Stay Mad, Sweetheart

by Heleen Kist

  ME

  A green sticker on the conference phone in front of me read Salsa room. It was the furthest meeting spot from Empisoft’s open plan office and backed onto the kitchen of the restaurant next door, originally a Mexican cantina. Justin and I had been inspired by the pervasive smell of lunchtime burritos when baptising the room. But with the Mexican now a vegan café and Empisoft hiring people at such a furious space, hardly anyone knew. I smiled as I remembered overhearing Liv explain to a newcomer it was meant ironically: the space being so small you could hardly turn around in it, let alone dance.

  Closing the door, I felt a pang of guilt. I should work on the acquisition. It was our priority. But it was hard to resist the lure of Emily’s portal to the data I was itching to collect.

  I pushed the phone to one side of the desk and positioned Emily’s iPad to face me. I’d wanted to hole myself away at home with it, but my lack of broadband would have slowed me down. I pressed on the home button, grateful for Claire’s foresight in removing the screen lock. A lack of icons revealed they’d also removed access to Emily’s corporate files and emails but that wasn’t what I was after, anyway.

  I opened the browser and went to Twitter. Emily’s profile loaded without a hitch, her password loading automatically. Pure Brilliant were clearly laxer in their security: that would be a sackable offence here. No wonder their website had been an easy target.

  My stomach fluttered. I’d rewritten my scraping software to run on Apple’s mobile operating system rather than a laptop but wasn’t sure it would work. My plan was to use Emily’s Twitter account as a starting point. Once in, I could also check if Emily had received direct messages, though I couldn’t imagine her having been stupid enough to follow those who were attacking her — and you couldn’t receive messages from anyone you didn’t follow.

  An error warning flashed at the top of the screen.

  Your tweet was not sent.

  Intuitively, I clicked on the unsent message. It was dated the morning of Emily’s death and showed a stock photo of Adam Mooney. Above it, Emily had written:

  Leave Adam alone. We spoke. All is forgiven. #peace.

  A chill ran over my shoulders.

  Peace?

  Had Emily wanted to grant forgiveness before ending her life?

  I scratched my scalp. We hadn’t been raised particularly religiously. Perhaps the vicar’s speeches at school assemblies and the obligatory singing of hymns had a bigger influence on Emily than I’d have expected. My heart sank. Perhaps I hadn’t known Emily as well I thought. Perhaps if I had, I could’ve stopped her. Maybe if I’d popped round the night before... read the signs more...?

  I swallowed to hold back tears. I had a job to do.

  The Hollywood star’s face stared back at me, smooth skin masking the monster inside. Why hadn’t Emily told me about meeting him again? It must have been a big deal. What could they have said?

  I knew from his statements that he’d been mortified when he’d read Emily’s version of events on the blog. His recollection of the truth was entirely different.

  Was there even a single truth? I wondered.

  That horrible blog had laid out the goings-on between them that night in graphic detail. I remembered Emily calling me, shocked at just how graphic. She’d expected her interview to have been edited, sanitised by the blog’s author. And she’d been so ashamed.

  I could still picture Emily curled in the corner of her sofa, biting the corner of her cushion, saliva darkening the blue silk in an ever-expanding semicircle. ‘They found my name. And now Mum has read it all too,’ she’d howled.

  Her mum. Only I could understand the immensity. Deb was not the most liberal women at the best of times, turning a blind eye to any ‘boy stuff’, pretending sex didn’t exist. What had it done to her to witness her daughter’s debauchery there, in Technicolour, for all to see?

  That damn blog. I grimaced recalling its salacious title: ‘The unwanted dick of Adam Mooney’. Its vile paragraphs were etched into my memory. How they’d described Adam pouncing on Emily like a lion the minute she entered his hotel room. How, being simultaneously exhilarated at being in his presence yet shaken by his sudden advances, she went to freshen up in the bathroom — a move it seemed he’d misinterpreted. When she returned, he was on the sofa, his trousers off, his penis erect, waiting expectantly. Emily jokingly called him cowboy and told him he might want to slow down. He covered up and they kissed for a bit. But his caresses had grown more insistent, his tongue more probing, and before long he slid down to the floor and buried his head between her legs.

  It asked, Was it at this point she should’ve said ‘no’?

  I shook my head. If it was up to half the Internet, she shouldn’t ever have agreed to enter the room. She should have known what messages she was giving off. Yet this implied male ability to mind-read signs of seduction seemed to conveniently stop when Emily was trying to transmit other, non-verbal messages.

  How could they blame her?

  She’d squirmed. She’d wriggled. She pulled him back up to her eye line. Yet as his lips smothered her face in her own juices, his heavy body writhed against her. She held her two hands against his chest, pushing him away gently.

  Adam had ignored her. The blogger had clearly relished in describing how he climbed onto the sofa and straddled her, his knees locking her thighs. He’d stretched his tall body upwards until his throbbing cock reached her mouth. With both hands, he smoothed her hair and flipped it behind her ears — a detail no one needed. He’d kissed the top of her head and pulled her forward.

  At this point, it read, Emily didn’t think she could say ‘no’ anymore, even though she wanted to: he’d gone down on her — even if she hadn’t wanted that.

  So yes, she sucked him off. It took no more than a half-hearted attempt for him to orgasm — this revelation had delighted the online trolls. Emily had said good night then and left.

  Only then.

  ‘Laura?’ Justin’s deep voice startled me. ‘What are you doing in here? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ He wormed his body around the door of the tiny room.

  I failed to shield the iPad in time. He stuck out his lower lip. ‘Twitter? You?’

  He searched my face. I had never lied to him. Not in all these years. And I didn’t particularly want to start now.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ I stared at the iPad mounted on the stand and fiddled with the wireless keyboard. ‘I wanted to check something... About Emily.’

  Justin crouched beside me and swivelled my chair to face him. ‘I know you’re hurting.’ His voice softened. ‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But we’re worried about you. I’m worried about you. You don’t look so hot.’

  ‘I never look hot.’ I quipped. ‘And definitely not compared to the girls you take out.’

  Justin laughed, gave me a small slap on the knee. His smile faded. ‘Seriously, Laura, what the hell are you doing? I don’t want to be an ass, but we’re waiting for you to finish documenting the R&D projects.’

  ‘You’re right. This can wait.’ As I moved to shut down the machine, I spotted a detail I’d overlooked. ‘Hold on. There’s a tweet Emily planned to send the morning she died, but it didn’t go.’ I pointed at the small lettering at the bottom of the message. ‘The time stamp. It was after. See? 8:40. She couldn’t have sent this...’ I pushed myself back from the screen, my pulse throbbing in my throat. ‘Who sent this?’

  ‘Hey, calm down. Let me see.’ He leaned forward. ‘She might have programmed it to go at that time, and it failed. No biggie.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a thing called TweetDeck. Here, scoot over.’

  I rolled my chair to the side while Justin took control.

  ‘Do you want to sit?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I can’t stay. But now I’m intrigued.’ He tapped through various screens like a pro. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Here. There are six sc
heduled messages that never went out.’

  The screen showed a list of greyed-out snippets of text with little red exclamation marks. Justin stepped away and pulled his phone from his pocket giving me the opportunity to examine the iPad.

  I clicked on the first message. An animation of a beating heart appeared underneath Emily’s words:

  I’m sorry, my darlings. Love you always @RachelB75, @Shalini_G26, and my bestie @LFP. Forgive me.

  The room swirled. Was this Emily’s way of saying goodbye to her friends? Her bestie... me. I’d had to choose something when I set up the account and couldn’t come up with anything better than Laura Flett from Peebles; @LFP. Transfixed, I clicked on the next one. An image of a pointed gun, its deep, dark barrel dripping with menace.

  You are NOT forgiven. Burn in hell #slutshamers

  This was followed by a long list of names in blue, all starting with @. She was outing those who’d shamed her, shaming them in return. The next four messages were all the same, listing more names, more anonymous trolls. Was this the list I should be looking at? The men who had pushed her over the edge? Had Emily deliberately narrowed it down for me?

  ‘Mystery solved.’ Justin pointed at his mobile. ‘TweetDeck had a service outage that morning. For about an hour none of the programmed tweets were sent.’ He shook his head. ‘My God, what are the odds?’

  ‘All these messages... Her last words... Not spoken. I can’t believe it,’ I said.

  Justin put his hand on my shoulder, still staring at the screen. ‘Look at that list. Those bastards have blood on their hands.’

  I clicked on the last unsent message. A photo of the purple dildo in the bin popped up, catching Justin off-guard. ‘What the...?’

  ‘Somebody brought that to her. There were two in the bin in her apartment. I’m going to tell the police.’

  ‘Good. Leave it to them. I don’t think you should be digging anymore, Laura. It’s not good for you. You’ll never catch whoever it is. They’re all anonymous; hiding behind their keyboard. Small pricks wanting to feel big, each showing off in front of the other. You won’t bring her back. Don’t let them eat you up, too.’

  I stared at him. ‘What about her last words? Don’t we owe it to her to send them out?’

  His jaw fell. He cupped my chin in his hand, like a concerned father. ‘We can’t do that. That’s ghoulish. Can you imagine what would kick off? No, let it go.’

  I shook my face free. ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘Come with me. Let work distract you. And when we’ve made our millions, you can spend them on the best hackers money can buy to get your revenge.’

  He stepped towards the door, pulling at my limp arm. I had just enough time to call up my software on the screen with my loose hand and press Enter.

  19

  ME

  ‘I still can’t believe you got us a meeting with Adam Mooney,’ I said to Claire.

  I shielded my eyes from the sun bouncing off the glass façade of the Festival Theatre across the street. Posters of the many plays that would grace its stage over the coming months hung invisibly suspended behind the clear panels in a colourful matrix, a giant portrait of Adam bang in the centre.

  Eight doors placed in an arc made up the entrance. Each door was wide, with curved brass handles. Wide and inviting. Why was I afraid to go in?

  Two women with square-shaped, pink, woollen hats were all that was left of the angry protest mob. Who knows what new injustices the others had gone on to battle? The two sat on the concrete steps, pouring themselves a steaming drink from a flask while half-heartedly holding up signs. My eye was drawn to the bigger one.

  Go home, perv.

  Perv was scrawled in white on a piece of black duct tape whose length suggested they’d started with a longer insult. What would it have been? Assaulter? Rapist?

  I scoffed. The authorities might be unable to cope with hateful online harassment, yet the slanderous slogans of peaceful protesters... that they knew how to censor. Or perhaps Adam had threatened to sue, as was often the case with Americans.

  ‘There are some perks to working in PR,’ Claire said, gently nudging my elbow to take advantage of a lull in traffic on busy Nicholson street. ‘Pure Brilliant was involved in the gala opening of his play. I pulled a few strings.’

  I fell back as Claire bounded up the steps.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  It was difficult to explain. Adam Mooney wasn’t fully real before. Not just because he was a big, famous movie star, but because through this whole nightmare, he had become larger than life, a mythical beast to be slain — or protected depending on whose side you were on. Emily had forgiven him, but what did that mean for me?

  ‘It’s okay, Laura.’ Claire waved me over. ‘He’s expecting you. When he found out you were Emily’s best friend, he told his people to make it happen. I’m not saying it was easy...’ She paused. Was she expecting a compliment? My gratitude? I stayed quiet.

  She added, ‘In fact I have a small favour to ask in return.’

  I joined her. ‘Really?’

  ‘You know I’m having to maintain two different programmes for the conference: the public one, and the secret one, for when the acquisition is announced. I don’t have a problem with that in principle, and I’ve kept it to myself. But it would be so much easier if I could speak freely to your marketing peeps because I don’t want to be making all the decisions myself.’

  ‘You can’t do that. They don’t even know about the deal,’ I said.

  ‘What about Justin? Can I talk to him?’

  I shook my head. ‘He’d have a fit if he knew I’d told you. Besides, he’s got enough on his plate.’

  She pointed at me; one bony finger extended ‘Which leaves you. I need you to keep me completely informed of what is going on — and I mean completely-completely informed. Because I’m proceeding on the assumption this deal is going to be announced at the conference. And if anything changes, that could cause some real problems for me. I only have a fake plan B at this stage.’

  I shrugged. It wasn’t an unfair request. ‘Fine.’

  Deal done, Claire pulled me towards the building.

  I was glad that at least this wasn’t where Adam and Emily had met. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to face that. The opening party had been held in a nearby hotel. Emily had told me she could go because her electronics client had sponsored the event and were milking all the PR they could out of Adam using their smart watch in his latest film. She’d been drunk with excitement. A proper A-list party. If only she’d known.

  We entered the foyer and were ushered up the grand central staircase by a waiting staffer, her angel-curled blonde hair swishing along her back like a metronome as she climbed. A uniformed cleaner hoovered the steps. I moved aside, my hand grabbing the bannister still tacky with what smelled like citrus Dettol. We followed the woman to the left, past the wine bar, past a row of framed photos of the sets of yesteryear, and into a corridor that led us backstage. The amber carpet was a lot scuzzier here. I noticed the walls were bare, too.

  ‘It’s still a few hours to showtime,’ Blondie said. ‘Adam likes to get there early to soak up the atmosphere and energise his live performance.’ This was delivered in a Californian accent and imbued with respect for his great art — with a capital ‘A’.

  Claire seemed giddy with anticipation, tapping the tips of her fingers together in miniature applause. She’d relayed the latest gossip about Adam on our way to the venue, gleaned from celebrity magazines. By now, the publications cared less about passing judgement one way or another on what had happened with Emily. Their focus had turned to whether it was fair that Adam had to leave his Cockapoo in the USA due to our strict quarantine laws.

  ‘Laura, you come with me. Claire, is it? Please could you wait in here,’ said the woman opening the door to a small, empty room.

  Claire and I exchanged a look. Was that woman nuts? Did she live in a bubble where her boss could do no wrong; where a p
rivate audience with Adam Mooney was every girl’s dream?

  Except it hadn’t ended up that way for Emily, had it?

  ‘No, I would like Claire to stay with me,’ I said.

  The woman pursed her lips. ‘Very well. This way’

  She opened another door, which led to a much larger room. Racks of costumes hung on one side, covered in plastic sheeting, looking freshly pressed. A bank of mirrored counters stood opposite, stacked with an invasion of pots, sponges and brushes that I imagined would soon transform the actors into character.

  At the far end stood a surprisingly patchy, green velvet sofa that had seen better days. The production’s no doubt lavish budget had obviously not extended to a decent one. Perhaps it had sentimental value. Weren’t actors all superstitious?

  ‘Sit,’ the woman said before sliding away.

  Claire smoothed her skirt and ran her hands through her hair. I wished she’d stop fidgeting.

  The door opened. I stiffened. Was it him?

  Adam Mooney’s six-foot-four frame filled the doorway. His radiant tanned skin accentuated his green eyes. He gave a sheepish smile. ‘Hi,’ he said.

  He sat down, choosing a plastic chair like mine, rather than sit next to Claire on the sofa. ‘Laura?’ he asked, eyeing us both.

  I half raised my hand. ‘Me.’

  He turned to Claire. ‘And you are?’

  Claire opened her mouth.

  ‘This is Claire, she’s with me.’ I said hurriedly, getting a cheap thrill from the suggestion I needed a chaperone.

  He twisted the cap off a water bottle and took a large gulp while gesturing for us to help ourselves. We didn’t.

  ‘So.’ He leaned back, one hand on his thigh, the other holding the drink. A slightly bigger smile this time, with a hesitant curl at the edge, exposing his trademark white teeth.

  ‘I want to tell you something,’ I began. ‘And this is going to sound weird. Before Emily...’ I took a breath before continuing. ‘On her final morning, Emily programmed some tweets to go out. Except they were never sent. There was a system failure. I’ve seen them.’