‘Why do you think that would be?’ The judgement drips off his tongue, thick as syrup.
Holly Evans, you’re a fucking fraud. Bile rises in her throat. Her aching mouth tries to form the words to tell them about the video, but something in her closes up. How can she trust them? They could be collecting clues to pass the blame on to her, taking her fragments of memory and building it into something she does not recognise. For now, she needs to protect herself and keep this memory a secret.
Their leader slams the case file shut. He has heard enough. He holds up a plastic ziplock bag with her bright yoga leggings and stripy white top. ‘Your doctor gave us your clothes for evidence – is there anything else you have that could be of assistance?’ Is it her imagination or is he looking at her see-through leggings with distaste? And are his two sidekicks smirking knowingly behind him? They don’t have to say a word; she knows what they are thinking. Nothing good ever happens to girls who wear clothes like this.
It’s in the silence and the unsaid where her fears swarm like flies. She asked for it. Through her clothes, her Instagram pictures and her brazen flirtation with him at the coffee shop, she made him pick her.
The cop pats her on the arm as they get up to leave, ‘We’ll call you if anything comes up.’
Wait! She almost whispers. There is more evidence.
*
Wait. To make them turn around so she can push the video clips and the pictures – oh those horrible pictures – into their hands.
Wait. Please. It’s a real case, he’s a real person. The video clips and the pictures – flickering on the phone, crackling in her bed. The possibility that he was in her apartment, rifling through her things. This wasn’t a random attack. It was deliberate, pointed, and the threat is far from over.
Holly Evans, you’re a fucking fraud.
She cannot tell. They would have questions. They would look at her more closely, too close for comfort. Panic tightens her throat. It’s far too risky. It would surely destroy her for good.
The men walk away, punching each other’s arms and laughing at a shared joke. A bus roars in the distance. These moments are so screamingly average. Yet the horror beats impatiently behind her eyes.
Zanna arrives a few hours later in a cloud of Chanel No.5 and dressed in jet black. The peanut butter smoothie and almond latte she carries in her hands are too late to soothe Holly. She is panting and fidgeting like a caged rat. Nothing can hold her attention – not Netflix, not the stack of magazines her mother brought her, not even the activity on her Instagram feed. There is no remedy to quell the sick feeling that something terrible is about to happen. It’s feeling closer now.
Although she aches to be alone and out of sight, she wants to call the nurses back every time they leave her. It only took a few minutes for him to prepare that horrific bed of pictures, what will he do with more time? What cruelty is he capable of if she is lying there trapped under the covers and waiting for him?
She focuses on the good things. Zanna is the only visitor with the ability to make her feel better. Her slick, silver-dyed hair, angular black wardrobe and Louboutinned strut turn every occasion into something impossibly stylish. While she survives primarily on sweets, cake and soft drinks, her body is as lean as a lioness. She also happens to be the hottest publicist in London, representing everyone from politicians to boy bands. Every magazine cover Holly’s had, every TV appearance and radio show she’s appeared on, has been aggressively negotiated by Zanna to give Holly the best exposure possible. She has a bit of a crush on Zanna, the way women often do. She even tried to emulate her edgy look once or twice, but on her it came across as garish and awkward.
Zanna flings her giant metallic tote bag on the bed.
‘Hello, mon petit chou. I’m so sorry it’s taken me three days to get here! I flew back from Cannes as soon as I could.’ Of course, Holly recalls blurrily, Zanna was on a publicity spree at the Cannes Film Festival. Just the week before she was fretting about concealing her movie star client’s latest on-set fling.
‘Zanna! I can’t tell you what a relief it is to see you.’
‘Are you surviving in this hellhole? Oh God, forget I asked. Clearly you’re not – you’re as jittery as an LA socialite coming down from cheap speed.’ She winks at her. ‘And I’ve seen that shit on more occasions than I’d like to remember.’
‘Well, I guess that’s one way of putting it. The police were here. They made me feel like I was asking for it.’ Saying it out aloud relieves some of the pressure. Darling Zanna, the only person Holly can admit her secret fears to so plainly. Well, some of them at least.
‘Oh, sweetie, don’t mind them. You know the truth and that’s all that matters.’
She studies Holly through narrowed eyes. Unlike everyone else, she doesn’t look at her with sadness, pity or discomfort. She stares at her dead-on, assessing the situation for what it is.
‘Real talk now. Are you staring into the abyss?’
That’s their code for when a situation feels so overwhelming there is no way out of it. Being a public figure comes with unexpected and unusual anxieties after all. Thankfully, through some steely resolve of her own, Zanna is a specialist in bringing her clients out of the abyss, or cajoling them away from the edge.
‘I feel sore and tired. I can’t really get my head around what happened. I don’t usually mind the hospital, but after this morning I woke up desperate to go home.’
She thinks about her soft, cotton sheets. The jars of seeds and flours in her kitchen. The feeling of sinking into her couch with her cat curled upon her chest. Nobody prepares you for how to deal with the little inane things in situations like this. Tragedy is like that – a big, life-changing moment followed by a never-ending sequence of logistics that dull the aftershock.
As if reading her mind, Zanna says, ‘I sent my assistant to get your keys out of your bag and feed your cat the night you were attacked. Just before I came here I went over myself to put some non-dairy milk in the fridge to prepare for your return. Oh, and I stocked you up with an enormous amount of fruit. Seriously, the amount of fruit you health bloggers eat is obscene.’
Relief rushes through her.
‘I owe you one, Zanna.’
‘You can say that again – your apartment was such a mess, it could have been ransacked!’ she laughs. ‘Seriously, what the hell were you making before you left the house that day?’
Panic clenches in Holly’s chest. She loves her apartment and takes pride in keeping it tidy. There’s something grounding for her in knowing that everything has its right place. In fact, she had spent the morning before the attack rearranging her spice cupboard to include the latest masalas she had found at her favourite little spice shop in Euston. Now, he’s been there. His strange fingers grazing her belongings. His cold gaze taking in the soft, vulnerable ordinariness of her daily life. She knows nothing of him but the brief flashes of his face that evening, yet he has left his mark on everything she calls her own, even her face.
Holly has to remain calm. She’s stronger than this, than him and she has wonderful people by her side, like Zanna.
‘I can’t believe I almost lost you, Holly!’ A grey trail of mascara slides down Zanna’s cheek. ‘Jesus, look at me. I’m a mess. No matter, in a few hours we will be safely ensconced in blankets on your sofa watching TV as if none of this happened.’ Holly desperately tries to imagine an afternoon free of worry but it’s just not possible. The terror of her new life will confront her every time she walks past a mirror.
‘Wait, am I going home soon?’
‘Yes! You get to go today.’ Zanna takes in a deep breath and furrows her eyebrows. ‘Which is why I’m here to brief you.’
She rustles inside the tote bag, ‘Here’s a beautiful blush See by Chloe dress. A scarf to cover your face, oh, and some flats. I’ve got some dry shampoo for your hair and some perfume for a general increase in self-esteem.’
The hyper-feminine dress is hardly something she would pi
ck out for herself. Despite her job in Topshop, clothes are still a foreign language to Holly, loaded with unintelligible meaning. She was never one of those girls who could throw on an ironic vintage jumper and Doc Martens and look cute. Even when she figured out how to look sexy, it was never in a subtle way. A short skirt, a plunging sequined top. Smooth shaven legs. Dressing for men was always easy; it was the women that she had no idea how to please. When her following got into the tens of thousands, she relied on brands to dress her in their latest neon athleisure. Finally, something fitted. She embraced her role as the fresh-faced, active girl next door, always on her way to yoga class, latte in hand. She thought she looked so wholesome, so innocent. Now, shame holds her in its cold grip as she recalls the way the policemen looked at her clothes tangled in the evidence bag. Inappropriate. Provocative. She needs to be a heroine now, and a heroine is more acceptable in a demure dress than a pair of yoga leggings.
The dress is only part of the problem. It’s the performance that worries her, standing outside with the wind beating her bandages and all the people, the journalists, standing waiting to hear what she has to say. It would take just one question to poison them all.
‘Is this really necessary?’
Zanna looks appalled. ‘Holly, I don’t think you understand the impact your attack has had. There are news crews from all around the country camping outside, waiting. And that’s not even including your hundreds of followers either, and the thousands going hysterical online.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘You’re female, beautiful and famous on the Internet. Your fans have lived through everything with you, so it feels to them like they have been attacked too. For the media and commentators, it is worrying proof of how dangerous it is to be a woman online. People are calling for regulation and some sort of justice. And right now, you’re the poster girl for all of it.’
‘But what’s the dress for?’
‘Well, my crisis communications strategy is to help you look poised and strong. You are not a victim. You are not defined by your tragedy. I want you going out there dressed like a winner, with a slick new signature style and a life philosophy still intact. The monster who did this to you wanted to take that away from you, so you’re going to hold your head up high and carry on. And between you and me, Chloe gifted me with the dress on the way here – once you wear the thing, it’s guaranteed to sell out online within minutes.’
As structured as Zanna’s approach is, it actually seems natural. On Instagram, every moment is part of Holly’s brand. No matter how horrific, it contributes to a bigger picture, earning the empathy of her fans. For now, this gives the tragedy a feeling of purpose. Maybe someone will see her struggle and feel less alone.
‘And the scarf?’ Holly asks, although she’s not sure she wants to hear the answer. She’s petrified that Zanna is ashamed of her new, mangled face, and wants to hide the horror from prying eyes.
Instead, she takes Holly’s hand and looks into her eyes. ‘While you’ve shared so many intimate details about your life online, you need to draw some boundaries. Some moments in life are too sore, too private to be flattened on a screen to satisfy the human appetite for gore. Let’s be clear – every one of your fans, no matter how loving, wants to see your cut-up face. They probably don’t even understand why themselves.’
‘But I still have my dressing on!’
‘Doesn’t matter – they still get to gawk at the extent of the damage.’ She shakes her head. ‘I hope they get this guy, whoever did this is as malicious as they come.’
Holly’s legs feel like lead. Is she insane to leave the comfort of the hospital for her flat, now sullied with his presence? He knows where she lives and wants her to know that he can come back any time he wants to. Maybe it’s not too late to pull Zanna aside and tell her everything. But there’s a signed discharge form, a packed bag, and people outside waiting.
‘Should I say something?’
‘Read through this statement I have prepared for you. I will help get the mic beneath your scarf and you will read it outside the hospital. One hour later, you’ll post it to all your social platforms with a picture I have selected from your archives. Once that is over with, you will have some space to rest.’
Every moment after that feels hyperreal. Her mother, cloying and unprepared, clutching her arm. Her father, conspicuously absent. You deserved this. The delicate lace dress, alien against her skin. The signing out of hospital. The doctor, concerned that her saliva will infect the wound, fitting a drain. Her hand, clutching a plastic bag filled with clear liquid mixed with her blood.
As she stands before the crowd, she takes in every tear-stained face, wondering what brought them here on a weekday. How did they get off work? Why did her private pain matter so much to them?
Quietly, beneath the rustle of the crowd, a darker thought. What will happen when they all stop loving her? Will she still be remembered then? Beyond all the joy, support, smiles and encouraging eyes, she feels the shudder of a tower swaying in the wind, the earth shifting beneath her feet, threatening to pull everything to the ground.
She feels Zanna’s arm around her shoulder and the mic slipping underneath her scarf. Another power takes over. It’s time to speak.
‘Good morning, everyone. Thank you all for being here. I am overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support in the wake of my attack. Not one message has gone unread, and each one gives me hope for the innate kindness of the human race. What happened the other night was a toxic, freak incident. I don’t know why someone would wish to attack me. In fact, I’m not sure why anyone would want to hurt someone the way this attacker hurt me. As many people have said, it is a sign of our increasing vulnerability on the Internet. That being said, I started my Instagram and my blog in order to consciously share my vulnerability with others in the hope that it would empower them to live better, eat better, and embrace their true selves. There have been so many stories of healing as a result, and a loving health conscious online community has been built because of my journey. I will not let one sick person take that away from me, or reduce the impact I have had on others. I will be taking some time to heal in private, but I will be back in the near future, carrying only a message of love. Have a good evening.’
The crowd roars. Holly tries to still her shaking hands. The words she just spat out were empty, the words of a hypocrite. She doesn’t feel powerful at all. She feels small, fearful, reduced to the most pathetic version of herself. To an outsider, her eyes may look resolute, but in reality they are searching, heart in her throat, for a flash of golden hair and a brand new Burberry coat.
Zanna’s fingers graze lightly her bruised shoulders as she ushers her into a waiting car. ‘You did great. Everything is going to be OK now. You’ll see.’ The image of her sliced photograph burns behind her eyes, those unnamed scarred women crackling beneath her weight. He’s found her, and now he flickers in the corner of her eye. The glint of a scalpel. She will learn what it means to hurt. Then, there is the secret that aches within her bones, the fear that coils around her ribs so tightly they may shatter. If they looked hard enough, they would see. It’s hidden in her Instagram feed. Now it is clear that somebody out there knows.
Chapter 8
Holly then
Six o’clock. Right on schedule, the keys jiggle in the lock. Dad’s home. Holly runs to the door behind her mum to greet him. It’s partly out of excitement to share everything that happened that day, but also partly to check the temperature of his mood. A stooped posture and sour grimace means a night of shouting and broken glass. An easy laugh and swinging briefcase, a sign that tonight will be one of the better nights. She has to read the signs and adjust herself accordingly. If it’s a bad day, anything – a careless comment, some mess in the living room, the way she has arranged the knives and forks – will cause him to explode.
Her breath quickens as she leans in to hug him. He holds on to her tightly in his smell of cologne and cigaret
tes. It’s OK. Today is a good day. Thank goodness because she has so much to tell him. Youth group is on at church tonight for the first time since the school holidays, and this afternoon she went with her mum to Office to buy some trainers for the occasion. It had taken her weeks to decide which ones, but after carefully observing her peers, she finally had her heart set on one pair and one pair only: pitch-black Fila high tops. One of the most popular guys at youth group, Oliver, has the boy’s version. She imagines them walking together, holding hands. Changing from thirteen and never been kissed to steady girlfriend of the hottest guy in town in an instant.
They weren’t sure about the colour at first. Holly had never owned any black clothing before. Her dad could be quite the religious nut sometimes, and he thought the colour was satanic. Maybe she should only put them on once she gets to youth group. But her mum had said it was fine, and he had only made those comments once or twice before and those were on particularly bad days. And anyway, he knew she needed some new shoes.
She runs up to her bedroom and pulls on a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt, lacing up the new trainers as the finishing touch. Holly is not one of the pretty girls, or even one of the cool girls, but maybe tonight is the night things change. The embroidered logo on her feet winking up at her is her ticket. She grabs her denim jacket off the bed and smiles as her dad’s laugh bellows from the kitchen.
‘OK, Dad, I’m ready to go now!’
She shifts from foot to foot.
‘Just a minute, my girl,’ he says, finishing the last of his coffee. His eyes dart to her feet and narrow into thin slits. ‘What are those?’
Her mum steps in. ‘She needed some new trainers, Ralph. All the kids are wearing ones like these.’
‘Not my kid,’ he says, growing redder, more dangerous. The air contracts around them both. She shouldn’t have taken the chance. She should have looked in his eyes properly when he came home. It’s always there in his eyes if you look hard enough.
Shame on You: The addictive psychological thriller that will make you question everything you read online Page 4
