Jesus. It’s suddenly got very hot in here. How is my semifreddo not just a puddle of liquid?
‘Yes. The best thing about the detox has been making friends with you.’
‘Thank you. I feel the same way.’
Grace plunges her spoon back into the semifreddo and leaves it there. ‘And I think I’d like to be more than friends with you now,’ she says, leaning even closer to me.
‘Would you,’ I say in a thick voice.
‘Yes. A little less conversation, a little more action please.’
Grace kisses me. Her lips are cold and sweet from the frozen dessert.
I’ve not been too sure about the exact nature of my relationship with Grace, or where it might be heading, but she’s obviously had no such worries.
I kiss Grace back, and the coldness of the semifreddo is pleasantly replaced by the warmth from our bodies.
We spend a good few minutes right there at my breakfast bar, kissing each other passionately while the semifreddo melts into a sticky goop.
And then Grace starts to lead me away from the kitchen by the hand, over to somewhere we can be more comfortable.
‘Which one is your bedroom?’ she asks me in a husky voice.
I point a slightly shaky finger. ‘That one,’ I tell her.
‘Come on then.’
By the time we’re in the bedroom, I have forgotten completely about Colin, Wilberforce and their horny dog. By the time Grace has undressed me, I’ve forgotten about the digital detox. And by the time she’s undressed as well, I’ve forgotten what my own name is.
Later, Grace lies beside me, sleeping the sleep of someone who has accomplished what they set out to do – and was not going to be put off by anything, up to and including having to watch me get humped by a pug.
I can’t sleep because I’m thinking back on something she said right before the evening took a dramatic turn for the better.
I have fans.
Grace is right.
Those people didn’t just turn up to chat to anyone about detoxing. They turned up to see me. To meet me. I guess that’s why I felt so uncomfortable about the whole thing.
And what makes me uncomfortable is that I have no idea why they’d want to be fans of mine – why they’d want to be part of Loggers Off.
What is it about me that they like so much?
What is it about poor little Andy Bellows that would turn a bunch of people obsessed with being online into his followers?
Followers.
Oh, Christ.
Followers.
That’s what this is about!
If there’s one characteristic of most people who spend way too much of their time on the Internet, it’s that they follow a lot of other people – usually celebrities, from the very minor to the very major. Twitter, Instagram, Facebook – all of them are stuffed with famous people, selling their lifestyle and their brand to their legions of supporters.
And for those supporters, being allowed access to their favourite celebrities – no matter how manufactured that access might be – is exceptionally addictive.
I know. I’ve been there.
So has Grace.
So have Colin and Wilberforce.
And so have most of the people who have joined Loggers Off, I’m sure of that.
And what is it that they’re doing now?
Following me.
Exactly the same thing they were doing on social media – only back out here in the analogue, real world.
‘This isn’t about me,’ I say out loud into the darkened room, making Grace turn over in her sleep. ‘This is about them.’
They need somebody to follow. I just happen to be that person.
And how have I let that happen?
By presenting a manufactured image of my own life, with all the bad bits taken out. That’s what lying to that small crowd in Heirloom did that first time we all met there. It created the monster.
I created the monster.
Another stark and terrible realisation hits me at that moment: I’ve become Lucas La Forte!
OK, I didn’t fake a load of photos of me sitting in sports cars and wearing Armani suits – but is lying to a bunch of people in a coffee shop really all that different, when you get right down to it?
Probably not.
And – just like Herbert – those lies have brought in more and more followers, and just made things even worse.
Oh, good God.
I am an influencer.
I am a Herbert Glerbett.
. . . I am in deep, deep trouble.
Chapter Eleven
LOGGING ON
A week later, I wake up with my jaw locked for the first time in months.
It takes me a few minutes to work the damn thing free. I have to pop a couple of painkillers afterwards, because it hurts so much.
Then I spend twenty minutes in the toilet having a very painful poo.
Grace slept over again last night, and luckily she’s a heavy sleeper, so she doesn’t have to hear – or smell – what I’m up to.
As I sit on the toilet in misery, I try hard not to think about the nightmare I had last night – involving me running down a corridor naked with an iPad superglued to my left hand, while being pursued by Colin in his cagoule, a giant duck and an equally enormous Puggerlugs, this time dressed in an Armani suit.
I started awake just before they caught up with me. The last thing I heard was the dreadful sound of a snorting pug and the hideous quacking of the duck.
If I ever get around to writing a horror-movie version of my life, it will be called The Quacking of the Duck and will be banned in forty-three countries.
The reason for my current state of heightened anxiety is that last night was the second meeting of Loggers Off, and it was a living hell.
Nearly a hundred people turned up at Heirloom.
It was standing room only.
And I did exactly the same thing last night as I did that first time around – I lied.
Despite knowing what problems it would cause, despite being fully aware that it would probably just make things worse, and despite the fact it made me feel more and more like a complete Glerbett, I still maintained the fiction that doing a digital detox was the best thing ever, with no bad points whatsoever.
I answered the questions in that same cheerful voice, using the same cheerful words. I reassured the crowd that detoxing was great, and that they should probably all try it.
I didn’t say anything negative to them at all as they downed their coffees and made their notes.
Because I just can’t let them down.
Any of them.
And when I was finished, they clapped again. Hell, some of them even cheered.
Wilberforce was looking at me with nothing short of adoration by the time the meeting was over.
He bought a Loggers Off T-shirt. Colin bought two.
And Wilberforce has now started his own detox, alongside his partner. He says he’s looking forward to seeing what comes of it a great deal.
I couldn’t look him in the eye.
Grace and Fergus both agreed I did a very good job. I nodded my head and thanked them, while all the time I could feel my stomach churning at the horror and deceit of it all.
When Grace suggested she stay over at my place again, though, the stomach-churning was replaced by butterflies – which is a far more pleasant thing to experience.
I helped her clean up after the last of the Loggers Off had left, and we walked back to my car holding hands.
I should be as happy as a pig in shit.
Instead, I am a bag of nerves.
The revelation from last week that I have actual fans – and the subsequent massive increase in the attendance at the coffee shop last night – has ramped my anxiety right back up again.
I am not constitutionally capable of having fans.
I cannot bear the weight of that responsibility.
One of the reasons I started the digital detox was
to stop being an online follower – and all the stress and anxiety that comes with it. But in doing so – and by encouraging people by lying to them – I have instead become the person being followed and have created a whole new level of anxiety and stress for myself, hitherto unexplored.
The irony is so thick, I keep expecting Alanis Morissette to jump out of the bathroom cabinet and hand me some toilet paper.
I have inadvertently come full circle.
I’m back to being stressed and in pain.
Only this time around, it’s so much worse.
At least back then I only had myself to worry about – but now I have other people to think of. Other people who are watching what I do, and who want to meet with me on a constant basis. Folks who think I’m someone they can look up to.
Not least of whom is currently lying asleep in my bed. I have a responsibility to Grace. I started her off on her detox. She became the first person to follow my example.
And Grace has done so much for me. I would never have taken that day out in Bath without her. I would never have discovered the joys of the English countryside without her. I would never have been able to see the actual joy of being offline without her.
And now I’m in the first stages of a relationship with her.
I can’t let her down. I can’t ever let her down.
I can’t let any of them down.
Not even Wilberforce and his horny pug. Going on a detox will probably improve his life no end – but would he do it if he knew I wasn’t the shining example of detoxification that people think I am?
Probably not.
And that would be letting him down.
Hell, I don’t even want to disappoint Fergus. He’s been thoroughly enjoying the stories he’s been writing about me, and the paper’s sales figures have apparently gone up considerably because of them. OK, the bastard is responsible for the hideous situation I find myself in, but I went along with it all, didn’t I? I never said no to any of it. And now he’s kind of relying on me to keep the story going. To keep Loggers Off going . . .
Oh God.
It’s all just too damn stressful.
‘Are you OK?’ Grace asks me as I pour her a coffee. The hand doing the pouring is shaking slightly.
‘Sorry?’ I reply, rubbing at my sleepy eyes with the other hand.
‘You look like your dog just died.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. And it’s not really the kind of expression I wanted to see on your face this morning. Not after what we got up to last night.’ She suddenly looks very anxious, and starts to twiddle with the locket around her neck. ‘Is there a problem? Are we . . . OK? Wasn’t it . . . good?’
Oh crap.
‘No! I mean, yes! Of course it was good! Christ, it was better than good – it was bloody amazing.’ I reach out a hand to her. ‘And of course we’re OK. I couldn’t be happier.’
Bloody hell. The tone in my voice is awful. I sound like I’m lying through my teeth. I’d better tell her what’s actually going through my mind, before she gets the wrong idea completely and this relationship is dead before it gets out of the gates.
‘It’s nothing to do with you . . . with us,’ I reassure her. ‘It’s the detox. It’s Loggers Off. It’s . . . all of it.’
Grace visibly relaxes. Thank God for that. I feel stressed enough this morning without having to think I’ve accidentally spoiled things with her.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
I put the cafetière down and try to compose myself a little. When I have, I tell Grace everything that’s on my mind.
‘Wow. I didn’t realise you felt under that much pressure,’ she says when I’m done. ‘I’m so sorry to have put you through it.’
‘It’s not your fault!’ I insist. ‘It’s not Fergus’s either. It’s mine. I should never have let things get so out of control. I should have said no. I should have told all those people the truth.’
‘And me, Andy. You should have been a bit more honest with me. I had no idea the detox wasn’t doing you that much good.’
‘But it was! It has! The trip to Bath! Meeting you!’
‘But it’s not all been good, has it?’ she replies. ‘That’s clearly not the case.’
I slump my shoulders. ‘No. There’s part of me that just wants it all to end. Especially now I’ve created this Loggers Off monster.’
‘Oh, Andy,’ Grace says, standing up and giving me a warm hug. ‘Whatever am I going to do with you?’
I give her a forlorn look. ‘I have no idea.’
She fixes me with a speculative look. ‘I think we need to get you away from all this for the day. You need another Bath.’
I sniff one armpit. ‘Well, possibly.’
She slaps me playfully, before returning to the hug. ‘You know what I mean, mister. You could do with another big day out, doing something fun. Not just ambling around the hedgerows. Something a bit more dynamic. We could probably both do with it, actually.’ Her eyes flash. ‘And I think I have just the thing.’
Grace stops hugging me – which I am ever so slightly disappointed about – and goes over to her coat where it’s hanging on the back of my front door. She delves into one pocket and brings out what looks like two tickets. ‘I was going to mention this to you last night, but with all the excitement of Loggers Off and then what we did when we got back here . . .’ She smiles as she says this. And no wonder. The sex we had last night was meteoric. ‘I completely forgot. Here.’
She hands me one of the tickets.
‘A theme park?’ I say, looking down at it.
‘Yep! It’s a new one. Opening on Saturday. I got these tickets free from my coffee wholesaler’s, for being their number one customer this month. All thanks to Loggers Off, of course.’
I screw my nose up. ‘Not really one for theme parks, if I’m honest.’
The last time I went to one, I was seventeen, and was sick into a bin.
At least, that’s the story I tell people.
I was actually sick on a four-year-old. Who was the same height as a bin, so I’m not being completely dishonest.
I’ve never been back to Chessington since. Not that they’d probably have me back. I can imagine a blurry photo of my seventeen-year-old self pinned up in every entrance booth, with orders to have me ejected if I am ever seen again.
Also, there’s that whole thing about being around huge crowds of people to consider. Still not my thing – no matter how many coffee nights at Heirloom I might do with the Loggers Off.
‘Me neither,’ Grace responds, when I mention this, ‘but . . . it might be fun – and exciting. And I think you could use something to take your mind off what’s happening with Fergus and your new, merry band of followers. It’d be good for me too.’
While Grace is still enjoying her own detox, she is of course missing certain aspects of her online life, just like me. And filling your days can be a tricky thing to do in such circumstances. You can’t walk around a field all of the time, especially with the British weather.
Grace has had all the fun and games of the increase in customers to keep her busy, but throwing yourself into work isn’t necessarily the healthiest way to occupy your time. Sometimes you have to let off a little steam.
Outside of the bedroom, I mean.
And I concede that the last time Grace took me on a big day out, it ended pretty damn well.
I think we’ve reached the point where I’d follow this lovely raven-haired young woman into the jaws of hell itself.
A day out at this Thorn Manor place should be a breeze by comparison.
Parking isn’t a breeze. It’s a force-ten hurricane.
We spend a good forty minutes trying to find a spot in the expansive car park that sprawls to the south of the brand-new theme park. My anxiety levels rise constantly as we do so. All these parked cars mean that the place will be absolutely packed to the bloody rafters.
All those people. All those children. All those potentially awkward
encounters.
Shudder.
We sit in a long queue of cars, all patiently (and in some cases, very impatiently) waiting for a space to open up. I’ve never been in a car park before where you’re stationary and bumper-to-bumper with other cars before you’ve even had the chance to park up. It’s hideous.
And I’m not even the one driving today. We’re sitting in Grace’s little Suzuki Swift, which is a tiny tin box with no air conditioning – on an English summer’s day that is at least 27 per cent hotter than it should be.
We probably would have got parked a lot quicker had we arrived early, but without access to electronic satnavs, we got a bit lost and missed the motorway exit. It didn’t help that no one has bothered to put up signs to the new theme park yet. I wasn’t surprised in the slightest about this – this is England, after all – but my lack of astonishment at this oversight didn’t stop my stress levels climbing before we’d even reached the damn place.
I’m just about to suggest we give up on the whole thing and try to find a nice pub somewhere when Grace spots a Hyundai SUV backing out of a space right in front of us. Inside, I can see the face of a very sickly looking child and deduce that she must be the reason for the early exit.
This earns us looks of hatred and jealousy from those behind us who are not parked up yet. If looks could kill, then Grace and I would be dead about two dozen times over.
Having actually managed to park, the queue to Thorn Manor is the next horror show to experience.
We both stand sweating in the morning sun for a good thirty minutes before Grace has the chance to hand over her free tickets and we get to walk into the jam-packed theme park itself.
I’m starting to think her coffee wholesaler’s must actually hate the very ground she walks on, to offer her such a ‘gift’. I can’t think of anything worse I could do to a customer I despised than send them to this cacophonic maelstrom of sticky humanity.
Grace gives me a look that speaks volumes even higher than the ones being used by the countless small children around us. ‘Hmmm. Maybe this was a bad idea,’ she says, grimacing somewhat as we take in the barrage of noises and smells emanating from both the overheated crowds and the concession stands that ring the entrance plaza.
I hate to see that look of disappointment on her face.
Logging Off Page 24
