by Andrea Mara
My stomach is rumbling as I say goodbye but the girls are still getting ready. Calling inside to tell them to hurry up, I wait on the deck, watching barbecues light up all around as dusk falls. My phone buzzes. Another Twitter notification. The now familiar dread sets in as I open it.
Listen you spoilt, self-obsessed narcissist, this isn’t about you. Tell me where you are.
Jesus. My cheeks burn as though I’ve been slapped, and though I know better than to engage with trolls, my fingers start to tap out a reply. Maybe I can make it stop if I explain.
I don’t know her. She’s a stranger. I haven’t seen her since.
The response is immediate.
I know you’ve seen her before – she’s in the background of photos from another day.
Shit. Seriously? I scroll back through my beach photos and spot her in two pictures from earlier in the week. She’s much further in the distance, just another person on the beach, but once you know what she looks like, it’s clear it’s her.
I type another reply.
It still doesn’t mean I know her. She’s a stranger.
He comes straight back.
Ask her for her surname and where she’s from.
What the hell is this?
I’m not asking her anything. Why would I do that? Who are you?
The answer comes in seconds:
Just do it.
Jesus Christ. I take a screenshot of the tweets and block him again, if only to get a break until the next account is opened. An uncomfortable question takes root – do I need to find the woman from the photo and tell her what’s happening?
The girls come out bickering about make-up and don’t notice I’m upset, and I’m grateful for the mundanity as we set off for the restaurant. The sky is navy by the time we get there, and candles glow on the tables. We sit outside – Irish enough to choose the still-humid outdoors over air conditioning. White tablecloths give a hint of luxury, but we’ve eaten here most nights – we know they’re disposable. We know the menu off by heart too though the girls still take their time to read it. I watch their faces in the candlelight. The dark circles under Ava’s eyes have faded, and Rebecca’s normally pale face has colour.
“Can you believe we’ve only one night left after this?” I say, looking around for someone to take our order. “Then it’s back to school in another week and a half.”
Ava’s mouth opens in protest. “Ah come on, Mum, don’t mention school!”
“Sorry, I won’t bring it up again. School, I mean. I won’t bring up school again.”
Ava shakes her head. I’m not funny. I roll my eyes at Rebecca but she doesn’t react.
“Rebecca, are you okay?”
A forced smile greets me, then she’s saved by a harassed-looking waiter coming to take our order. I ask for a glass of wine, and Ava does a wonderfully casual “I’ll have the same” nod at the waiter. He looks confused when I tell him to ignore her and indeed, moments later, he drops two glasses of wine to us before rushing to take another order. Ava is delighted but I pull both glasses over to my place setting.
“No chance,” I tell her.
The food takes longer than usual to arrive and the wine is going to my head – I’m only half listening to the conversation about some band both girls like. When my phone buzzes, I’m not surprised to see another VIN tweet.
You’re running out of time. Find her, get me her name, and where she’s from.
I screenshot again and wonder if I need to file some kind of report with the police. How would I even do it from here? I try googling but my brain is fuzzy with wine.
“Mum, are you okay?” Ava asks.
“Yes . . . I’m just going to go to the bathroom.”
I make my way between the tables towards the restaurant toilets, feeling dizzy and slightly sick. Inside, shrill white walls greet me and the smell of air freshener makes my stomach turn. Jesus, I need to pull myself together. Deep breaths. Three stall doors hang open, but I don’t move. I’m still leaning against the door when suddenly I’m pushed forward. The unexpected movement shocks me but it’s just someone trying to come into the bathroom. I turn to apologise, and it’s her.
She looks at me, dark-brown eyes appraising me, at odds with her auburn hair, an interested, slightly amused look on her face.
“That’s all right,” she says, in an unmistakable American accent, and moves to a sink. “Chicken wings,” she says then, turning back to me, holding up her hands.
I don’t know what she means.
“I should really order Italian when I’m here, but I can’t resist the chicken wings,” she says, putting her hands under the tap.
The water rushes down over them and I’m oddly transfixed as she rubs them together in the stream. Her red-and-white-striped cropped vest looks very like the one I wouldn’t let Rebecca buy in Top Shop before we left. My mother always says red-haired people can’t wear red, though that’s not why I wouldn’t buy it for Rebecca. The woman shakes her hands in the sink and pulls a lipstick out of an unseen pocket in her jeans. Looking in the mirror, she traces the cherry-red colour around her lips then pauses and turns again to me.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod but don’t say anything.
“Are you here with anyone? Do you want to sit down?” She steps towards me. “You look very pale.”
There’s a wooden chair against the wall, and she takes me by the arm to lead me to it. I sink down, wishing I’d eaten some of the breadsticks on the table before drinking two glasses of wine. But it’s not just the wine, I know what I need to do.
“You don’t know me, but there’s something I have to tell you.”
She looks only mildly curious. I imagine she thinks I’m slightly touched. But I’ve started now.
“I take photos on the beach when I go for a run every morning and, a few days ago, you were in one of my photos.”
Now she looks more interested.
“And . . . I posted it on Instagram.”
She shrugs, and in a way I can’t explain the shrug reminds me of a mermaid.
“No big deal, I don’t mind. I have been a prolific Instagrammer in my time.”
“It’s just that it went a bit viral and then I started getting a lot of comments.”
“Viral? Why, what kind of photo was it?”
“Well, not properly viral, but I have a photography blog and a big social media following, and people really liked the photo and then a media site picked it up too. Your chair was in the shallow waves, you had your eyes closed, enjoying the sun. I hashtagged it with ‘how I wish I spent my twenties’ and it got a lot of interest. People started sharing their own photos too.”
She’s staring at me now and I can’t work out what she’s thinking.
“Right. What’s your blog?”
“It’s called Le Photo. The ‘Le’ is a play on my initials – Lauren Elliot. So it sounds French, but it’s not. I’m Irish.”
“No way! I’m from the United States but living in Ireland right now. Long story, best served with tequila. What part are you from?”
Oh God, so much for assuming she was an Italian I’d never see again.
“I’m in South Dublin. Monkstown.”
“Oh sure, I’ve heard of it. I live in Dublin city, on Aungier Street. Do you know it?”
I nod. She pronounces it “On-jeer” street instead of “Ain-jer”.
“It’s a tiny ground-floor apartment not worth what I pay in rent but it’s in Lafayette House.” She stops, waiting for me to understand, but I just look blankly at her. “Oh, you don’t know it? It’s this beautiful period building at the end of the block, and really close to everything, so I suck it up on the extortionate rent. You’re here on vacation, I guess?”
“Yes, I’m here with my two daughters. My husband and I just split up and I thought a holiday would be good for us, so here we are.” I have literally no idea what prompted me to tell her my life story.
“Sorry to hear that. Bu
t glad you’re enjoying your trip. And don’t worry about the photo. Are you feeling any better now? Should I get your daughters for you?”
I shake my head. “No thanks, I’m fine. I’ll go back out to them now.” I take a deep breath. I have to tell her about the messages. “It’s just I’ve been getting some weird comments. I thought you should know.” Even as I speak I feel like a hypocrite. It’s clear I’m only telling her because we met like this.
“Oh right. What was it – the usual gross, lewd comments?”
I shake my head and hold up my phone to her.
“No, it’s someone who wants to know where we are, and what your name is. And the messages are quite intimidating. I was half-thinking about contacting the guards but that seems over the top . . .”
“The who?”
“Sorry, I mean the police – the Gardaí – we call them guards.”
Taking my phone, she screws up her eyes to read the latest tweet.
“Hmm, I don’t know anyone called VIN,” she says.
“Take a look at the username too – do you know anyone with the initials H. O. Rus? Or maybe it’s O’Rus like some version of an Irish name?”
“No, I can’t think of anyone,” she says, handing it back. “It’s all a bit odd but I guess it’ll taper off when he gets bored?” She opens the bathroom door.
I smile for the first time since meeting her, and stand up to follow her out.
“You’re right – if I ignore him, he’ll go away. But sorry for putting up the photo – I did take it down in the meantime.”
She holds the door to let me out and shrugs. “That’s okay. Was it a nice picture? Do you still have it on your camera roll?”
I nod and pull it up for her.
“Hey, I like that! You’re good at this. Would you send me a copy?”
I nod, and she types her number into my phone, then presses the call button.
“There you go, you have my number in your phone log now – just send me the photo on that. I’m on WhatsApp if you want to do it that way. I’m Cleo by the way. Cleo Holloway.”
This isn’t how I pictured the conversation going, and relief floats around me in a giddy haze as I say goodbye and make my way back to the table, where the food has finally, thankfully, arrived.
Chapter 5
On Friday, the girls want to do everything one last time – a final swim, one more ice cream, and dinner in their favourite restaurant. I’ve been staying offline all day, but just before dinner I check my phone. There’s nothing from VIN, just a text from my mother asking what time our flight arrives tomorrow – a highly irrelevant question since she lives in West Cork and won’t be anywhere near Dublin – and an email from Brian checking that I’m back in work on Monday. Hello, real world. It’s after five at home and Brian will be gone, but I reply anyway.
An email pings back a couple of minutes later – Brian’s still there. Jonathan Oliver has been looking for me, he says, and it took him a while to get him off the phone. Christ. That’s my last bit of holiday peace well and truly dismantled. Brian says Jonathan insisted on booking an appointment with me on Monday at three, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Fantastic. Brian knows well I finish at three and, if it was any other client, he’d say no. But because he’s intimidated by Jonathan, I’m stuck working extra hours. My reply says exactly that, but I delete it. In any given week, about a third of the emails I write to Brian end up deleted. Imagine if some hackers ever released all the deleted draft emails in the world. I’d be so screwed. And fired.
I rewrite it, keeping it brief. Jonathan has now managed to bookend my holiday, and not in a good way. He was my last client the day before we flew out here, and sent me home with a throbbing headache. I actually have no idea why he comes to therapy at all – he refuses to open up about anything, but instead dances around every conversation, dropping tantalising crumbs about his ex-wife, then pulling away again. Or, at least, I think I’m supposed to find them tantalising. And that day was the worst to date; every time I asked a question, he turned it back on me, getting more and more personal – asking about my husband with a nod to my wedding ring, and asking if I have children. When I didn’t answer, he said he knew I didn’t have children, because I still had a “fine, tight figure” for someone my age. It wasn’t just the words, it was his eyes, crawling all over me as he spoke. Eyes like a fish. Susan on reception thinks he’s handsome but I can’t see it at all. Fisheye Jonathan. That’s what I call him, but only in my head. Outwardly, I’m the polished professional – warm, but not too warm; an occasional smile, but I’m not here to smile – I’m here to help you fix yourself. That’s the message I give my clients, and most of the time it works well. But not with Jonathan. Sometimes I think he sees through my mask and is laughing at me, but mostly I think he’s too caught up in his own world to have any grasp of what I’m saying.
Ava comes out on deck to see if I’m ready to go for dinner, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Mum! You’re not even dressed – come on!”
I look down at my shorts and vest top. “Am I not fine like this?”
“Well, I don’t mind, but what if one of your Instagram followers saw you?”
My children think they’re hilarious. Well, actually, they think the fact that their mother has a blog is hilarious. Blogs are dead, they tell me. So last century. Why can’t I just embarrass them on Facebook like their friends’ parents do, they wonder. I am very good at ignoring my children, but in this instance Ava is right – I’m not really a shorts-and-vest-top-to-the-restaurant person. Hauling myself off the chair, I go inside to shower.
The girls’ insistence on doing everything one last time includes stopping in to check out the Friday-night entertainment in the bar. A lone guitarist sings Ed Sheeran songs to an audience more intent on knocking back cheap Chianti than listening to ballads, but the atmosphere is warm and buzzy, and I don’t mind being here. Ava and Rebecca get chatting to a group of English kids and soon they’re moving towards the pool table. Ava sends me a questioning look, and I wave her away. I’m perfectly happy in my own company. Tables all around are full of couples and families, some singing along, most chatting, faces lit up by candles in old spirit bottles. Mine is Baileys – I pick at the candle wax, letting the music and the wine wash over me.
A chair scrapes against the tiled floor and when I look up Cleo is sitting opposite me.
“Hey, how’re you doing? Are you here on your own?” she asks.
I nod towards the pool table where Ava and Rebecca are posing for a boy taking a photo. “My daughters are over there with some people much cooler than me. Are you here with anyone?”
She shakes her head and her hair flows like a mane around her shoulders. Tonight she’s wearing a floaty jade-green dress – my mother would approve. If she could, my mother would have me dress Rebecca in green and only green since the first moment we realised we had a red-haired child. Though she might not approve of the turquoise-blue bracelet Cleo is wearing, its silver elephant charm rattling against the beads. “Blue and green must never be seen” is another of my mother’s top fashion tips.
“Yes, all alone tonight,” Cleo says. “Well, I’m travelling alone, but I did meet a nice guy from Sweden who kept me company the last few evenings. He’s gone back to Stockholm. I say Stockholm, but actually I’ve no idea where he was from. He was beautiful . . . Hey, you still wear your ring, I see?” She points at my finger.
My hand covers it instinctively. “I know. It’s silly.”
She shrugs. She shrugs a lot, but it suits her.
“I haven’t told many people about the split, so I keep the ring on.”
Eyebrows arch at me. “Wow. Why’s that?”
A sip of wine slows my answer. “I suppose I’m just not ready to announce to everyone what a failure I am.”
Cleo laughs. I don’t know what’s funny about a marriage break-up. Maybe it’s an age thing – she can’t be more than twenty-nine or thirty. Or
an American thing. I guess lots of people over there split up and I sound a bit dramatic
“Look, sorry, I don’t mean to make fun. It just makes no sense to me. Why not tell people and start looking forward, moving on? It’s not a failure, it’s just life. Relationships break up all the time. Believe me, I know all about that.”
My eye drops to her ring finger, but there’s no gold band. Could she be married and divorced at such a young age? I must seem archaic to her.
“Oh, it’s not that I think everyone whose marriage breaks up is a failure. It’s just so far removed from how I pictured my own life panning out and I’m still wondering what I could have done differently.”
Cleo signals to the waiter for another glass of wine and asks what mine is. My protestations are ignored, and she points out that my daughters are very happily hanging out with their new friends and unlikely to be interested in going home yet. Oh feck it, another glass of wine won’t kill me.
“So let’s see a photo of him,” she says, once the wine arrives.
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
Why she wants to see him I have no idea, but I pull up a photo on my phone and hand it to her. She studies it for a moment, then hands it back.
