by Nina Manning
‘I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb, I thought you’d be up. It’s just I wanted to know how to find the stories on Instagram. You know, when someone posts one, I watched one last night and well this morning it’s gone.’
Mini shook her head a little. ‘I don’t know, they only last twenty-four hours, unless the host saved them in their highlights.’
‘Where would that be?’ I whispered back as the body next to her let out a loud snore and shifted in the bed. Mini looked over at him and then back at me. She picked her phone up from the bedside table and rubbed her face.
‘It’s seven fifteen, Regi.’
‘I know, sorry. I thought it was later, I fell asleep pretty early,’ I said and began to back out of the room.
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. Look, just along the top here.’ Mini pointed at her phone and I took a few tentative steps towards the bed and stretched to look so I wasn’t too close to either of them. I could see where Mini was pointing to; just under the personal information on the personal page of the Instagram host was a row of circles, all with different titles underneath them.
‘Okay, great, thanks. Sorry to disturb.’ I took a few long steps backwards and shut the door. I heard the muffled sounds of Mini’s bed guest saying something and her soothing voice saying something back. I headed back to my room where my phone was charging still. I opened Mrs Clean’s Instagram page and looked under the personal information where Mini had shown me. There were a selection of Mrs Clean’s highlighted stories, all under different headings. I sat and watched through all thirty-six stories in the different categories, but not one of them was the story I had seen last night.
What had I seen last night? My memory of it was already fading. Many of Mrs Clean’s followers talked about how she didn’t have any children. How she presented herself as a single woman living in a house. I had always seen her house as the baby she couldn’t have. Perhaps she had guests round and someone had left a toddler-sized shoe under her bed. That had to be the only explanation. But I felt a new growing interest forming inside me. I wanted, no, needed to know more. I wanted to know her story; who she was, whether she had children but perhaps chose not to photograph them? An Instagram photo was only a moment in time; it didn’t represent someone’s entire persona or their whole life. And it was for this reason that I wanted to know more. The snippets were simply not enough for me.
I went into one of the newest photos on her feed. It was an old-fashioned radiator painted white, and a pink-Marigold-cladded hand with a cloth wiping it down. Underneath she had written about her weekend being full of spring cleaning. I started looking through the comments, to see if anyone had mentioned anything about seeing a red shoe in an Instagram story last night. There were so many – thirty thousand or so. But as I scrolled through, I began to see the odd few negative messages and the one from lucybest65 stood out.
I quickly sped through as many comments as I could and saw nothing. No one else had noticed. I remembered how I had fallen asleep clutching my phone, which could only have meant that I was looking at the story right up until I fell asleep. I must have studied it pretty hard. I doubt anyone else looked as intricately as I did, and it was only because I had looked at it so many times that I spotted it. If I wasn’t looking as much as I was, I certainly would have missed it.
Who was she? Was she a liar? A fraud? Maybe she didn’t even clean her own house and paid someone to do it for her? I was beginning to wish I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol last night as my intrigue grew. I had been given a snapshot into someone’s life and then not been given anything else. It was addictive. It made me want to keep coming back, to find out what other pieces of this woman’s life I was slowly putting together. The ‘Banksy of Instagram’ as one of her followers had referred to her.
I found myself sitting in my lecture on Monday and Mrs Clean drifted into my thoughts as she was doing more and more often these days. The vanishing red shoe was all I could think about. I kept going back to her profile and searching each photo on her grid for other clues about her life. I needed to know more about this woman, how she got to live in this house, the house I had dreamt about, so full of symmetry and so aesthetically pleasing. The house I had seen myself living in with my family. What exactly did it take to become an influencer? How did it work? I had been so removed from the world of social media for so long – I had been living my life purely on autopilot, it seemed. Now I was re-engaged in society, I had so many questions. So many thoughts, specifically about Mrs Clean, this woman who was living a fabulous life of luxury and cleanliness. She had begun to drip-feed me tiny snippets of her life every day. The more she posted, the more I wanted to see, but it still felt like it was never enough.
I was scrolling through another post of Mrs Clean’s and hadn’t heard the tutor call my name. Suddenly, I felt eyes on me and it was like I was fourteen again and in secondary school as I felt the heat rush to my neck and cheeks. I looked up at Sheila, the lecturer, and only then could I hear the echo of her question lingering.
I put my mobile down on the table, face down.
‘Sorry, I missed that – I was researching a pattern technique,’ I said, feeling more guilty at my lie.
Sheila gave me a knowing look and turned back to the board and continued with the lecture. Thirty-six years old and I could still be made to feel like an incompetent child. Wow. The shame gripped me and then slowly it began to morph into something else; a desire to run, to do anything other than sit still. I managed to hold on until the lesson had ended, and then I rushed across the courtyard to the ladies’ on the far side of the college where it was always quiet. I knew I could open and close a door a few times and not be spotted by anyone. I emerged from the toilet a few minutes later and began my walk back across the courtyard. I turned left to a patch of grass and found a spot away from people. I sat down and pulled out my lunch box; a salad and a smoothie. Once I had helped with the clearing up of the party, I prepared my lunches for the next few days as part of my weekly meal planning that Mrs Clean had demonstrated on her feed. I pulled open the lid on the Tupperware just as a shadow fell over me. I looked up and saw Will.
‘Hey, Regi, how are you? How was the party?’
I strained to look up at him, his height towering above me.
‘Hey, Will.’
‘May I?’ he pointed to the patch of grass next to me.
‘Sure.’ I nodded. I felt a mixture of embarrassment for the last time I had seen him and my episode in the clothes shop. But then I also felt something else, something which felt like relief, that I was no longer sat on this vast patch of grass alone.
‘How was the party?’ Will sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. I was grateful he had chosen to ask me about the party and not the incident over the weekend. Although I still felt the topic hovering over us, as though it needed to be spoken about. I wasn’t sure if I should have thanked him for his kindness and understanding or skate over it, pretend it hadn’t happened.
‘It was good.’ I picked at my salad with the fork I had packed. I looked at Will. ‘To be honest, I didn’t see much of it – I drank too much and was in bed by ten.’
Will scoffed. ‘That’s brilliant. Nice one. A girl after my own heart.’
I shifted a glance at Will, my look filled with questioning. It had been too long since I had had to assess a man’s intentions. Will seemed keen to be around me, and he had asked me out for a drink; I should be confidently translating that into ‘he likes me’. But though I felt something simmering in my gut whenever I saw him, how could I reciprocate, how could I fulfil my role as a partner in a relationship? Up until now, the thought had never crossed my mind. I was in a place that was too dark, that even the light that came from the feeling of a new relationship couldn’t touch it. I still had the echoes of accusations that had been screamed so close to my face, followed so suddenly by the empty silence that was just as palpable.
‘I dig an early night,’ Will said, gauging my look.
I looked back down into my salad. He cleared his throat. ‘But you rocked your top though, I hope?’
I nodded. Trying to arrange some semblance of words. ‘Right through until morning,’ I said brightly.
‘You slept in your clothes? Now I’m impressed.’ Will gave a quick raise of his eyebrows.
‘Bit of a lightweight these days,’ I said, allowing a small smile to edge its way across my lips.
Will smiled with his eyes, then looked up towards the sky and closed them, showing his appreciation for the warm midday sun. He opened them again and brought his attention to me. I had to quickly look away so that he wouldn’t catch me staring.
‘Sorry you didn’t get to have much of a time at the party. Maybe I should have hung around, taken you out for a drink instead.’
The way he said ‘taken me out’ as opposed to ‘us’ going for a drink, I understood the connotations behind the sentiment. And I found it strange to think that someone would be interested in this version of me, this version that I had no comprehension of. I had lost my self-actualisation. I no longer had any understanding of who I was or what I projected into the world. Sometimes, I had an overwhelming desire to get back to my past. I’d imagine myself opening a door and walking into my life from ten years ago and just picking up from where things were, when everything was so easy and simple. Even though I didn’t know it at the time. Of course, I would have returned to those blissful years with hindsight and steered my life away from the danger and sadness.
Will was looking at me, maybe waiting for a response. But what should I say: ‘No thanks, I’m socially inept with OCD compulsions that stem from a trauma I’ll never get over, so I’m kind of staying away from the dating scene, for, oh, say… forever.’
I smiled weakly and picked some more at my salad.
‘So, tell me what your kids have been learning from you today?’ I just couldn’t get into a conversation about having a drink alone with this man. His perception of me was based purely on what he could see. Once he lifted the veil, I was sure I would be nothing more than a disappointment.
Will smiled knowingly as I bypassed his reference to a drink. ‘Oh, not a lot, I’m sure. They all seem to drift off – no one seems to have an attention span any more. Everyone has their head in their phones.’
I thought about my own obsession with Instagram and wondered how many hours I had lost to my phone recently. Even thinking about it made me want to take my phone out and check in with Mrs Clean.
‘I’m sure most of them are here because they have nothing better to be doing. There are a few who are totally into it though. But they’re the rare ones.’
‘So were you a boffin at school then? Always concentrating and handing in your assignments on time?’
‘Well, mostly.’ Will looked sheepish. ‘I knew how to have a good time as well though. That’s what the noughties were for.’
I cast my memory back to those carefree days, which for me didn’t last long enough. I was bogged down with life’s worries way too early when I should have been off doing what my house mates were doing now: partying until the early hours, with no care or worry. Maybe this was why I unconsciously chose to live with girls over a decade younger than me; maybe I was reminding myself what my life could have been like if I had made a different choice.
‘So what do you like to get up to outside of college, Regi?’ I thought about the way Will let my name roll off his tongue. I had always enjoyed listening to people when they inserted my name into the sentence.
‘I, er, I don’t hang out with my house mates. They just tolerate me.’ I gave a small, hollow laugh.
‘I’m sure you have something to offer. Wisdom? The moral high ground? Been there, got the T-shirt?’
I shook my head. ‘I wouldn’t know how to offer any of those things.’
‘Oh, come on now, you’re a woman of the world. I reckon you’ve seen a few things, done a few things.’
I froze at his words. The memories of the past would never fade. I had done plenty of things. So many of them I was not proud of.
‘Have you put your name down for the exhibition?’ Will was looking at the sky again. ‘I mean, I’ve not seen your work, but I guess it’s good enough for you to get on this course, so you should consider it. It will help with your grade at the end.’
‘Exhibition?’ I asked. I had come here with no real intentions of doing any extracurricular activities. This was a short course to get me through into the first year. I hadn’t thought about doing any more than I actually had to do.
‘The art exhibition. Anyone from an introductory course or the first year of a degree course can exhibit. It’s not happening until mid-July, so you have a couple of months to prepare for it. I thought that might be your sort of thing.’
I really wished I knew what my sort of thing was. Right now, I felt as though it was Mrs Clean. But I didn’t talk about that. She was my secret passion.
‘I bet you were quite the little joiner in your day?’ Will continued.
I shrugged. ‘Maybe, a long time ago,’ I said wistfully, remembering all the groups and clubs I was a member of. Then instantly I regretted my tone as Will looked at me with a wonder in his eye.
‘So, you gonna sign up for it?’
‘I guess,’ I said quickly.
Will looked at his watch and wrinkled his nose.
‘That’s me then. No rest for the wicked.’ Will stood up and brushed his trousers down. I eyed him subtly from the corner of my eye.
‘Hey, let me know if you ever want that drink, you know.’ Will threw a backpack over his shoulder and looked down. I looked up and squinted.
‘Thanks. I will.’
‘You will go for a drink or will let me know?’ Will said tentatively.
I let out a small laugh. I couldn’t fault him for trying.
‘I’ll let you know,’ I said. Will lifted his hand to wave.
‘Okay, Regina, I’ll see ya.’
I felt sorry for Will then, the way he pronounced the name Regina with such veracity and passion. It was a wonderful name and had it been the name I had been blessed with at birth, I would have felt a connection to it. But it wasn’t my real name. Like so many other things about me, it was a lie.
15
Then
I was pregnant again. I had just turned nineteen. D had been working away more and more, and I was beginning to enjoy the freedom. I felt a growing maternal instinct, and I often felt long episodes of relaxation, yet I was equally terrified of what would come when he returned. He was usually in high spirits for the first few days, but then things would start to grind on him. Like the flat.
‘I’m sick of it in here. It’s too cramped.’ He paced up and down the lengthy kitchen that I had always found to be more than adequate.
‘Well, can’t we think about moving out somewhere soon?’ I thought of the tiny foetus growing inside me. He stopped his pacing and looked at me with a hard glare. I felt my gut tighten and my mouth went dry. I looked at how close I was to the door. Could I make a run for it? But before I had time to consider it properly, he was by my side. His arms slipped around my waist as he yanked me forcefully towards him and locked me there.
‘You don’t need to worry about that. I have it all sorted. That’s what I do, isn’t it? I have a job I need to do to secure us a nice little house. Don’t you think I want that for you, my queen? I was only discussing it with someone this morning.’ He spoke so softly that anyone who overheard him would think me the luckiest woman in the world.
‘Really?’ I said, surprised. The flat was fine for the two of us, even three or four of us. I had made it nice over the last few months, ordered some extra bits of furniture when D was having a ‘generous day’. And now I was meticulous. I made sure it was tidy beyond anyone’s expectations, every single day. D had spoken of us moving occasionally, but now it sounded as though it would actually happen soon.
‘Yep.’ He bent his legs and arched his back a little so I was curved i
nto him, my head almost at his height.
I felt the intensity of the closeness between us.
‘You know how you said that maybe one day you imagined us as a little family?’
He gave a mere nod.
I swallowed again. ‘Well, I think that that time might be here very soon. I’m pregnant.’
He let go of me so quickly I thought I would fall backwards. I braced myself, ready for a fist or a kick. His hands were running through his short hair, an action he often did when he was riled.
‘You mean, I’m going to be a dad?’ I looked at him and I could see his eyes glimmering with tears. It was a side of him I had never seen. I nodded.
‘Fuck me. I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I mean, look at me – I still feel like a kid myself. But, heck, I’m nearly thirty – if not now, then when?’ He pulled me back towards him again. He was whispering things into my ear, promising me all sorts of things.
I knew I should have felt the ecstatic feelings, like they did in the films, as he pulled me into his arms. I felt as though I should have closed my eyes and inhaled him in whilst I imagined my future. I tried to focus on the positive, the new life inside me, but all I could think of was how I had already been here once before, and how he had reacted as if the last one meant nothing. I hadn’t forgotten his reaction that day when he came home and found me bleeding the first time I was pregnant. I made no accusations – he was never made to feel responsible – but I had expected a little empathy. It was his child as well. He simply told me to ‘clean up the mess and stop overreacting – it happens all the time’. That baby may only have been mine for a few months, but I would never forget it. I would never forget the way he treated me.
I made a promise to myself that when this new baby arrived, I would protect it with my life.
Instagram post: 6th May 2019
Hi guys, me again! I can’t believe how lucky we are with the weather right now. I feel so blessed to have my little bit of space outside to play around with. I’ve been pottering around in the garden. I have a little pop-up greenhouse, which was gifted to me by @growyourown after I showed my green-fingered side during the summer months last year, but sadly I was a bit too late to start growing anything really substantial. This year, however, I have got ahead of myself, and I’ve started courgettes, tomatoes, cabbage, broccoli, lettuce and rocket. These are all things I absolutely love to eat myself. If this weather keeps up, I’ll be happy out here until the end of summer. Now all I need is a lovely glass of wine.
