It Started With A Tweet

by Anna Bell

  I gasp in shock.

  I stare down at the well and then back up at her. I’m wondering if this is some sort of test. Should I pretend not to be bothered? To prove to her that I’ve curbed my digital addiction once and for all? But she looks really serious.

  ‘You’re not joking,’ I stutter, as it starts to hit me that I’m going to be reunited with my phone any minute now. ‘You’re going to give me my phone, just like that.’

  I’ve wanted this moment for weeks, but now that it’s about to happen, I can’t help feeling a little flat.

  ‘What did you want, some sort of closing ceremony? You are ready, young grasshopper,’ she says laughing. ‘In all honesty, I can’t believe you lasted this long. I kept expecting to find you here trying to get your phone out with a stick or stealing people’s phones in desperation.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha, as if,’ I say in a squeaky voice. Has she been tracking my every move? Or is this some kind of sibling telepathy?

  ‘Anyway, the time has come.’

  ‘Has it? Are you sure?’

  I’m starting to get so nervous that I’m about to be one step closer to getting connected. The only thing stopping me from totally flipping out is the thought that even when I get the phone in my hand I still won’t get any signal here: phone or Internet. I just hope that I’ll be ready when we drive to somewhere with a signal.

  In the old days I would have gone nuts if I didn’t check my phone every five minutes and now I’m going to be grateful for at least a five-minute respite of the time it’ll take us to reach the village.

  All this time I’ve been craving logging on, but, now that I’ve actually got permission, I’m scared. It’s terrifying, not just because I have to think of what I’m going to find, but also because I actually have to figure out a plan for the future.

  Receiving the letter from E.D.S.M. has made me remember that I have to go back to the real world, to find a job, and that means finding out what people have been saying about me and that awful tweet.

  I turn and look over my shoulder at the ramshackle farmhouse opposite and I feel a pang in my heart. I feel far more at home here than I did in Erica’s flat, despite living at the latter for almost four months. The farmhouse has changed so much since I arrived, and I can’t believe that I’m not going to see the rest of its transformation.

  I already sound as if I’m leaving, when I know I’ve only been offered an interview, and not a job, but I know that once I open Pandora’s box – aka switch my phone back on – I’ll have to face up to all I’ve been running away from.

  ‘Don’t look so down,’ says Rosie, slipping her arm around me, and I turn back to the well. I’m not sure when we got so tactile around each other as it feels so normal now. ‘We both knew you’d have to get back to reality at some point. And I guess you’ve managed the digital detox for three weeks; I’m sure your fingers have been glad of the rest.’

  ‘They’d be lucky; all that paper stripping has pretty much ruined them. I’m worried that even if they wanted to swipe my phone they wouldn’t be able to.’

  ‘See, I told you this type of break would make you a different person.’

  I smile. I’m really going to miss my sister. I never really appreciated her when we lived in the same house, but now, in these few weeks, I feel as if I’ve realised what I missed out on during those teenage years where we spent our time arguing over who’d pinched whose belt or who’d ruined whose Heather Shimmer lipstick.

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ I say, a little sadly.

  ‘You don’t have to go right now. I’m just letting you have your phone back. You know you can stay as long as you want.’

  I smile, but she knows as well as I do, that as soon as I switch that phone on and my old life comes flooding back to me, I’ll have no choice but to go.

  ‘I have to stay, at least until Alexis goes, next week. I did promise.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ says Rosie shrugging. ‘Rupert’s barely speaking to me on the phone, so I doubt he’ll be rushing up here anytime soon. Besides, he thinks he’s your lover anyway, not mine . . .’

  I look back at the well. With Rosie’s permission to go, all that’s keeping me here is my phone.

  ‘So how are you going to get them out, then?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah, I have a plan for that.’

  She picks up a stick from behind the barn that has a large magnet tied to it.

  ‘Don’t tell me that’s been there the whole time?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, I bought the bits to make it this morning from the builders’ merchants. There’s a magnet taped to the box that we put the phones in.’

  She lowers it down, and there’s silence as both of us hold our breath in expectation.

  Any second now, and I’m going to get my baby back.

  My stomach is well and truly in knots now. I can’t decide if I’m excited or terrified. Maybe I’m both. Excited to speak to everyone again, but terrified at what I’m going to find relating to #priceless.

  ‘I think I’ve got it,’ says Rosie. ‘Hang on, hang on. Balls!’

  This time, I don’t even react. We’ve been trying to get the phone for half an hour to no avail. I should have known that she’d have been useless; she was always the one who could never hook a duck at the fair when we were kids.

  We hear a splosh in the water at the bottom of the well.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Daisy, I thought it would work. I read about it on the Internet, and I guess the problem is all that rain. This well was supposed to be totally dry. I don’t even think a stronger magnet would help as it’s too difficult to line up the magnets under all that water. That’s if the water hasn’t lifted the tape off the box in the first place.’

  My nostrils flare as I try to remain calm. It’s only a phone, it’s only a phone, I say to myself. These last few weeks have proved to me that I can survive without it, but it’s what’s on the phone that’s upsetting me.

  ‘Surely there has to be another way. What about getting a rope ladder and climbing down?’

  ‘I think you’d get stuck, it’s not the widest of wells.’

  ‘What about a hook? Or a stick? Or a . . .’ I’m at a loss.

  ‘I’m sure I can get it out . . . eventually,’ says Rosie. ‘I can ask one of the builders next week if they’ve got any ideas. They might be able to help.’

  ‘Might be able to? But everything was on that phone: my photos, my contacts, my messages . . .’

  ‘Relax, it’ll all be backed up on the iCloud. You’ll not have lost anything, and you can get a new SIM from your network provider. Obviously, I’ll pay for the iPhone.’

  ‘Too right you will. That was an iPhone 7.’

  ‘Nice try, toots. I know for a fact it was a 5s.’

  No harm in trying.

  I can’t help feeling a little relieved that I can put off connecting to the real world for a little bit longer. ‘I guess that’s that, then,’ I say shrugging. ‘I should probably crack on with the painting.’

  ‘Or I could drive you to the station and you could catch the train to Carlisle. There are Internet cafes there.’

  ‘Internet cafes? How retro.’

  I was under the illusion that they had died a death along with the traditional phone box. Both, I’ve discovered on this trip, are still alive and kicking.

  Rosie gives her magnetic fishing line one more go, but we both know she’s onto a loser. Apparently, she’d taped magnetic metal to the Tupperware boxes, thinking that would work.

  ‘Go grab your wallet and I’ll run you to the station.’

  I take a deep breath. There’s really no getting out of this. Rosie seems to have decided that my detox is over.

  I do as I’m told, and go into the house, trying to ignore the sadness that washes over me as I enter the decrepit kitchen. I never imagined when I first walked in that I could possibly get attached to it. But, Rosie’s right. I’ve done what I set out to do and there’s a compan
y offering me an interview; I’ve got to at least go and see what they have to say.

  ‘You know, I’m so proud of you, how you’ve resisted the Internet for as long as you have. I was sure you’d have cracked,’ says Rosie as I climb into the car.

  She looks genuinely proud of me and I hang my head in shame as I think of all the times I tried, and failed, to get the Internet. I almost feel guilty for trying.

  ‘Do you want to check the post?’ she says, pointing to the box as we approach it.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  I haven’t checked it since my run-in with Jack and I’m half expecting him to have written a letter in apology. I unlock the box, and I feel a wave of disappointment wash over me as I see it’s empty. Of course it is.

  I start to walk over to the car, when I see an old Fiesta drive up to the mailbox. Jenny’s waving from behind the wheel.

  ‘Hiya; you guys off out?’ she says as she climbs out quickly.

  ‘Uh-huh, I’m going to Carlisle.’

  ‘Oh, you lucky thing.’

  ‘Hmm. And you’re going to see Jack, again,’ I say, more of a statement than a question. I’m pleased I ran into her, it reminds me that argument or no argument, he’s got a girlfriend.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll, um, see you later,’ she says, a blush spreading over her cheeks.

  I sigh as I get into the car.

  ‘Nervous about what you’re going to find on the Internet?’ asks Rosie.

  ‘Something like that,’ I say. I’m more nervous that E.D.S.M. won’t lead to anything, as right now I feel as if I want to get as far away from this village, and Jack, as possible.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Time since last Internet usage: 3 weeks, 22 hours, 5 minutes and 7 seconds

  I waste no time when I arrive at Carlisle station, finding an Internet cafe close by. I’m practically shaking as I cross the threshold, like an addict about to get their fix.

  At first, I’m so overwhelmed that the person behind the desk has to practically usher me over to a vacant desktop. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long that I have no idea what I’m going to check first.

  My mind floods with options: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Gmail, and in the end I decide to start with my email, as, if there’s anything important, that’s where it will be.

  I almost can’t bring myself to do it as I’ve worked so hard over the last few weeks to teach myself to live offline, but in the end I can’t help myself. I’m suddenly desperate to know.

  My inbox is loaded – 1,264 unread emails. Holy Moly. This is going to take me ages. I start scanning rapidly through my inbox, ignoring the millions from ASOS and Boohoo, who have clearly missed me. I find one from an HR officer at my old work. My heart skips a beat as I think that maybe they’ve realised they’d been too rash in firing me so quickly. Maybe the whole inappropriate tweet had been a godsend with the PR and they’re begging to have me back.

  Dear Daisy,

  I am writing formally to advise you of your dismissal after gross misconduct. Attached are the terms and conditions of your leave.

  If you have any questions, do not hesitate to contact me.

  Yours,

  Sally Roden

  Or maybe not.

  That’s the only work-related email in a sea of advertising. I scan the rest of my inbox downheartedly, and other than an email from a Nigerian solicitor informing me of a large bequest from a long-lost relative, I seem to have no important correspondence. It takes barely any time at all to realise that I am an advertisers’ dream, having signed up to nearly every shop I’ve ever bought from. When I clear my digital backlog, I’m definitely unsubscribing from everything.

  Lack of job offers aside, there was nothing too bad in my emails, and it gives me a little boost in confidence to check my Twitter.

  I do a quick scan of what’s trending, and I’m pleased to report #priceless is over its fifteen minutes of fame. I sigh with relief, but I still have notifications.

  There are over a hundred, and as I scroll through them, I see they’re mostly from men saying things that rival my priceless tweet for smut. One of them is a retweet mentioning me, and has an article attached to it from the Mail Online. My eyes pop out as I read the headline, ‘Hot as Hell Tinder Date slams Big Knicker Disappointment’, and there, staring back at me, is a picture – more like a professional head shot – of Dickhead Dominic, next to a picture of me taken at Helen’s hen do when I’m pushing my boobs together and pouting at the camera.

  My hand shakes as I click onto the link. I already feel sick to my stomach and my eyes can barely focus on the words in the article:

  Daisy Hobson, 34, found herself at the centre of a viral twitterstorm, after she accidentally tweeted her thoughts from her company’s account, rather than her personal one . . .

  I’ve only read one line and I’m already fuming. I’m thirty-bloody-one, you arseholes!

  Daisy was immediately fired after tweeting: Sexy knickers £25, Brazilian £35, New outfit £170. When your Tinder date is hot as hell & you’re going to f**k his brains out = #priceless. The apparent party girl’s personal feed is already littered with sex tips and risqué musings on life. It seems she’s up for anything.

  Juxtaposed with the pictures of me from the hen do where I’m dressed in that slutty outfit, doing those ridiculous challenges, are the tweets from the Cards Against Humanity style game:

  @DaisyDoesTweet

  The Secret to Good Sex is being up for anything!!!

  @DaisyDoesTweet

  A Woman’s Worst enemy is the Missionary Position!!!

  Read on Wednesday how the hot-as-hell Tinder date Dominic Cutler, 34, thought that Daisy was a disappointment in our exclusive interview.

  I can’t bring myself to read any more of the article, which seems to have been stitched together with tweets and Instagram photos. Talk about taking things out of context.

  I hastily delete my Twitter account, not wanting any of those vile men to be anywhere near me. It’s what I should have done three weeks ago.

  I then type my name into Google and brace myself for a deluge of hastily typed articles. I’m almost relieved when there are only a few entries relating to my tweeting disasters: the article I’ve just read, Dickhead Dominic’s exclusive, which I can’t bring myself to read, and one in Marketing Monthly. I click on that and wince at what the marketing industry are going to say about me.

  #Priceless = #Stupidity

  Every so often someone commits a heinous social-media faux pas that throws their company into turmoil. There are examples littered all over the Internet, from the fashion company who tweeted about the #Aurora hashtag, not realising it related to a mass shooting at a cinema, to the beauty company that tweeted about Oprah Winfrey’s tattoos, only to find they were looking at a photo of Whoopi Goldberg.

  The latest company to find itself in a media storm is marketing company WFM, when one of their account managers, Daisy Robson, tweeted ‘Sexy knickers £25, Brazilian £35, New outfit £170. When your Tinder date is hot as hell & you’re going to f**k his brains out = #priceless.’ It was a tweet meant for her personal account, but she sent it accidentally from the company one. For a company that prides itself on its digital strategies for its clients, it’s an embarrassing mistake to have made.

  I really have been named and shamed, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is the final nail in my professional coffin. The job offers definitely aren’t going to be rolling in now.

  It makes me think that the interview from E.D.S.M. might be my last hope. I quickly google the company, and all I find is a holding page with a date next month underneath their logo. No clues as to what their business actually is.

  I do a quick check on Companies House, as Rosie suggested, to see whether they are a legit company, and I see the name of the managing director who wrote to me. The company classification of ‘Other Software publishing’ doesn’t really tell me what they do either, but at least they are a bonafide company.

&
nbsp; I guess the only way I’m going to find anything else out is to phone them. I can’t face it, so I turn to Facebook. My eyes fall on the box at the top: What’s on your mind?

  Thank you for asking, Facebook. If you must know, I type, my life is a f**king disaster.

  I hesitate before I hit the post button. What am I doing? I’m sending one of those awful fishing posts and I can just imagine what will happen if I do that. A number of my good friends will write me messages saying things like: what’s up, hun? xxx or Sending hugs, hun xx.

  As if anyone actually cares; they’re just being nosey.

  I delete the words and shake my head; I’m not going to solve anything by posting it.

  I almost can’t believe that I used to write things like that without consideration. I think back to the priceless tweet and how its over-sharing nature got me into this mess in the first place.

  I turn my attention instead to my messages, only to find that I only have a group message from a friend announcing she’s pregnant. But, other than that, no one else has missed me. In three weeks. Way to get an ego boost.

  I scan through Facebook, reading people’s status updates, but it doesn’t take me long before I get a bit bored. My friend Ruby has posted umpteen photos of her kitten in cute positions. Simon, who I went to school with, has posted photos of his new Boxster. A number of people have posted about what they had for dinner last night, including my friend Grace, who seems to think that quinoa is the answer to all of life’s ills. And this is what I’ve been missing?

  I’m about to log off, when I spot Erica’s status, which isn’t so much a status as a declaration that she’s single. I immediately click on the post to see all the comments, which are flooded with Are you OK, hun? and Call me if you need me.

  WTF? I only got a letter from her a couple of days ago where she was saying how much she loved Chris and that they were on the road to mortgages, marriage and 2.4 children.

  I immediately bring up my messages and bang one out to her.