‘Shit. They think it was me.’
‘Well, it is you technically. It doesn’t matter anyhow, Shelly.’ Amy pursed her lips and looked agitated. ‘I got a good sense of it. It’s gotta be @__________. It’s loads of the pics they’d sent us. This is obviously them flexing, showing you exactly what they can do the second they feel like it.’
Shelly dug her fists into her eye sockets to try to relieve the headache gathering pace. It’s useless, she thought, feeling tears seep between her fingers and gather in her palms. This person just hates me so much. Why?
‘They could end me at any moment. They are messing with my livelihood. I could lose the house.’ She sucked at the air but felt choked. ‘They are messing with my family. What if I lose Georgie? Dan could use this as ammunition.’
‘Shelly, it won’t come to that. I promise.’ Amy came over and wrapped her arms around her. ‘The more moves they make, the more they risk making a mistake and when they do, we will be ready to catch them. I’ll show these to Detective Bríd ahead of our meeting and she will see if there are any new clues, any personal information attached to the account. They will slip up. In the meantime, appease them in the DMs. If they reference our burner account, feign ignorance. Everything will be OK.’ Amy was firm and Shelly tried to believe her but all the images @__________ had sent her in the past months played on a loop in her head – the breastfeeding ones most of all. She let go of trying to maintain any kind of composure and sobbed into her assistant’s embrace.
Chapter 16
‘Where are we even going?’ Ali shifted around uncomfortably in the back seat of the cramped Honda Civic as Mini muttered urgent instructions to Erasmus, who was driving.
The sky was beginning to lighten at the horizon but the sea lapping in front of her parents’ house was still dark. Mini settled back beside her and Erasmus pulled away from the curb and swung up the steep narrow street to the main road.
‘I told you, we’re doing the ashes. Your father has been languishing on top of the microwave in the kitchen for far too long. It’s embarrassing. Everyone’s been asking me where we put him and I can hardly say “he’s resting peacefully near his favourite condiment”.’
Ali grimaced. ‘Sheeesh. He really did push the boundaries of Bovril’s intended uses, didn’t he?’
They both shuddered.
‘The roast potatoes …’ Mini began but Ali halted her with a look.
‘Please, no. I already feel like dogshit someone’s set fire to without the image of Miles slathering Bovril on his spuds.’
‘Is the nausea not gone yet?’
‘Well, it has, but then you get me out of bed at stupid o’clock for an ashes-scattering and no one feels good at this time.’
‘It’s 4 a.m. Don’t be so melodramatic. Anyway, we have to get there early. Before anyone arrives.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Did I tell you I matched with someone on Tinder?’
Ali started at this conversational curveball. ‘What?’
Her mother looked delighted at her surprise. ‘Yes. He’s twenty-four and his name is Solomon. He works in oils. We’re meeting this week.’
‘Oh gawd. Twenty-four? And he’s a painter? Mini, he probably just wants you to represent him.’
Mini laughed. ‘I don’t care,’ she said scathingly. ‘I’m not going to date some old man, am I?’
‘No? I guess not.’ Ali tried to suppress the unpleasant image of Mini with a random old man and stifled another yawn. Yesterday had been tiring being back in the Insta-saddle. She’d forgotten all the admin of replying to comments and DMs but now that she had a real goal with the Dublin Stage Fest in a few months, it felt important to be responsive to the people who had come flocking back to her. The general sentiment was that, in comparison with all these ones and their insincere apologies online, Ali was a breath of fresh air. And they seemed to think she was gas – in Ireland people could be forgiven a lot so long as they were perceived to be gas.
The city streets were deserted and the streetlights were still lit, though the sky was beginning to streak with pink.
‘Seriously, where are we going?’ She studied her mother’s profile. She was acting crazier than usual. Tinder? Ick. She shifted and yanked on the thick waistband of the maternity jeans. Fucking hateful things. Why would you take an already uncomfortable, overheated, sweating, angry creature like a pregnant woman and then swathe her in a very thick, elastic waistband?
‘It’s so odd. I didn’t show when I was expecting you until I was at least seven months pregnant. Are you sure it’s not twins?’
Ali rolled her eyes so hard she actually felt a twinge in the right one. Could you pull a muscle from eye-rolling?
‘Yep, I’m sure you were the dream preggers bitch, with zero stretch marks. Listen, Sam is very tall. It’s probably just mega long. It’s definitely only one foetus. I’ve seen it. I sent you the bloody pics, though, as I recall, you didn’t even reply, even though it was a-fucking-dorable. It looks like a lava lamp, remember?’ She pulled up WhatsApp to root out the pic she had sent to Mini. ‘Behold the Tinder spawn.’ She held the phone out to her mother.
‘It’s very nice.’ She barely looked up from her swiping. ‘Look, mine’s good too, like a young Dustin Hoffman.’ Mini proffered her own snap, a young guy in a flat cap and cheesecloth shirt with a monocle.
‘What do you have, some kind of art school hipster setting on? He looks like he listens to the wireless and rides a penny-farthing to work in the charcoal chai coffee brewshop.’
‘I just set my location to Dublin 8 permanently.’ Mini shrugged. ‘Erasmus’s idea.’
‘Excellent. Thanks, Erasmus. Can’t wait for my chronically hipster step-dad.’
‘Please, Ali, this is just sex, as you well know. Erasmus, go up Gardiner Street and then hang a left and left again. This one-way system is a pain.’
It was starting to dawn on Ali just where they might be heading.
‘Mini … ? We’re not—’ Her WhatsApp pinged in her hand, distracting her from what was a very unnerving realisation.
She X’d out of the pic of the foetus and spied a new message from Sam.
You’re online. It’s 4 a.m. What’s wrong? Is everything all right? Is the Pea OK?
His nickname for the fake baby, the Sweet Pea, had been resurrected and seeing it here in the thread twanged on her heart unexpectedly. She was so consumed with trying to distract herself with her writing and re-engaging with Insta that she was able to avoid thinking about Sam for hours at a time. Then something like this was like catching her finger on a thorn. She didn’t want to care, and she cursed the swoop of hope she felt at his apparent concern.
It’s useless, he hates you, Ali. You fucked it all up. The rational voice in her head didn’t want her to get her hopes up.
But he’s checking on me, argued the part of her still nursing a persistent desire that they would somehow pull through this whole mess.
I’m OK, nothing’s wrong no need to worry AT ALL. Mini just got me out ridiculously early. We’re …