Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  Part of me has probably been harbouring a fantasy that Lucas La Forte and I would become the best of friends. That he would invite me on to his yacht. Maybe let me wear one of his suits.

  We could have been Instagram buddies and—

  Oh, bugger. No. That wouldn’t have happened, would it?

  Sigh.

  Never mind.

  Looks like I’m not getting to be best friends with an Instagram millionaire any time soon.

  ‘Pull up here,’ Lucas says, his hand already hovering over the door handle.

  I do as I’m bid, and the Volvo has barely come to halt before he’s opening the door and sticking one leg out.

  ‘Herbert!’ a woman’s voice screams. I look past Lucas to see a very angry lady in her sixties come marching down the front garden path of a semi-detached house, making a beeline straight for my car. ‘Herbert! You get over here right now!’

  ‘Oh God!’ Lucas La Forte cries, and immediately slams the car door again. ‘She’s not supposed to be home yet!’

  The woman, clearly enraged about something, is now right outside my car, brandishing a credit card. She knocks on my passenger-side window with it repeatedly, giving Lucas a look of absolute fury. ‘You get out of that car now, Herbert! You get out now and tell me why you’ve maxed out my bloody credit card . . . again!’

  WTF?

  What’s the hell’s going on here?

  ‘Who is she, Lucas?!’ I ask him, wincing as the woman continues to bash the credit card against the window. I hope she doesn’t scratch it. ‘Why is she calling you Herbert?’

  ‘It’s my mother!’ he replies, cowering.

  The transformation that Lucas La Forte has undergone is nothing short of miraculous – if God was in the habit of performing miracles that turned self-confident, well-dressed men about town into terrified little boys.

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes!’ He gives me a desperate look. ‘You have to help me!’

  ‘Help you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just . . . just play along!’

  And with that, Lucas winds the window down and holds up both of his hands protectively. ‘Now look, Mum. Please don’t be angry!’

  Lucas’s mother starts to visibly shake with rage, placing both of her hands on her hips in the classic matronly pose of extreme disapproval. ‘Don’t be angry?! Don’t be bloody angry? ! You did it again, you little monster! The bank called to tell me the card was maxed out again. Five thousand pounds, Herbert! How many stupid suits did that buy you this time?’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it seems, Mum, honestly!’ He whips his head around. ‘Tell her!’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Tell her it’s not that bad!’

  I look at the woman and slap on a fake smile. ‘It’s not that bad?’ I venture – not really knowing what the hell I’m saying.

  ‘Who the hell is this, Herbert?’ she demands. ‘Another one of your wastrel friends?’

  ‘He’s a fan of mine!’ Lucas (Herbert?) replies.

  This earns me a look half full of derision, but disturbingly, also half full of pity. ‘Oh . . . another one fooled, I see. There are so many of you these days.’

  ‘Fooled?’ I reply, confused.

  Lucas doesn’t give his mother a chance to respond, because at this point he decides to jump out of the car. I can’t tell if this is because he’s manning up to the situation, or just because he doesn’t want his mother continuing to speak to me . . .

  ‘Let’s go inside, Mum. Nobody needs to hear about this!’ He throws a look back at me. ‘He doesn’t need to hear about this.’ Lucas slams the passenger door and bangs on the roof. ‘Off you go, mate! Thanks for the lift!’

  ‘Oh . . . OK,’ I reply. I have been dismissed in no uncertain terms, and should probably get the hell out of here.

  The woman’s eyes narrow. ‘Oh, I think it might be a good idea if your friend sticks around for a while, Herbert! Maybe if one of your Instachat followers hears all about who you really are, it might make you think twice about carrying on the way you have been!’

  ‘Instagram, Mum,’ Lucas corrects, in a whiny voice.

  ‘Quiet!’ She points a finger at me through the car window. ‘You! What’s your name?’

  ‘Andy!’

  ‘Right, Andy . . . my name is Helen Bilch, and I’d very much like for you to come into my house to hear my son explain himself to both of us!’

  ‘OK!’ At this point, I don’t feel like I can argue. Helen Bilch is currently channelling every angry mother who has ever walked the face of God’s green earth, and as such has complete control over my actions.

  I’m pretty sure that if you stuck this lady in a room with every male world leader, the planet’s problems would all be solved in about half an hour flat – just in time for tea.

  I climb out of the car as Helen starts to push her son towards the house. I follow as close behind as I dare, wondering what the hell is in store for me inside.

  I should probably just run away, but my curiosity has been set afire by all of this. It’s quite clear now that Lucas La Forte is not the man I thought he was, and I must . . . must . . . know more.

  Inside the house, Lucas is frogmarched into the living room by his irate mother, and I follow them in somewhat tentatively.

  ‘Do take a seat, Andy,’ Mrs Bilch tells me, and I instantly park myself on a comfy-looking armchair, as Lucas is thrust down on to the matching settee. Mrs Bilch stands over her son with her arms folded and a glower in her eyes so incandescent you could boil an egg with it. Lucas, for his part, looks like a little boy sitting there on that voluminous couch with his shoulders slumped.

  ‘Right then, Herbert. I’ve tried to get through to your thick skull more times than I care to mention how you have to stop living the way you do, with no success at all. Let’s see if having to talk to Andy here can make any difference! Why don’t you tell him all about yourself?’

  Lucas (do I keep calling him that?) looks down at the beige carpet. ‘Don’t want to,’ he says in a grumpy voice.

  Mrs Bilch rolls her eyes. ‘Oh yes. This is what happens. He’s got his father’s gift of the gab – right up until someone confronts him with the truth!’ She looks at me. ‘Is there anything you’d like to ask Herbert, Andy?’

  About seventy million things, actually, but we’ll start with the most obvious one:

  ‘Is your name really Herbert?’ I ask the man I’ve known for months as Lucas La Forte.

  He remains silent.

  ‘Herbert Bilch! You answer the nice man, or so help me God, I will throw you out of this house!’ Mrs Bilch tells him, her voice rising several octaves as she does so.

  ‘Mu-u-um!’ he squeals in response.

  ‘Talk, Herbert!’ she demands again.

  This earns me a look of childish loathing from her son, which takes me somewhat aback. It’s not my fault he’s been placed in this awkward situation, is it?

  ‘Yes, my name is Herbert,’ he snaps.

  ‘Not Lucas?’

  ‘Hah!’ Helen Bilch exclaims.

  ‘No,’ Herbert admits.

  ‘And your surname is Bilch? Not La Forte?’

  ‘Pfft!’ Mrs Bilch remarks. She has a real talent for derisory, monosyllabic comments, it appears.

  ‘Yes,’ Herbert says.

  ‘You made up that name for Instagram?’

  Now Herbert sits up, looking a lot more animated. ‘Do you blame me? Herbert Bilch! My name is Herbert Bilch! Would you follow someone on Instagram called Herbert Bilch?’

  ‘Herbert!’ Mrs Bilch snaps. ‘Herbert is a perfectly good name!’

  Herbert looks disgusted. ‘Is it, Mum? Really?’ He throws me a forlorn look. ‘I’m thirty-seven, mate. Do you know what it’s like being in your thirties and being called Herbert?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nearly as bad as going through your twenties being called Herbert!’

  ‘Why are you called Herbert
?’ I ask Herbert.

  . . . Look, I know there have been a lot of Herberts already in this conversation. You may be reaching the point where having to hear the word ‘Herbert’ again fills you with a certain degree of dread. Please cope with it a little longer. It will be over soon, I promise.

  And think about how bad poor old Herbert must feel about being called Herbert. Not a day of his life goes by without him having to hear it.

  The pain of all these Herberts will be over for us very soon, but for him it’s a life sentence . . .

  ‘Herbert Glerbett,’ Herbert replies. ‘Herbert Glerbett and his bloody sherbet.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I say, worried that Herbert may have had some kind of mental breakdown right in front of me.

  ‘My dad named me after that poem from the seventies. You know the one.’

  I shake my head. ‘I truly, truly don’t, Herbert.’

  Herbert sighs. ‘Herbert Glerbett. The poem is about Herbert Glerbett. He likes to eat sherbet.’

  ‘It was his father’s favourite,’ Mrs Bilch interjects. ‘A great lover of poetry, was my Malcolm.’

  It’s clear from the emotional way she’s speaking that Herbert’s father is no longer with us. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I tell her.

  ‘What loss?’

  ‘Your husband’s passing.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Malcolm isn’t dead, he’s in Braintree.’

  Herbert sighs again. ‘Mum and Dad got divorced. On account of Dad’s . . . er . . . hobby.’

  Suddenly Mrs Bilch looks as mad as all hell and back again. ‘Pretending you are a member of the royal family is not a bloody hobby, Herbert!’

  ‘A member of the royal family?’ I splutter.

  Mrs Bilch provides me with a woeful expression. ‘Yes. He pretended he was Baron Mobbington of Potherbrooke. Lied his arse off, he did. Mostly to blag free stuff and get into cocktail parties.’ She sniffs unhappily. ‘Went on for years . . . until I eventually threw him out.’ She glares at Herbert. ‘And now his bloody son is up to the same bloody thing!’

  ‘It’s not the same, Mum!’ Herbert implores.

  ‘It damn well is, young man! The cars . . . the girls . . . the bloody suits! All of it’s a load of old claptrap – just like your father – and you know it!’ She stares at me again. ‘Malcolm once spent the money for the conservatory on an ermine cloak! And you know what an ermine cloak most certainly is not, Andy?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Machine bloody washable! Damn thing fell apart! Thousands of pounds down the drain, just because my ex-husband had ideas above his station!’ She glares at Herbert. ‘And the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree, has it?’

  I look back at Herbert. ‘But I don’t understand. What about all the sports cars I’ve seen you sitting in?’

  Herbert looks deeply guilty, like a little boy caught with his hand in a very expensive, possibly ermine-lined, cookie jar. ‘My mate’s dad runs a posh garage,’ he explains. ‘All sports cars and bikes. He lets me take pictures with his stock every once in a while.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I reply, feeling irate for the first time. ‘And what about the penthouse flat?’

  ‘Did all those pictures in the same week,’ Herbert sniffs. ‘Was working for a builder called Fred Babidge. He was doing some renovations on the flat, and had me in as a part-time labourer. He thought it was hilarious – me taking all those pictures – but let me get away with it, as long as I cleaned up the plasterboard and made a decent cup of tea.’

  ‘You took all of those photos in the same week?!’

  ‘Yeah. Took bloody hours. I did it after everyone else had gone home.’

  I’m flabbergasted.

  Although . . . come to think of it . . . when I put my mind to it . . . all of those glamorous shots of Herbert lounging around in the penthouse were very similar, weren’t they? All taken in the early evening, with the sun going down, and all confined to just the outdoor terrace and a bit of the living room. The suits were the only thing that really changed.

  Speaking of which . . .

  ‘What about all of your lovely Armani suits?’ I ask Herbert.

  ‘Hah!’ exclaims Mrs Bilch again. ‘Why do you think my credit card is maxed out? Why do you think we never have any money?’

  Now Herbert gives me a desperate look. ‘I need those suits, mate! I need them! How can I be Lucas La Forte without them?’

  ‘You’re not Lucas La Forte, Herbert!’ Mrs Bilch spits. ‘You’re Herbert Bilch, whether you like it or not!’

  ‘Herbert bloody Glerbett,’ Herbert replies sullenly.

  ‘But you’ve got a hundred thousand followers!’ I say in disbelief.

  This perks Herbert up a bit. ‘Yeah, I know! Great, isn’t it?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not really, Herbert. They – we – all think you’re some kind of hot-shot millionaire. We all think you’re Lucas, not Herbert. Living a life of luxury on yachts in the Mediterranean.’ My eyes go wide. ‘How the hell did you do those pictures?’

  ‘Boat show and Photoshop,’ he replies.

  I’m incredulous. That can’t be possible, can it? I’m a graphic designer, for crying out loud; I can instantly spot when someone’s been messing about in Photoshop!

  Except . . . how closely have I really looked at the Instagram posts of ‘Lucas La Forte’? Have I studied the pictures properly? Taken them in?

  Or did I just glance at them with envy, read the trite aphorism of the day and move on to see what Chris Hemsworth was up to with his hammer?

  I feel like such a bloody fool.

  And that makes me quite angry, actually. As much with myself as with Herbert Glerbett.

  ‘You’ve fooled a lot of people, you know,’ I tell him. ‘Lied to a hundred thousand of us.’

  ‘Twenty,’ Herbert states matter-of-factly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Twenty thousand people. The rest are paid for.’

  ‘You what?!’

  ‘Paid for, mate. You can go online and pay these companies to get you loads of fake followers. It’s easy.’

  ‘And expensive!’ Mrs Bilch cries, waggling the credit card again.

  Oh. My. God.

  This is absolutely unbelievable.

  At the same time, though – given my knowledge of how social media works – it’s completely and utterly believable in every single respect.

  And I can’t believe I’ve been taken in so completely by this grotty little Herbert.

  For months and months I’ve been following the exploits of Lucas La Forte, thinking that he was a real person and admiring him from afar – when in reality I’ve been duped by Herbert Glerbett, and his mum’s credit card.

  Aaaaargh!

  ‘Why?!’ I snap at Herbert.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why do this? Why pretend to be someone you’re not? Why fake it all?’

  Herbert looks at me like I’ve gone mad. ‘Why? ’ He gestures around the room. ‘I’m in my mid-thirties, I live at home with my mother, have no money, no qualifications and no car. What the hell else am I supposed to do to make myself feel better?’

  I visibly start to shake. ‘I don’t know, Herbert . . . how about getting a fucking job?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I keep telling him!’ Mrs Bilch cries in agreement. ‘You see, Herbert? You see what the nice man is saying to you?’

  This nice man has had just about enough of this claptrap for one day.

  I rise quickly out of the armchair. ‘I’m leaving now. I think you two need to talk amongst yourselves, and I need to re-evaluate a few things myself.’ I give Herbert the stink eye. ‘Chiefly, how much trust I put in people.’

  And with that, I turn and stalk out of the lounge, with mother and son staring at me as I go.

  Herbert isn’t staring by the time I reach the front door, though. He’s caught up with me and is looking like I’m about to shoot his dog, possibly on Instagram.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone!�
� he cries, in real and obvious anguish. ‘Don’t tell anyone I’m Herbert!’

  ‘Go away, Herbert!’ I demand as I stride down the garden path.

  ‘Please don’t say anything!’

  ‘Leave me be, Herbert!’

  ‘I’ll do anything!’

  I come to a standstill on the pavement in front of my car, and give Herbert a hard look. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I think for a few seconds.

  This could be my chance to salvage something from this awful revelation – and the months I’ve wasted following this little bastard on social media.

  ‘All right . . . I won’t tell anyone that Lucas La Forte is really Herbert Bilch, but in exchange, you’re going to change your Instagram feed.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes! No more shots of you sitting in sports cars . . . and no more bloody “helpful” advice about grasping things with both hands!’

  ‘But people love it when I say stuff like that! I get it all out of a book!’

  ‘Well, tough shit, Herbert Glerbett! It’s time you started doing some bloody good for a change!’

  ‘Like what?’ He’s close to tears now. I have him over an Instagrammable barrel and he knows it.

  ‘You’re going to . . . going to start posting about . . .’ Oh bollocks, now I have to think of something. ‘About . . . puppies!’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Puppies! Rescue dogs, I mean! Get down the dogs’ home and get some shots of you with some dogs that need adopting! Tell people who they are, and where they can adopt them!’

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘Yes! And . . . and trees!’

  ‘Trees?’

  ‘Yep! Hug some trees, Herbert! Write things on your feed about how we should be caring for our environment!’ I point a finger at Herbert. It is a finger of extreme righteousness. ‘I want to see Lucas La Forte doing his bit to make the world a better place, not just lounging around in it on expensive things!’

  ‘Er . . . OK. I will.’

  ‘You promise, Herbert?!’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I promise!’

  ‘Good. Because I’ll be checking, Herbert. I’ll be watching. And if you don’t do what I’m telling you to, I’ll tell the world that Lucas La Forte is really Herbert Bilch!’

  Herbert looks confused. ‘How are you going to do that if you’re on a digital detox?’