Instead of turning left towards the front of the Bikram Yoga Studio, she carries on straight to a smaller room at the back. This black, padded studio stinks of bitter sweat and wound-up men. Something wild clenched inside her feels at home here. She can feel it pressing beneath her skin, changing her into someone stronger, someone different.
‘Hiya, Holly, right on time!’ Jono, the bald, diminutive instructor stands before her, looking more like a monk than the cage fighter his flyers outside promise. Esoteric symbols and Latin phrases compete for space on his tanned, shaven limbs.
He starts her off with a warm-up run. Her shaky legs pound the treadmill and her heart threatens to give up. She can feel the extra weight from the past few weeks pulling her down. A little voice in her head whispers fat, fat, fat, before she can stop it.
‘Great, very good, you’re a natural! Now let’s get onto the mat to have a quick chat.’ He sits serenely, cross-legged and stares earnestly into her face. ‘Let me start by sharing a bit about me.’ He flicks through a few pictures on his phone. An even smaller version of him snarls through a blue gum-guard.
‘I used to be a mixed martial arts cage fighter. I did well, got my trophies and got into my fair share of brawls outside of the ring too. One night, well, some shit went down.’ The way he says it so casually hints that whatever went down was darker than anything Holly could ever imagine.
He continues, ‘I saw God, in one of her many incarnations. In that moment, I chose to leave cage-fighting and use my skills for good.’
Jono regards her smiling, unflinching. ‘What about you, Holly? What brings you here? Nobody comes through this door without having faced some darkness first.’ As if he hadn’t seen it on the news, as if it’s not literally staring him in the face.
She includes no detail, only the things she feels. Despair. Rage. Hatred. Fear. Mostly the acrid, pervasive fear. Holly assures him she doesn’t want to box to lose weight or tone or any of the things women come to him for. Like some of them, she may be doing this for a man, but she hopes the outcome will be different.
He winds black straps around her palms, pulls chunky red gloves over her hands. Turns up some pumping house music. Bounces across the room towards her, ready to spar. With every movement, she feels herself shedding the old, afraid Holly and moving into her own power. She is tougher than her past, and she is stronger than him.
‘Don’t hold back,’ she shouts, spurred on by the beat. ‘Teach me how to fight.’
Chapter 21
Tyler then
After he shared the news of Frankie’s death, the hospital gives Tyler some time off work. There were whispers among the nurses about how frayed he had become. He was losing his grip, they said, and the Chief of Surgery was afraid it would begin to impact his delicate work. It all came from a place of care, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like a fool. Tyler had been on the other side of this conversation when an operation had taken an unexpected turn for the worse, gently coaching a grieving family through the screamingly banal logistics of death. He’d awkwardly ended his speech with the saccharine line, ‘Now remember to take some time to look after yourself.’
He of all people should understand the exhaustion and relief that come after months of watching your loved one succumb slowly to a long-term illness. His colleagues force him out of the hospital, even when he begs them to let him work just a few more weeks. His patients need him. He needs the work to feel whole.
No such luck. They stand firm and soon he finds himself pacing his family’s unused apartment in Monaco, scowling at the yachts going by. He walks the Cercle d’Or and buys a three-piece suit on a whim, but the perfection of the fabric sickens him so much he can’t even take it out the bag. Such beauty exists, but Frankie does not. Relax? Who are these people kidding? Under the acute throbbing ache of guilt, it is impossible to sit still.
A holiday was an absurd idea, repulsive even. He leaves so early the sheets barely have a chance to hold the scent of his cologne-soaked sweat. Only one rinsed espresso cup in the sink hints at his fleeting presence.
Home is no better. Before the rot of cancer took hold, their lives had begun to blissfully intertwine. He had left a change of clothes and a toothbrush at her place, and she’d begun to leave her distinct mark on his apartment. It used to give him such a thrill, knowing that she was folding into his space so effortlessly. It was a dress rehearsal for their inevitable shared future. But now the signs of her presence taunt him. Tyler sees her everywhere – in the unwashed throw pillow that smells of her perfume, taken on a whim from her apartment; in the scrunched tube of Aesop orange-rind body balm she favoured; in the smug picture of Holly she had placed on the fridge. Holly, chosen goddess blessed with all the luck. How did she manage to heal her cancer and Frankie did not?
He goes through every picture on her page, from her first dismal-looking smoothie to her smug sermons on monthly cleansing colonic irrigations and alkaline nutrition plans. She’s beautiful, he can see that, but not as beautiful as his Frankie. She is open and authentic and all those other things that get celebrated on social media, but something about her gets under his skin. Holly is unnervingly poised. Even in the posts from during her chemotherapy, she seemed strangely engaged and open to chatting with hundreds of readers. When Frankie first received her diagnosis, she found the sudden influx of interest into her health stressful and upsetting. She wouldn’t even speak to him about it. From what he has witnessed in cancer patients at the hospital, this reaction is commonplace – in the moment you receive the most attention, you don’t want it.
But Holly certainly did. Not only did she want it, she actively encouraged it, posting pictures of the most intimate treatments. As he reads through every emotive caption, he understands what is unsettling him: she is manipulative.
The realisation comes like a deluge, as he looks at the photographs over and over again. Not one photograph during her ‘unsuccessful chemotherapy’ contains a nurse, or her family for that matter. She is always alone, the picture closely cropped to only contain a glimpse of the equipment. Her hair is too clean-shaven – cancer patients have their hair fall out unevenly, in clumps. Also, the ‘cut’ from inserting the drip is too jagged. No self-respecting nurse would bludgeon a patient like that.
He runs to the bathroom and vomits, his body registering the truth before his mind can even process it. There is no proof yet, but he doesn’t need it. Every cell in his body rages: the bitch was faking it all along.
Chapter 22
Holly
‘The thing you have to know about Holly is that she has one of those powerful minds, you see. She will do anything she sets her mind to.’ Holly’s mother twitches earnestly in front of the camera and utters every word like a threat. Heaven knows why they approached her for an interview. Heaven knows why Holly’s mum chose not to reveal this information during their phone conversation last night, but the resulting, never-ending interview makes her panic. The right question is all it will take. A lowering of spectacles. An expression of interest. Her mum will lap it up and say something she shouldn’t. For once, Holly wishes for the looming presence of her father in the background to cut the whole thing short.
Her mum adjusts her hair and turns to face the camera. The skin on her cheeks crinkles as she twists her mouth bitterly. It’s the same expression she had years before in Exeter, when she stormed into Holly’s childhood bedroom uninvited, eyes widening as she saw everything laid out on the floor. Her mouth curled in disgust as she told her that the hospital had called to discuss a ‘sensitive issue’. There had been some complaints. They were worried, apparently. That sickening moment of realising how everyone was talking about her was the worst she had ever felt. The facts spoke for themselves. There was no room for her mother to comfort her and no doubt her father would crucify her. A pile of clean laundry was dumped on the floor. Next to it, an old suitcase. A sum of money appeared in her account. While the Holly on Instagram continued to be celebrated by her doting fans, her
own family had made it clear that she was no longer welcome. It was time to move on.
Now her mum carries on and on, incorrigible. ‘I’ll give you an example. When Holly was a little baby, I knew that when she made up her mind about something, that was it. Hah! You should have seen when I gave her soya milk for the first time – she gagged and threw her bottle across the room! And let me tell you something – she didn’t toilet train. No. One day she just walked up to me, held up her filthy nappy and said “no more nappies”! That was the end of it. After that, she used a proper toilet and didn’t even wet her bed during the night.’
‘Perfect,’ Holly groans. ‘Now everybody knows about my childhood toilet habits!’
Why are they giving her so much airtime? Surely there is another disaster to cut to? Holly bites down on her lip, hard.
‘Well, I’m just thinking about how your soya milk sponsors are going to feel about your childhood aversion to their product.’ Zanna laughs next to her. ‘Seriously, though, it’s about time you told your story in your own words. I know it’s petrifying getting back in the game and you definitely needed some space, but people are going to impose their own angles and theories on your ordeal if you don’t speak up.’
What kind of angles? What kind of theories?
‘But what do I say?’
‘Just tell them the truth about what happened, and how you’re moving on. You’re the victim here, babe. All you have to do is show them how tough you are and that you’re going to keep fighting.’
There is the truth, and then her truth, swimming with shadows. Nobody would understand if she laid it bare, not even Zanna. She’d look like a monster. She’d never be forgiven. The richness of her life would be drained of all colour and she’d be left to rot. She would have to go home, palms open, begging for money. The world would forget. Maybe this is what she deserves, a fair punishment for what she has done. Somebody braver may free themselves of the truth, no matter how daunting the consequences may be. Somebody else may feel less attached to the perfect girl she has created on screen, and sacrifice her for her own safety and for the greater good. But not her, not yet.
Three days later, they are huddled together in the back of a black taxi on the way to the BBC studios. Holly’s heart is pounding – she’s not sure if it’s from excitement, fear or a mixture of both.
Zanna babbles on. ‘You know what really surprised me about this particular interview is that a hard news channel is interested in hosting an in-depth interview with you. Olivia Williams usually interviews politicians and activists, not bloggers. It shows that what you’re doing is really important, Holly.’
Or does it hint at something more sinister? Any good journalist could look deeper into her story and follow a few unlikely trails. God, she felt so untouchable back then! Yet the foundation of her life is as flimsy as paper. Holly’s dry lips change shape as she practises her defence.
The car slides to a standstill and they are hustled through the back entrance of the building. The bright lights make her feel like she is entering the afterlife. A team of angels descends to take care of her, preening over her hair and face until she is transformed into someone once again palatable to the public eye. She used to wish the hours of hair and make-up away, eager to get on screen and charm her fans. Now she wishes she could be suspended in this time forever, like a butterfly preserved in amber. It’s over all too soon, and suddenly she has been propped in a seat like a horrific doll. The lights descend. They are live.
‘This is World News Today with me, Olivia Williams. The practice of online trolling has been a problem for Internet users for some time. Women in particular have been subjected to ongoing insults and abuse with little to no support from the platforms on which this trolling occurs. Just a few weeks ago, we witnessed a worrying shift as globally renowned health writer Holly Evans was physically maimed by someone who appears to have discovered her through her online brand. Although she is still recovering, Holly is giving us an exclusive interview, for which we are incredibly grateful. Holly, can you give us a bit of background about you?’
‘Hi, Olivia, thank you for taking the time to report on this serious issue. I’m a full-time health blogger, and I am about to release my second cookbook. My recipes all focus on addressing physical problems in a holistic way. I believe the body is meant to be in balance and eating the right foods helps us achieve this and ward off chronic and degenerative illnesses, including cancer.’
She smiles encouragingly. ‘What were you doing before you went full-time?’
‘I was a store manager for Topshop in Exeter. After about six months of running my Instagram account and blog, I had enough advertisers and sponsorships to quit my job and move to London.’
‘So you had no prior experience or training in the health industry?’ Trouble. Sweat gathers at her forehead. Heart racing.
‘No, but my recipes and Instagram posts are all based on extensive research. I never post anything that I have not tried myself or wasn’t part of my own healing journey. In fact, I plan on studying nutrition now my second book has been published.’
A gloomy slideshow of Holly’s cancer journey flicks on the screen behind her. There are more selfies than she remembers taking, some sickly, some hairless, all with her trademark stoic smile. According to her website, she only went through one round of chemotherapy before turning to natural remedies. Nobody ever questions why that brief period was so obsessively recorded. Seeing her past packaged and polished for the world to see sends a jolt of sadness through her. The woman in those pictures looks so desperate she hardly recognises her.
‘Ah, how do you feel about releasing your second book in light of what has happened?’
Her second book, that promising follow-up. Her first compendium of her wisdom had been such a success after all. Her old face, beaming on the cover over a basket of fresh kale. It seems like a lifetime ago that she approved the final proofs and held her breath when she heard they had gone to print. Her advance is long gone, spent on trainers and spa days and heaven knows what else. Holly’s royalties are her only shot at a future income. She swallows hard, and says, ‘I’m more motivated than ever about educating others about the benefits of a raw, vegan, lifestyle.’ She turns to face the camera directly, wondering with a sick twist in her stomach whether he is watching, ‘I will not be beaten by the unfounded rage of another person.’
‘It’s been widely reported among informal sources that the attacker targeted you because of your online empire, is this correct?’
If only they knew.
‘Yes, I believe it is.’
‘What makes you believe this was his motive?’
‘He whispered something in my ear just before he . . . uh sorry . . . you know just before he . . .’ Holly coughs and covers her face. Something feels wrong, like she’s sliding down a steep slope and can’t find a grip to pull herself back up. Her scars ache, as if they are about to crack open and burst. How many people are watching her, judging her, right now? All over the world, people are seeing her for the ugly, maimed creature she has become. Maybe, this is who she was all along, skin raw and breaking. Maybe her father was right.
‘It’s fine, Holly. Take your time. Now, your attacker . . .’
‘Jack.’
‘Were there any signs of someone trolling you before this happened? Did you suffer any other form of online harassment?’
She probably doesn’t mean it, but there is an intimation there similar to that of the police. Had Holly noticed anything before her attack? Could she have prevented it? Would anyone observing the facts conclude that Holly was ignorant or reckless and that this was somehow her fault? Still, it is a question that demands a response. She takes a deep breath.
‘I didn’t receive any online harassment that I could identify as coming from him. Obviously, as a woman publishing content online, you receive the usual comments. You know, people calling me fat or telling me that they wanted to . . . well, the
y expressed themselves using some disgusting sexual innuendo that I’d rather not repeat. But not him. The moment I met him in Starbucks was the first time I had ever seen him in my life. I have no idea why he would want to hurt me. I think that’s what troubles me the most – why me? Why did he choose to hurt me?’
‘And the police have uncovered nothing so far?’
‘No, none of their suspects remotely matched him.’
The police officers jeering faces burn in her memory, their eyes darting across her medical file. The shame feels like a physical pain in her side. Did they see something? Are they preparing a case against her? Is everyone faking a smile while they prepare to entrap her?
‘What do you think this says about the challenges of being a woman online?’
‘Any woman who shares an idea, image or video online is automatically one of the hunted. You are walking into a field of wolves, foxes, and snakes in the grass. There are men, but also women who turn on you. The worst thing about it is that as soon as you post, you are seen as voluntarily entering the hunting ground. People question why you walk into the field of wolves, but they never question why there are wolves in the first place.’
‘Well put, Holly. Luckily, it’s not all bad news. I think the thing that unsettles most of us is the fact that your attacker is still out there. Do you ever worry that he will hurt you again?’
The sound of him grunting as he pushed her to the ground. His eyes, laughingly holding hers as he cut her face. The video clip, slicing her photograph. The pictures of the broken women. The stench. The text message that made her retch.
Shame on You: The addictive psychological thriller that will make you question everything you read online Page 9
