‘What are you doing here? I said she wasn’t fucking ready.’
‘Come on, Zanna, you can’t protect the girl from everything. Besides, don’t you think she needs to stand up for herself a little bit, especially after her little show the other day?’
‘She physically and psychologically can’t right now. She is extremely vulnerable, and needs some time and some space. Can you imagine what it’s like to look the way she does right now? Not to mention having everyone hating you?’
Hearing it in the whisper of someone so close to her sends a little pang down Holly’s spine. It’s really that bad, isn’t it? She peeks her head around the corner. The intruder still hasn’t left.
‘Please, Zanna, just five minutes. I just need a quote and maybe a picture and then I’ll leave you guys alone.’
‘Can I be honest with you, Gill?’
‘Always.’
‘I think you’re a fucking vulture. Holly has stated implicitly that she wants her privacy, yet here you are circling her apartment, swooping in for the bloodbath.’
‘Well, she wasn’t so concerned about her privacy when she gave her little erotic fast food performance and lost the last little shred of dignity she had left.’
It’s not true. She won’t let it be true. She was trying to be real, to remove the fake veneer of fame that had separated her from her family, that’s all. All she wanted to do yesterday was to be honest and vulnerable, and through that vulnerability find a new way to connect. Holly throws the pillow to the ground and shouts, ‘Zanna!’
‘Just a second, Holly . . . Gill was just leaving.’
Her feet find their way to the ground and step over the piles of clothes and takeaway cartons.
‘No, no, she can stay.’
She flicks her hair out of her face, to look straight into the wide eyes and parted red lips of the journalist.
‘Holly, you know Gill is from the Daily Mail, right?’ She says it like it’s a clue, as if it’s code for something, but Holly can’t quite decipher it through the hum of her anger. She’ll show this person who the real Holly is, and then everyone will see too and forget all the bad things that have happened.
‘No, Zanna! I want her to stay. Come in, come in and I will make you some of my signature turmeric tea. I probably have some delicious black bean brownies in the fridge as well.’
She doesn’t recognise the voice coming out of her mouth, and Zanna is looking at her like she’s insane, but something about this feels important. Maybe if she just acts how she used to, and explains herself nicely, she can make this all go away. She thought she didn’t want approval, but now that it is standing on her doorstep, she wants to hold on to it and squeeze it for all its worth.
‘Thank you, darling,’ says Gill, stepping into the apartment before she can change her mind. She can’t help looking at Holly’s face, her pretty little mouth hanging open. Holly winces. Sometimes, if she doesn’t talk and use her slack muscles for a while, she forgets that her old face is gone. It takes a stranger to make her remember.
Her nerves make time elastic, shrinking it in proportion to her anxiety. She fills the silence however she can. Because of this, the interview is an awkward staccato of Holly making broad, positive statements. They don’t say much, but she can imagine them as headlines:
‘I still believe in the Internet.’
‘I will rise from my shame.’
‘Everything I did, I did for my followers.’
Gill, the nice Daily Mail journalist, dutifully writes everything down while chewing on an old, dry brownie. She doesn’t question a thing, she only smiles and nods. Zanna, on the other hand, dramatically holds her head in her hands for the duration of the interview. She only removes them when Gill excuses herself to go to the bathroom.
‘Are you done now?’ Her whisper is more like a shriek.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your actions make no sense, Holly. First you don’t care about what anybody thinks of you, then you morph into a health-crazed Stepford Wife when a journalist from the Daily Mail shows up and start spouting absurd inspirational quotes!’
‘I’m doing my best here, Zanna! I’m helping!’
‘Well, tell me this. Does your “best” include keeping your room and bathroom tidy? Because I can bet that little snake is snooping around in there right now.’
A sinking feeling. Nothing is at its best. Since the thing happened, she has only done the bare minimum.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I technically made the bed but there isn’t too much lying around.’
Zanna looks deeply uncomfortable.
‘Nothing incriminating? Like chocolates under the pillows or whole roast chickens under the bed? Condoms?’
‘Who do you think I am?’
‘It’s not about who you are. It’s about what she is. Out of all the reporters you could have magically decided to grant an interview, she’s the worst.’
Holly turns away and buries her head into the Harper’s Bazaar she’s been rereading for the past few weeks. Doesn’t she understand how infuriating it feels to be policed all the time? Every move she makes these days is subject to a committee. Nobody is on her side anymore.
‘Hey, Holly, is this yours?’ Gill has returned, looking worryingly smug.
She’s holding up the tote bag he delivered to her in hospital. Holly notices that Zanna’s eyes also travel to her black, chipped fingernails. There is something sinister about this journalist’s lack of attention to personal grooming. In this industry, it counts as a statement, or even a warning.
‘Yes, it is—’
What’s in there? Some remnants of her codeine stash? A sugar-filled, egg-laden brownie? Holly tries to think what she has done this time, but it is all too muddled now. Nothing comes.
Zanna jumps out her seat. ‘Wait, Gill . . . why do you have her bag in your hand? Did you somehow get lost in Holly’s room on the way to the bathroom?’
‘If she’ – the cracked black talon points to Holly – ‘has nothing to hide, then there shouldn’t be a problem. Journalists always snoop, that’s what we do. Just like liars. Always. Lie.’
She watches helplessly, in slow motion, as Gill digs into the bag and pulls out a scalpel. Not just any scalpel, but the scalpel that sliced her face, covered in brown, dried blood.
Chapter 38
Fraudulent cancer blogger faked her own attack
By Gill Selbourne for the Daily Mail
Blogger Holly Evans orchestrated her own vicious attack. This follows the recent discovery that she faked the cancer that was the foundation of her wellness empire.
Earlier this month, the blogger ran into a local fast food restaurant in London, with long, bleeding gashes down her cheeks. She claimed that the attacker was a young man in his early thirties who had a vendetta against her.
However, during an exclusive interview with the fallen wellness celebrity at her London home, the weapon that sliced her face was discovered lying hidden in a kit bag, still covered in her blood. The weapon, a small scalpel, will be submitted to the police for investigation. If it can be proven that it is Holly’s blood and fingerprints on the scalpel, she stands a chance of facing charges for wasting police time. This is in addition to the charges of fraud that may be held against her by the multiple sponsors she conned into financially supporting her fraudulent story.
On confrontation, Holly seemed genuinely shocked, which adds further fuel to the fire that she is mentally unstable. Just three days ago, shocking footage emerged of her eating fried chicken in an offensively sexual manner.
There are numerous signs that she is starting to fray around the edges. After the embarrassing video clip went viral, many noted that she has gained a significant amount of weight, and that her skin and hair were in shocking condition. She was dressed sloppily and is now blatantly going against her previously militant vegan beliefs. However, even those have been called into question, when previous fans who were calling for #JusticeforHolly discovered a se
ries of incriminating pictures of her buying into the traditional medicine she was supposed to have shunned.
Across the country, cancer survivors, assault victims and former followers are speaking out against the now tarnished Internet star. In this world of fake news, fraudulent behaviour is more than manipulative, it is criminal. What do you think? Let us know what should happen to Holly in the comments page.
Chapter 39
Holly
There is nothing like waking up from the thick muddle of a codeine sleep. Holly took an extra dose last night to exterminate the last of any demons that may plague her on the path to passing out. Her empty bank balance. Her attacker’s looming presence. The possibility of arrest. The shame clawing at her from all sides, that sharp-toothed, unrelenting shame. She wakes up with a fresh rash from where spit has pooled against her face, and a throat that is gloriously raw. It takes a few minutes for all the elements of her life to take shape through her codeine cloud. In those minutes she is happy, cosy and warm. Then, one by one, she remembers her face, the scandal, the scalpel.
She hasn’t behaved very well lately. She may have been behaving badly for a while. Her sanity quivers in her precarious grasp. Yet for everything she’s done wrong, she did not do anything to herself with that scalpel that night. She could never forget his winning smile, and the way they walked hand in hand through the city. How real that connection felt, how promising. She can’t even mourn the disappointment of how things turned out, because her choices over the past few years have led her right here. She should have known that secrets make you sick, that they have a way of coming back to haunt you.
She rolls over into a position that helps her forget the uncomfortable reality of her body. There is one thought that still plagues her more than the others – what if she’d just said no to him that evening? As her father used to say, ‘You don’t have to lap up every scrap of affection from strangers like a dog, Holly. It’s embarrassing.’
What would she be doing this morning? Not this, not this. She’d be replying to her Instagram comments with ‘xoxoxo’ and ‘thanks so much for your support’, not avoiding a spiteful slew of insults. She’d still be so thin, so fucking thin, with an arse that could fit in one hand. Sure, none of it meant anything, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was all so wonderful.
So why didn’t she say no? She’d never had a problem fobbing off needy strangers. It was those eyes that did it, so bright and earnest. It was something else as well, something deeper. She didn’t say no because he was gorgeous and she wanted him to see her as relaxed and up for a good time. Saying no would have cast her as frigid, cold and unfriendly. Saying no would have shone a beam of light on the uncomfortable, pervasive reality that men are not always the protectors they are cracked up to be.
Her sheets are so dirty that they feel clammy against her skin. Buttery popcorn husks cling to the small of her back – a shameful reminder of yesterday’s late-night snacking. Despair is more than a feeling. Its most acute expression is found in cold tangible objects. A lifeless phone that doesn’t need to be charged because nobody calls her anymore. The landing page for her online banking, which reflects two credit cards over the limit, and a whopping £23.50 in savings. Most worryingly, a bill from her apartment building, with a note requesting in clipped tones that she begins to pay the rent on her complimentary apartment. Before, it had been a perk from one of the retail giants as she was the spokeswoman for their insipid, nutritionally poor, ‘health’ range, but it appears that this support, like all the others, has now been withdrawn.
She walks into the lounge and regards the lifeless lump before her. ‘I’m going to be on the street soon, Zanna, you may as well step out the door right now and count your losses.’
Zanna grunts and rolls up from her makeshift bed on the sofa. They had spent the whole of the night before panicking about Gill’s sordid discovery. After three bottles of wine between them and a lot of angst and self-doubt from Zanna, they agreed that Gill must have planted it. The blood can’t have been hers. It was obviously a set-up, engineered to sell papers and boost website traffic. Luckily for Holly, although the blood was identified as hers, the police were unable to lift any fingerprints off the scalpel, so while they are regarding her as suspicious, the weapon has been written off as circumstantial evidence.
Still, she is haunted by the idea that he watched her in the hospital while she was sleeping, before slipping the bag with the incriminating item next to her bed. She sensed his presence constantly over that time, shifting in the shadows, whispering in her drug-addled nightmares and crackling beneath her bedcovers. The idea of him so close to her, smirking as he laid down the next step in his plan is too terrifying to form into a viable thought. Or, darker still, the unmentioned possibility that Holly is losing her mind, that she did this to herself.
You always did have such a strong mind.
How did Zanna, this gorgeous, mysterious creature, become Holly’s only friend? She’s a lost cause publicity-wise, so she should have been the first to disappear. Yet here she is, gingerly pushing carob cereal around a bowl of almond milk, holding Holly’s hand as she drowns.
‘Holly, stop looking at me with your face all twisted like that. It’s creeping me out.’
‘My face isn’t twisted. The scars just make it look like that.’ She’s joking, but inside she’s screaming.
A hollow laugh, at least. ‘Fuck you and your gallows humour. You’re playing the “I’ve been mauled” card right now and you know it.’
‘Well, it’s the only card I’ve got left.’ Out of every catastrophe that has slammed into her the past few weeks, the reality of her face stings the most. Ugly to others, yet hideous to herself. She thought she would be better by now and not still battling to form a recognisable facial expression. The frustration of it feels like an electric current pulsing beneath her skin.
‘Correction: the only card you have with me. Gill’s story is turning the hearts and minds of the world as we speak. The handful of people that didn’t despise you, now do for sure. You’re gluten-free toast.’
They laugh until they’re both doubled over, battling to breathe. Holly’s hangover, combined with the remainder of her codeine, is beginning to feel like an altered state of consciousness.
‘Seriously, Zanna, why do you stick with me? I attract nothing but trouble at the moment.’
‘That’s the attraction, right there. Trouble, especially public trouble, is what I live for. Whenever there is a public scandal, I don’t join the ranks of the outraged online or around the dinner table. I sit watching all the interviews, wishing I could be in the room with their crisis communication team deciding what to do.’
‘Have you gone on my Instagram lately? Have you seen the news? There is nothing more we can do. It’s all over.’
She looks over at Holly, bleary-eyed, beautiful. ‘Baby, I’m the motherfucking queen of lost causes.’
‘Then what do we do next?’
‘I’ll be straight with you, Holly, I was wondering that too. Luckily, I found something interesting while sorting through your hate mail.’
‘Human faeces?’
‘No, that was last week. This is far more interesting.’
She places a thick red envelope on the table. It is covered in stamps, including a sticker that says COURIERED BY HAND. On the front, in an elegant script, it says, ‘For the Urgent Attention of Holly Evans.’
Holly pulls out the sheet of paper, which has a luxurious, velvety texture.
‘Zanna, do you trust this?’
‘Just read it.’
Dear Holly,
We have been so sorry to read of the recent attacks on you in the media. No matter which of these accusations are true and which aren’t, we believe that nobody deserves to bear the brunt of a public shaming.
We are all human beings, prone to faults, petty lies and regrettable mistakes. Anyone who forgets this has forgotten their own flaws, as well as the compassion and empathy required t
o experience all the joy and sorrow of humanity.
We can’t help you weather the storm. In fact, we know that the only thing that will aid it in dying down is time itself. We can, however, provide a safe haven, a place where you will live in harmony among people from all over the world who have experienced the serious consequences of online shaming.
We have created a beautiful retreat in a secret location, where our residents enjoy their daily lives freed from the constraints of their old identities. You can expect modest yet comfortable accommodation surrounded by verdant, beautiful scenery. You can take part in one of our wide range of activities, including hiking, climbing, canoeing and even studying an online course through correspondence. Our qualified psychologist is available to work through the impact of your trauma with you. Given your background, you will also be interested to know that we provide three humble meals a day consisting of fresh fruits and vegetables, grains, and sometimes fish. We are, however, happy to tailor our menu based on your dietary restrictions.
You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you need. And, if you do decide to take us up on our offer, we will arrange for you to be transported discreetly to our premises free of charge.
This may seem too good to be true, but trust in the knowledge that we have our reasons for providing aid to the publicly shamed. It is our utmost pleasure to use our resources to help you in some way. This is, indeed, our greatest reward.
If you would like to discuss anything, please find our contact details below. We will answer the phone as much as our mobile phone reception allows.
We hope to see you soon!
Yours in dignity,
The Scarlet Retreat
Zanna grins at her manically. ‘Well?’
‘It sounds like a cult to me. Are you sure it’s not a bunch of disgruntled vegans who have hatched an elaborate plot to sacrifice me at the stake?’
Shame on You: The addictive psychological thriller that will make you question everything you read online Page 17
