One Click

by Andrea Mara

  It’s late by the time I get a reply from the journalist – the girls are in bed and I’m re-reading VIN’s story when her message comes in.

  Yes, still looking, would love to interview you if interested?

  Can I be anonymous? I ask.

  Ideally we want people willing to be named, to make a point about standing up to trolls, but I can ask my editor, she replies.

  Sure. How does it work? Do we meet? I am in Dublin.

  Me too. I can email questions then we could meet in city centre at time that suits? she says.

  Great. I will message you my email address, thanks

  I follow her account and message her my details privately, then sit back to let it sink in. Am I taking control? Or is it the worst idea I’ve had yet? I don’t know, but VIN has made his next move, and maybe this is mine.

  CLEO

  Chapter 29

  Slate-blue dusk slips like smoke through the window and fills the apartment. It happens so slowly that Cleo doesn’t notice until she’s sitting in almost perfect darkness. For the third time, she picks up her cell and thinks about calling her date to say she’s sick. Back home, she’d never have gone on a date she didn’t want to, but there’s something about Irish guys . . . a kind of self-deprecating shyness she’s not used to, and it’s harder to knock them back. Maybe she’ll do this one date, then let him down gently.

  A Skype call flashes up on her laptop – Delphine doing her usual Saturday check-in. Her face fills the screen when Cleo answers, her hair glinting in the kitchen window sunlight.

  “Hey, Mom, your hair looks good – did you colour it?”

  She pats it down. “Is it too red?”

  “No, it looks great.”

  “Thank you, honey. How are you doing? Staying in tonight?” She’s nodding towards Cleo’s tatty sweater.

  “I’m going out actually, on a date. I thought I might escape without changing?”

  “Sure, whatever you think.” She’s laughing now.

  “Fine, I’ll change before I go. How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. A little chilly – fall is really setting in now. Is it like that in Dublin too?”

  “It’s beautiful at this time of year,” Cleo says. “You should come some time. Maybe while I’m here – you know, that’s a great idea, you should definitely come over!”

  “Don’t push me like that!” The answer slices through the air between them.

  Cleo sits back from the screen.

  “Jesus, Mom, don’t hold back, tell me how you really feel – what’s up?”

  Delphine shakes her head and pulls on a smile, but her eyes betray her, like an anxious, choppy sea.

  “Mom, what is it?”

  “Nothing at all.” She shakes her head, harder this time, like she’s dislodging an unpleasant image. “I was thinking about last fall, and everything that happened with Marcus. It must be on your mind. Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m good. I’m a little pissed about Chris and all that stuff, but I haven’t been thinking about Marcus.”

  She looks at me as though she doesn’t believe it, but it’s true. It’s done and he’s gone.

  “It’s okay to talk, you know.”

  “I promise you if I need to, I will, but I’m fine. It would be good to solve this thing with Chris and the messages though.”

  “Any update on that?”

  “Yeah, he’s started writing a blog now – the VIN person, I mean. And he seems to be hung up on an affair his dad had. I’ve checked with Ruth, and she’s never heard of Chris and Shannon’s parents having marriage trouble, but then she wasn’t all that close to Shannon. And she doesn’t know Chris at all.”

  “And you think it’s definitely him?”

  “I’m almost certain. Lauren replied to an email on Tuesday and said my name is Giulia and I’m Italian. She sent me the reply – basically, the person says he doesn’t think that’s very likely, bearing in mind what he ‘knows’ about ‘the woman on the beach’. If he’s unconvinced about the name Giulia, it really seems like it must be Chris. A total stranger would believe Lauren.”

  Delphine sits back on her chair and Cleo can see the kitchen window behind her. With a whoosh, a first ever wave of homesickness surges through her, catching her off guard. Where did that come from? Just for a moment, she’d give anything to be sitting in her mom’s small, bright kitchen in Long Island, solving the world’s problems over coffee and cake.

  “Cleo, I just don’t know. The man I met on my porch that night was raw and broken about the death of his sister – angry at anyone he could blame for what happened. And while of course it’s not your fault, it’s very human to want to confront you.”

  “Jesus, Mom.”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t mean it’s right. But he’s grieving, and he thinks speaking to you is the answer. He didn’t seem like someone who would send anonymous messages to a stranger in Dublin.”

  Cleo doesn’t say anything.

  “But isn’t that a good thing?” Delphine continues. “Why do you want it to be Chris?”

  Cleo lets out a long breath. “Because if it’s not Chris, then we have no idea who it is, or why he’s targeting us. Better the devil you know.”

  “Ah,” is all she says to that, and Cleo can see her turning over what she’s said. “Well, who am I to say? It could very well be Chris. But look after yourself, won’t you, honey?”

  Cleo nods and tells her she needs to get changed to go out. She closes the laptop and, after a beat, calls her date to tell him she’s come down with stomach flu. He’s so lovely about it, she almost feels bad for lying. But she doesn’t, because life’s too short for mediocre dates and bouts of misplaced guilt.

  LAUREN

  Chapter 30

  “God, I always forget how much I like your kitchen until I’m here on a sunny day. I’d love if mine was bright like this.”

  Clare is being kind, my kitchen is falling apart, but natural light and pale colours make it look bigger and brighter than it really is.

  “You only got yours done up a few years ago, will you stop! Tea or coffee?” I ask, glancing at the clock. “Too early for wine. Ava and Rebecca would sign me up for AA if they came down and found us drinking wine at four o’clock on a Monday afternoon.”

  Clare nods and opts for tea. She’s head of IT for an IFSC bank and is on a rare day off but says she’s bored out of her mind – she was in here almost as soon as my car pulled up.

  “How are they doing anyway, the girls?” she asks, lowering her voice.

  I sit opposite, waiting for the kettle to boil.

  “Ava’s okay, Rebecca not so much. She mostly pretends she’s fine, but I can see it written all over her. Literally.”

  “Literally?”

  “She dyed her hair. Though the weird thing is, I was worried about her dying it pink or blue and getting in trouble with school, but she dyed it brown.”

  Clare’s mouth drops open. “No! Her beautiful red hair?”

  “I know. As rebelling goes, it’s a bit odd, isn’t it? And she’s been rude to Nadine, and even to their cleaner, which is really out of character for her. I know it’s all an attempt to get attention but I’m giving her the attention and she’s pushing me away.”

  The kettle trundles to a stop and I pour hot water into two mugs.

  “That sounds hard for Rebecca. And how about you, Lauren – how’re you doing?”

  “Same as ever. You know, totally fine except for the broken marriage, the falling-down house, the troublesome client, and the small matter of the internet troll.”

  “The who?”

  “My own personal troll. This person who goes by the name VIN and sends me horrible messages on email and Twitter and has started a creepy blog now too.”

  Her eyes widen as I fill her in on VIN, Cleo, and Chris, and show her some of the messages and the blog post.

  “What does ‘Vin H O Rus’ mean?” she asks, looking at his profile.

  “I don’t know
– possibly a shortened version of his name or his initials.”

  She shakes her head. “Jesus, you poor thing! Can I help in any way?”

  “Thank you but no. I’m taking back some control though – I’ve agreed to meet a journalist for an article on internet trolls. It’ll be good to vent a bit.”

  She puts down her tea. “Seriously? I know I’m always saying you need to talk, but maybe a journalist is a step too far?”

  “It’ll probably be anonymous. I won’t do anything I’m not comfortable with.”

  She looks at me, lacing and unlacing her fingers around the mug.

  “I suppose if you’re not named and if it makes you feel like you’re taking control, it’s not a terrible idea. But be careful, won’t you?”

  I nod, and I can feel my throat tighten.

  “And what about the rest of it?” she continues. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do? I’m not great at DIY but I could stick my foot out and trip Nadine when she’s tottering past some evening – would that help?”

  That makes me smile. “Ha, she doesn’t even wear heels. She doesn’t need to, she’s tall and gorgeous without them. The cow.”

  Clare snorts. “You’re ten times more gorgeous than she is. There’s nothing of substance there – it’s all fake tan, fake hair, and enough Botox to fill the Irish Sea.”

  I shrug. “She’s not exactly natural-looking, but she’s also ten years younger than me, and nothing can change that. I’m moving on.”

  That gets her sitting up straighter.

  “Oh! Someone new?”

  “Jesus, no! I just mean ready to move past Dave.”

  Her voice softens. “Are you not past him? Would you take him back?”

  It takes a moment to find the right words.

  “Mostly the answer is no,” I say eventually, “but, God, sometimes the loneliness gets to me. Sitting here at night with nobody to talk to. . .” I trace my finger across a biro mark on the table. “But nobody is allowed to talk about the loneliness – nobody wants to hear that someone they know is lonely, because it makes them uncomfortable. So we have to plaster on smiles and pretend we’re fine, for fear we’ll push people even further away.” I stop and smile at her. “Have I frightened you off yet?”

  She reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. Her skin is warm and unfamiliar – I can’t remember the last time I was touched by anyone other than my children.

  “Not at all. Keep going, this is good for you,” she says softly and I’m sorry when she gently releases my hand.

  In the middle of the table, there’s a napkin holder, filled with yellow daisy-print paper napkins. They’ve been there since spring, untouched since Easter Sunday. I remember trying to decide between daisies or polka dots. As if that mattered. I pull one out and examine it.

  “And we’re not allowed to say we don’t like being on our own.” I tear off one of the little daisies and drop it on the table. Then another, and another, until the napkin is gone. “We all have to embrace being independent, and we can’t admit we’d rather be in a couple.”

  Clare laughs. “Hey, I can absolutely see how you’d rather be in a couple. The world is bloody made for couples. But not with the wrong man surely?”

  I look down at the old, scratched, wooden table, a testament to years of marital tea and family dinners.

  “I know it’s not okay to say this, but when things are going really badly wrong –” I look up, and she’s staring back at me, but I see no judgement, “yeah, sometimes even with the wrong man.”

  I sweep the little pieces of napkin, with their tiny unknowing daisies, into my hand and throw them in the bin.

  Chapter 31

  “Would you like a coffee while you’re waiting?”

  I look up from my phone at the ponytail-swishing waitress and order a cappuccino. The journalist won’t be here for another ten minutes, and I’m reading over the questions she sent by email. There’s nothing at all wrong with them, but still they’re making me squirm.

  Can you tell me the back-story – how did the first message come about?

  No matter what way I look at it, there’s no getting away from admitting I shared a photo without permission.

  What does the person say in the messages – can you give some examples?

  That makes me uncomfortable too. Putting it out there publicly that my troll thinks I’m pathetic with my running selfies and my overnight oats just makes me feel, well, pathetic. I’m not sure how empowering this is going to be.

  My cappuccino arrives in an oversized cup the colour of egg yolk and, as I stir in the chocolate flakes, I see a woman come through the door. A girl really, she couldn’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. Long hair tumbling over her shoulders, a slogan sweatshirt with something about unicorns, and a Mac peeping out of her oversized cross-body satchel. I smile up at her though inside I’m suddenly nervous.

  But she swishes past and joins a woman at another table. I’m still looking over at her, wondering if she got it wrong, when a voice interrupts me.

  “Lauren?”

  I look up to see someone my age or perhaps older, with honey-coloured hair tied back in a low bun. A pair of dark-rimmed glasses slip down her nose as she inclines her head towards me, and she pushes them back up, waiting for me to confirm that I am indeed Lauren.

  “Hi, yes, Caroline?”

  “That’s me,” she says, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  There’s no laptop peeking out of her bag – instead she pulls out a notebook and pen, and a recording device.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” she says. “Nice to say hello in person!”

  It’s Saturday, but when she takes off her coat I see she’s wearing a smart black dress, the kind I often wear to work. She reminds me suddenly of Clare, and the knot I didn’t know was in my stomach starts to unfurl. I smile back.

  “You too. I went ahead and ordered,” I tell her, nodding towards my coffee.

  She raises her hand and orders the same, then opens her notebook.

  “I won’t keep you long, but I’m delighted we could meet – it’s much easier than a phone interview,” she says, fiddling with a button on her recorder. “Okay, grand, that’s set to record.” She looks up at me. “It’s safer than relying on notes. So, thanks for this – no doubt you’ve plenty of other things you could be doing on a Saturday morning!”

  “It’s no trouble – I work near here, and I needed to pick up some files from the office anyway.”

  She writes something in her notebook and I try to read but her handwriting is too scrawly to follow upside down.

  “Let’s start with that – a bit of background – what do you do for a living?”

  It’s such an easy question but I’m struggling already.

  “I’m a counselling psychologist with the Steps to Wellness Clinic – but actually, don’t put the clinic name in.”

  She scribbles something again.

  “And what about family – do you have children?”

  I shift in my seat.

  “Yes, two daughters, fifteen and thirteen.”

  “And their names?”

  “Ava and Rebecca, but do you mind if we keep their names out? I’m happy to tell the story, but wouldn’t like anyone to identify me or the girls.”

  Caroline taps her pen on her lip, and for a moment she’s elsewhere.

  “I’ll talk to my editor. I completely understand why you want to be anonymous, but I think it will be a better, more relatable story if we give your details – you’re not just some nameless, faceless victim, you’re any of us, you’re all of us.”

  I nod, and take a sip of my coffee. “I absolutely see that, but it would be great to keep all options open. Would that be okay? Hopefully your editor will understand. It’s for IrishNewsOnline.ie, right?”

  The pen is still tapping against her lip and for a minute I wonder if she’s going to call it off, but then she smiles.

  “Absolutely, nothing off
the table for now. And do you have a partner?”

  Jesus, I’m not cut out for this. These are the most basic questions and still they feel like pulling plasters.

  “I do, I have a husband, but . . .” she’s looking at me, waiting – there’s no impatience there, only interest. “He’s gone,” I say finally. “He moved out a few months ago.” And to my surprise, it feels good to confess to a stranger. I make a decision. “And actually, regardless of whether we go with anonymous or not, you can put that in. It’s not like we’re the only people in Ireland with a failed marriage, is it?”

  “Oh, tell me about it,” she says, putting the pen down, “My husband and I separated about six years ago. I get it. We are definitely not alone. Well, except for the fact that we are alone, so to speak.”

  That makes me laugh. And in a world of happy couples, I’m glad to be sitting here with a kindred spirit.