were preggers the last time has done wonders for the brand. In short, the plebs—’
‘Followers, Amy!’ interjected Shelly, horrified.
‘Sorry, OK, the followers love Shelly with a belly,’ Amy finished with a satisfied grin. ‘I need to completely overhaul the Q1 Insta strategy, like, yesterday!’
‘Well, I’m not telling Dan yet. I need some time to think about this. Anyway, I’m only a few weeks gone – there’s no need to be changing anything just yet.’ Just then a Calendar Alert pinged on Shelly’s phone. ‘Have you scheduled the baby announcement reveal already?’ She couldn’t help but smile at Amy still feverishly tapping things into her phone.
‘I’m just throwing things in – don’t get caught up in exact dates just yet. I’m only trying to get a structure on this rollout, a loose timeline in place,’ Amy muttered without even looking up. ‘We want to get the absolute maximum out of this foetus. The baby buck is mega – way bigger than it was even three years ago when you were having Georgie. Back then any decent SMA would’ve been advising clients to downplay the mother angle but tides have changed on that – the whole mumfluencer buzz is mega now. And we’re gonna fucking own it.’
Shelly laughed lightly and then, hearing Dan’s footsteps on the stairs, quickly ran the taps to clear the sink of any incriminating vomit. Dan had already had one go at her this morning – he could not find out about this right now. Not yet.
