Unfiltered Page 4

  ‘I’m only making one type of egg this morning,’ she announced. Immediately a chorus of ‘POACHED! FRIED! CODDLED!’ rang out and Ali raised her voice to be heard over the din. ‘So, a show of hands for scrambled, please.’ Three arms were held aloft. ‘OK, three for scrambled, how many for scrambled?’ Ali folded her arms and surveyed the toddler-like expressions of injustice spread over the uncles. ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m not making four fucking egg varietals for you lads anymore. I’m pregnant and grieving so I’m making scrambled eggs and if any of ye want a special egg, you can get up there and make it yourself, OK?’

  Ali cocked her head, making a stern face. The uncles were brats and needed a firm hand. She stormed back to the stove and began cracking eggs as passive-aggressively as she could muster. Whisking with one hand, she decided to chance a look at the email inbox. The level of bile and vitriol from strangers among the more measured disgust from people she’d been working with on Insta was just horrific. There were several subject lines referencing ‘legal action’ and ‘payments made under false pretences’ – Ali shuddered at the amount of money she was going to have to repay. She hadn’t gone on a spending spree – she hadn’t had the time, thank God, but the thought of having to hand over what she’d amassed over the last month was gutting. It would empty her account and then some.

  Good thing you dicked in your job, you genius, she thought scathingly, flashing back on the blaze of temper that had precipitated her quitting her job mid-scene as production assistant on Durty Aul’ Town, the soap that the influencer Shelly Divine was famous for.

  She scanned the subject lines of her inbox and felt shaky.

  You dumb stupid cunt

  You deserve everything your getting right now

  Notice of collaboration termination in light of recent events

  Ali considered the time it took to type ‘you dumb stupid cunt’ and send it to a stranger on the internet. She poured the egg mixture into the biggest frying pan her mum had and stirred slowly, dragging her sleeve across her eyes to prevent the tears from dropping into the eggs. A swarm of emotions overwhelmed her: anger, rage, shame, guilt, pity for herself and pity for the baby inside her, who was surely going to be screwed up for life with her for a mother.

  She also felt afraid – razor-sharp, relentless fear that seemed to knife her with each new vitriolic subject line.

  You should die for what you’ve done

  Ali shuddered.

  X out of it. Delete the email account. You can’t look at this. It will kill you.

  She felt certain there was truth in this. She’d read stories about teenagers being cyberbullied who couldn’t go on. Now she could see how attractive just giving in could be when you were already drowning in hate.

  She put the phone down and pulled the eggs from the heat. They were a little overcooked but whatever. Ignoring the uncles, she set the pan on a mat in the middle of the kitchen table and brought over the meat and toast. Let them serve themselves, she thought impatiently, her focus still on the inbox.

  She picked up the phone again. She knew she shouldn’t look. She knew the hurt it would cause. Anxiety filled her body, squeezing her lungs and taking hold of her stomach. Still, she couldn’t resist. It was like picking a scab or the feeling Ali sometimes got when standing too close to an edge. Peering over from a great height was terrifying but at the same time there was an irresistible pull, that strange urge to plunge forward anyway.

  She brought up the inbox once more, swiped her thumb over the screen and watched the inbox scroll too fast to see the messages. She had around 800 unreads.

  I’ll read whichever one I land on, she vowed as she brought her thumb back down to arrest the messages speeding past.

  Subject: Please read, Ali. I think I can help.

  Ali grabbed the counter to steady herself as her brain caught up with the fact that among all the hate-filled, raging emails someone wanted to help her. She peered closer to read the sender: Amy@SocialSolutions.com.

  ‘Alessandra? Are you OK?’ Mini had suddenly appeared beside her and Ali stuffed the phone out of sight.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Ali cleared her throat. One look at Mini’s concerned face confirmed that she wasn’t looking her best. She clawed at her hair self-consciously.

  ‘Thanks for doing breakfast again, darling. They’ve really stayed far too long at this stage.’ Mini raised her voice, throwing her words towards the table, but it didn’t register with the rowdy brothers squabbling over the remaining rashers.

  ‘I probably should be going home too. Time to get back to reality.’ Ali couldn’t quite meet her mother’s gaze. They hadn’t spoken about the baby since the day before. And Ali still hadn’t told her anything about the Instagram scandal. In a very uncharacteristic move, Mini appeared to be respectfully waiting for Ali to open up.

  She gently turned Ali around to face her.

  ‘You’re not looking after yourself,’ was all she said. It was enough to crack Ali wide open and she drew her arms around her own body, stunned by the violence of her own sobs.

  ‘I don’t deserve to be looked after.’ The words came up like vomit before she even had time to think about what she was saying.

  ‘Alessandra, what do you mean?’ Mini pulled her close and Ali stiffened, willing the hug to end. Mini would smell her hair, unwashed for how many days now? She’d know, somehow, all the bad she’d done. All the lies. Ali pulled back, certain Mini would sense the fear and guilt leaking out of her.

  An awkward silence had descended on the whole kitchen – quite possibly the first in days, the uncles frozen at the sight of her tears. Jesus, they must think I’m madder than ever. Little do they know, Ali thought.

  She turned to the table, hand on hip, ready to try to salvage the situation. ‘So that’s how to shut you guys up!’ To her satisfaction, at least a couple of them looked contrite. Turning back to her mum, she dodged her probing stare and pulled her features into something she hoped resembled normal.

  ‘I’m going to get my shit together – literally and metaphorically,’ she announced and headed upstairs to pack.

  ‘Ali?’ Mini wasn’t that easy to shake and she followed behind. ‘What’s the plan, Ali? What are you going to do about this baby? Liv said you’d left Durty Aul’ Town? When? What on earth is going on?’

  Ali hauled her suitcase out from under the bed and ignored the questions.

  Fuck’s sake, Liv. Ali made a mental note to give her a light bollocking the second she got home.

  Mini watched her pack from the door, arms crossed. She looked faded by the recent events, drained of her usual vigour – her grey bob was sharp and neat as always, but without her slash of signature red lippie, her face seemed oddly expressionless.

  ‘It’s grand,’ Ali said finally with a confidence that she did not in any way feel and lobbed a pair of Converse into the suitcase. ‘What good’s a dead dad card if you can’t play it to claw back a job you stupidly jacked in while hepped up on pregnancy hormones?’

  ‘I see. So that’s what happened? Ali, we need to discuss this pregnancy.’

  Ali could hear a bit of old authoritative Mini creeping back into the tone. ‘Well,’ Ali wavered. Her veneer of confidence and positivity couldn’t withstand any kind of interrogation. Plus, any day now, Erasmus, Mini’s nervy 20-something assistant, was going to have to inform his boss of the full extent of the mess Ali was in. Most social media shitstorms stayed contained to the platforms they originated on but cursory googles of her name had thrown up a terrifying search page. Every media outlet in the country had dredged up someone to have a hot take on the influencer who faked a pregnancy. The only reason Mini didn’t already know was the funeral. Erasmus was probably at this very moment pacing Mini’s gallery – she repped Ireland’s biggest contemporary artists – crapping himself at the thought of broaching it with his newly widowed, always-volatile boss.

  Deep breaths, Al, she tried to psych herself up.

  ‘Well. There’s a bit more to i
t than that.’ She slumped down, allowing the clothes-swamp to engulf her. ‘I fucked up.’ She sighed. ‘In fact, there isn’t even a word strong enough to describe what I did.’

  Mini stepped into the room, nudging clothes with her foot to make a path and closed the door behind her. She picked her way through the detritus and perched on the bed, her expression expectant.

  Ali could barely meet her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to dump this on you. Especially right now. That’s kind of why I was getting out of here.’

  ‘Alessandra.’ Mini looked pained. ‘I knew there was something eating at you. Beyond Miles and the week it’s been, I mean. You look …’ At this Mini seemed to struggle for words.

  ‘Like shite?’ Ali suggested. She’d barely looked in the mirror since getting ready for the funeral. She heaved herself up from the floor and walked to the dressing table. She started just a little at the sight of her own reflection. Ugh. Seven days of internet hounding had really taken its toll. Her eyes seemed to sag in their sockets; her skin was dull with vast continents of angry-looking dry skin crowding her chin and jaw. Her blonde hair was gathered in dirty, dark clumps and when she ran a hand through it, it held the new shape like a greasy hair-sculpture. She knew she hadn’t been looking after herself. It was hard to bother when she felt so hopeless, but she knew she had to get it together for the baby’s sake if not her own.

  ‘So? What is going on? You’re scaring me, Alessandra. Are you telling me whatever it is is worse than the pregnancy?’

  Mini, at least, is getting back to her usual self, Ali thought ruefully.

  ‘Yeah, Mini. It’s worse. Can you believe it? There are things worse than your dumb bitch daughter getting preggers.’

  ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean that.’ Mini looked stricken. ‘Don’t be coming after me now. I’ve just lost my husband.’

  ‘Well, I’ve just lost my dad.’ Ali crumpled. Christ, they were having some kind of grief-off. Thank God she was going home today.

  Mini came and pulled Ali into a hug.

  ‘Alessandra, please tell me. You know I love you. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out.’ Her voice was slightly muffled in their embrace, but the words were soothing. ‘Also, you have to wash your hair, darling, it’s vile.’

  Yep, definitely getting back to her usual self. Ali smiled through her tears. She pulled away and wiped her face.

  ‘OK, you better sit down,’ she advised. Mini marched back to the bed and arranged herself with legs crossed and her listening face ready.

  ‘When did you last wash your hair?’

  ‘OK, are you going to be able to focus or do you need me to wash it before we start?’ Just then a buzzing rang out from Mini’s pocket.

  ‘It’s Erasmus. I’m sorry, I have to take this. He knows I’m still in mourning, so he wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent.’

  Shite, Erasmus had to be calling about her. Before Ali could scream or lunge for the phone, Mini was holding it to her ear.

  ‘Mm-hmmm, yes, I’m actually here with her now.’ Mini’s eyes flickered towards Ali and then she turned away slightly to continue the call. Ali resumed tossing things in her suitcase. Maybe it was easier for Erasmus to just fill her in. After all, she still hadn’t come up with any ‘good’ way to say: ‘I faked a pregnancy on Instagram and hundreds of thousands of people think I’m either an evil bitch or mentally disturbed.’

  She’d cleared the floor and even made a start on the clothes-pile chair by the time Mini, who had barely spoken in her side of the conversation, finally got off the phone. She continued to sit in silence and Ali thought she was perhaps gripped by shock until she realised with a jolt of panic that she was reading something on her phone. Oh God. Ali cleared the chair and plonked herself down on it.

  ‘Well?’ She tentatively broke the silence.

  ‘Well …’ Mini looked at a complete loss, which was a brand-new look for her. ‘Ehh—’ She scrolled on her phone. ‘I don’t know what to say. This one is very creative.’ She indicated an Instagram post where Ali’d put a speech bubble coming from her tummy with the words ‘I. Want. A. Chicken. Fillet. Roll. NOW!’ It was a screenshot embedded in a piece from Deborah Winters on Notions.ie.

  Ali reached for the phone and scrolled through the piece. She tried to blur her eyes so none of the actual words could land, though the odd phrase like ‘devious and conniving plot was not without its victims’ still managed to penetrate. Lower down she saw mention of Sam, ‘the twenty-nine-year-old has declined to comment but there was palpable pain in his solicitor’s letter’. There was even a shot of this letter included below. Ali zoomed in on it. Deborah Winters was editorialising somewhat here – it was a very professional missive, devoid of emotion simply stating: ‘My client will not be commenting on anything pertaining to Alessandra Jones.’

  Well, thank God for that. Maybe it’s a sign that he’s going to warm up again. Not get back with her or anything but maybe answer her texts?

  ‘So what exactly is this, Ali? Some kind of stunt? Are you pregnant right now?’ Mini was clearly stumped. ‘This woman is saying you were paid money to say you were pregnant? What’s sponsored content?’

  Ali tapped the chair leg nervously with her foot. Oh God, Mini was going to need an Insta primer just to get her head around BumpGate, as the incident was apparently being referred to in the media.

  ‘So sponcon – sponsored content – is pictures and videos that influencers get paid to put on their feed—’

  ‘And the feed is?’

  ‘OK, one sec.’ Ali dug out her phone, sat down beside Mini and embarked on a detailed rundown of the Insta world from #TBTs and #af. Mini was engrossed.

  ‘My God, what’s happened to this girl’s other leg? Where is it?’ Ali was showing Mini some of the other Influencer accounts to illustrate her little impromptu Insta 101.

  ‘Oh, happens all the time,’ Ali reassured her. ‘She’d just gone bananas with the FaceFix and probably didn’t notice the right leg had disappeared altogether.’

  ‘And FaceFix is … ?’

  A few minutes later, Mini was admiring a picture of herself that had just received the Insta treatment.

  ‘Wow, it’s like a dystopian nightmare but rendered in pastel shades.’ Mini was fascinated scrolling through Ali’s old feed. Ali resumed packing. She needed an activity, a crutch to help her through this awkward discussion.

  ‘You know I’m really sorry, right?’ Ali glanced at her mother. ‘I never meant it to happen and then when it did, so many good things were coming my way. It wasn’t the money. They’re all acting like it was a money-grab.’ She indicated the phone in Mini’s hand. ‘But it wasn’t about that. Things were just so crap with Miles and this was something that took me away from all that. And then Sam showed up and I never expected in a million years that I’d fall for him. Or that he’d fall for me. At the time, it was just really convenient that he thought he was the dad. And then he was so sweet but fun too. Not like other guys.’

  Ali glanced over at Mini, who had stopped on a video from a couple of months before. Ali leaned over her shoulder. Sam was flopped on her bed, lip synching ‘Bigger’ while poking Ali’s tummy as she filmed.

  ‘OK.’ Mini sounded sceptical. ‘So, you’re telling me that you didn’t think you’d fall for a gorgeous straight man who knows all the words to the Neil Patrick Harris opener from the 2013 Tonys?’

  On the video, Sam was making up his own words to the song. ‘Bigger. That’s right it’s bigger … Dunno how it’s gonna get out of your vadge – be-cause it’s bigger … every day it’s bigger.’ He was grinning up at her as she swiped at him laughing. The video ended abruptly with her telling him to ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  ‘Well, if anything, I was falling for him in spite of the musical theatre tendencies …’ Ali tried to downplay it and not let on to Mini how upsetting it was seeing how happy they’d been.

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Nothing’s sexier than that gay straight man thing. Miles had i
t in spades—’

  ‘OK! No need for any more deets,’ Ali cut across her in case Mini was about to land some horrific detail about her parents’ sex life that she’d never be able to unhear. ‘Anyway, yeah, Sam was a good guy. Is a good guy. And I knew it couldn’t go on. I knew it had to end but I just wanted to win this stupid award. More and more people were following me. It was like this massive weight started to press down on me and I couldn’t bear to lose face in front of so many people. Eighty thousand people were watching my stories every day.’

  ‘But what did you think was going to happen?’ Mini looked more baffled than angry. ‘Did you … have a plan?’

  ‘No.’ Ali welled up again. She tried to focus on sorting the mess of make-up and jewellery strewn on top of the chest of drawers by the door. ‘I just thought I’d sly off for a bit and that people would forget about it.’

  ‘You thought a man who believed you were carrying his baby would forget about it? They’re bad but they’re not that bad. Well, not all of them.’

  ‘I know. I know. I genuinely don’t think I was right in the head.’ Ali felt jangly and anxious right down to her fingertips. ‘I basically have no answer,’ she whispered and let the tears come.

  ‘Ali.’ Mini gathered her into a very comforting, unMini embrace. ‘Maybe we can salvage this?’ She pulled away and stood up. ‘I think I can work with this.’ She began to pace the room. ‘We could draft a press release announcing you as a new and bold performance artist working in the medium of Instagram. You could be an exciting burgeoning talent, a kind of …’ She pinched the air in front as she moved, searching for the words. ‘I’ve got it: a post-artist working at the epicentre of this twenty-first-century collision of high art and the lowbrow concerns that devour our attention span. We could reframe the stunt as a kind of culture jamming that exposes the artifice of the social media world and unpicks our compulsion to package womanhood, and more specifically motherhood, as something contained and palatable. Your … what did you call it? Bump journey?’