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‘Oh no, you’re not looking at your phone whilst we’re in the bar,’ says Cleo. ‘Looking at and talking about Instagram is banned.’
Marissa and I look at each other in horror as it’s our favourite topic of conversation.
‘What else are we going to talk about – work?’ I ask.
‘Ew, no,’ she says, screwing up her face. ‘That’s banned too.’
‘Then what’s left?’
The three of us look around the bar for inspiration.
‘How about real life?’ says Cleo.
‘Real life,’ I say, whistling through my teeth, wondering what on earth I have to talk about. ‘Um, so what are people up to next week?’
‘Ooh, I know, I’m starting a new pregnancy yoga class,’ says Marissa, looking at Cleo for approval.
‘Nice,’ says Cleo. ‘I’m sure that’ll be really good for the birth.’
‘Sod the birth; I’m there to find new friends.’
I laugh. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be about stretching?’
‘Please,’ says Marissa, rolling her eyes. ‘Anything baby-related is only about finding friends.’
‘Don’t you meet those at NCT?’ chips in Cleo.
‘Not anymore. Now you shop for them at yoga, hypnobirthing, Bumps and Burpees and Mum Calm. I’ve spent a bloody fortune so far and I still haven’t found my new BFFs.’
‘Luckily for me,’ I say, not realising I’ve been in danger of losing my bestie to a pack of yummy mummies.
‘You know what I mean,’ she says, blowing me a kiss.
‘At least it’s all good content for your Insta feed,’ I say.
‘There is that, and it’s good way of finding followers too.’
‘Hey, banned,’ says Cleo, looking at her watch. ‘At least you managed a few minutes without mentioning it.’
‘We gave it our best shot. Can you hold this?’ asks Marissa, handing me her drink. ‘I only need to see liquid and I have to pee these days.’
‘So what have you got planned next week, Izzy?’ asks Cleo as Becca comes back with a tray of drinks.
‘I’m going to watch a charity ice hockey match with my parents.’
The tray starts to wobble and the drinks spill a little over the top.
Cleo reaches over and takes the tray before putting it on the windowsill. She doesn’t notice that Becca’s gone white as a sheet at the mention of the charity event.
‘That sounds good,’ says Cleo, dishing out the jam jars.
‘Uh-huh and then I’m going to a masterclass next week to hear Small Bubbles talk about becoming an influencer,’ I say, quickly moving the conversation on.
‘Really? You’ve kept that quiet,’ says Cleo, laughing.
I’m a tad excited about it and I may have mentioned it once or twice or three billion times at work.
‘Small Bubbles?’ says Becca, the colour feeding back into her cheeks.
‘Yeah, you know, Lara McPherson,’ I say.
‘Any relation to Elle?’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘Then, no, I have no idea,’ says Becca.
I’ve probably mentioned her at home before but Becca’s not really into social media and the names don’t stick.
‘She’s got millions of followers on YouTube and Instagram? Has a book out? A make-up range?’ says Cleo. Becca shakes her head.
‘Well, it’s going to be good,’ I say.
‘But technically you can’t talk about it as that’s Instagram related,’ says Cleo.
‘Then I give up. I have nothing else to talk about.’
I’m pretty sure any minute tumbleweed’s going to roll past us.
‘See, this is why I keep telling you that you need to date more,’ Cleo says to me, causing Becca to perk up, nodding.
‘Exactly what I’ve been saying to her too. It’s been years since Cameron,’ she says.
‘Who’s Cameron?’ asks Cleo and I purse my lips.
Becca looks at me a little guiltily; I guess she assumed that Cleo already knew.
‘Just Izzy’s last ex,’ she says, shrugging it away like it wasn’t a big deal; like I hadn’t phoned to tell him Ben had died only to discover he was in bed with another woman. ‘And it’s time for you to move on. If only to give us things to talk about in moments like this.’
‘But I haven’t got time for a boyfriend. I’m far too busy doing things that you won’t let me mention.’
‘Faffing about on Instagram is not a good enough reason to stop you from dating,’ says Cleo.
Becca looks at me and raises an eyebrow. She knows that Cameron spectacularly breaking my heart is why I haven’t exactly been rushing to join Tinder, but even she’s started trying to encourage me to meet someone new.
‘You should message Luke from work,’ says Cleo.
‘Who’s Luke?’ asks Becca.
‘An arrogant guy who I will not be messaging.’
‘So not Luke, but I agree with Cleo. Why don’t you look around tonight?’
Cleo pulls a face. ‘People don’t really meet in bars anymore. But perhaps we could turn your Instagram addiction into a Hinge one.’
‘I just hate the idea; you’re trying to find a soulmate, not order a pizza.’
‘That’s the beauty of Hinge,’ says Cleo. ‘It’s not all about the swiping.’
‘Even still. I just don’t think that I’m up for meeting someone online.’
‘What about that guy?’ says Becca, pointing to someone on the other side of the bar.
‘He looks about twelve. Plus, I refuse to date anyone who wears skinnier jeans than I do, or anyone who straightens their hair.’
‘Urgh, I forgot that you like them grungier than Nirvana,’ she says.
‘Who’s Nirvana?’
Becca and I stare at Cleo. It’s times like this when the age gap feels like a chasm.
‘I don’t like them that grungy, I just like them a little scruffy. That’s all.’
‘Like him,’ says Becca, pointing out the window.
I watch as she points to a little Mexican café across the road. A guy with a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt and non-skinny jeans is folding up chairs before carrying them inside.
‘Now he is exactly your type.’
‘You can’t tell that someone is going to be your type after a split second of looking at them,’ I say, staring at the man as he walks back out onto the street.
He looks familiar and it takes a moment for me to place him. And then suddenly I realise – it’s him. He looks different now than he did that day. Slightly fuller in the face. Slightly longer hair. A bit of stubble where before he was clean-shaven.
My cheeks start to burn and my heart is racing. I cling onto the windowsill to stop my feet from giving out from under me. It’s almost like I’m being pulled back to that day and all the emotions that went along with it.
I’m vaguely aware that Becca’s talking but I have no idea what she’s said; I’m too busy staring at the man through the window.
‘Izzy, are you OK?’ Cleo asks.
Marissa comes back and I can hear them whispering.
‘Izzy, what is it?’
Becca puts her arm round me and looks at me before following my gaze to Aidan, who I’ve been searching for for two years – the guy I never got a chance to thank.
‘It’s him,’ I say in disbelief.
‘Him who?’ asks Marissa.
‘Him, the guy who helped me that day at the station when I’d just got the news about Ben. When I broke down.’
Becca and Marissa look out the window in disbelief.
‘Blimey, you never said he was so cute,’ says Marissa.
‘Funnily enough that wasn’t on my mind at the time,’ I say, then regret it.
‘I didn’t mean to—’ Marissa starts.
‘I know you didn’t. It’s just…’ I stop myself. If I talk about it I don’t think I’ll be able to stop tears from falling, and this isn’t the time or the place.
‘So, are you going to thank him?’ asks Becca. ‘I know you’ve always wanted to.’
‘Not now, I mean I wasn’t expecting…’ I can’t speak to him. Not today. ‘I hadn’t really thought of what I’d say and he’s just finished work; he’ll probably want to get home. I’ll come back another day.’
We all watch as he takes the sandwich board back inside the café and shuts the door.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go over?’ asks Marissa.
‘No, I’ll go another time,’ I say, finally finishing my first drink before starting on the second one. The strength and the taste don’t seem to bother me now. ‘Did you still want to dance?’
‘We don’t have to if you—’ says Marissa.
‘Let’s go,’ I say, firmly.
I look over at the little café just as the lights in the shop go out. I’ve waited over two years to thank him; a few more days won’t hurt.
Chapter 4
There’s something about walking in to the ice rink that always takes me back to my childhood. My dad used to drag Ben and me along to ice hockey matches, then when I was a teenager Marissa and I used to come to the ice disco, trying to pluck up the courage to talk to the boys in their Adidas hoodies.
I spot Mum immediately. She’s the only one around here who isn’t dressed in team colours. I can see the red Heart2Heart sweatshirt peeking out from under her coat. She wouldn’t usually want to come to a match with us – too many memories of us coming with Ben – but this one’s special because it’s raising money for Heart2Heart, which fundraises to test people for heart defects. A charity we wished we’d known existed a few years ago.
I squeeze past the other fans along the row of bright blue seating to get to her.
‘Hello, Izzy love,’ she says, standing up from her seat and giving me a big hug.
‘Hi, Mum, where’s Dad?’ I say as she releases me and I sit down next to her.
‘Getting snacks, you know him.’
I look out over the crowd to try and spot him.
‘You OK?’ she asks with concern.
I turn to her and she starts to study my face.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, pretending. It would be hard being here at the best of times without Ben, but after I saw the guy from the train on Friday night my emotions are all over the place. I felt like a tidal wave of emotions hit me and it’s made me relive that day over and over thinking how grateful I was Aidan stepped in when he did. Trust her to pick up on it.
‘You don’t look fine. Are you taking your vitamins?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Perhaps you’re getting a cold. Or maybe you’re getting a chill from the ice,’ she says, pressing her hand to my cheek. ‘Make sure you keep your coat on.’
‘You’ve got no complaints from me on that front,’ I say, zipping it up. I wish I’d worn a warmer sweatshirt underneath.
‘Everything OK at work?’
‘Yes, no change there.’
Mum’s still scrutinising me, she knows I’m hiding something.
She knows all about Aidan and how I’ve always wished I’d been able to thank him but I don’t want to tell her I’ve seen him. Lately I’ve seen flickers of her old self. She’s smiling more and laughing, even if there is a residual sadness in her eyes. I don’t think that will ever leave.
‘I had a big night out last week with the girls and I can’t do them anymore, takes me ages to recover.’
‘Oh yes, I heard about that from Marissa’s mum. Fancy her gallivanting around in her condition.’
‘She’s four months pregnant, Mum, she can still leave the house.’
‘Hmm. Well, it was different in my day,’ she says, before she starts touching my cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll go and get us a hot drink when your dad’s back,’ she says. ‘Speak of the devil.’
I look up to see him squeezing down the aisle, smiling away.
‘Hiya,’ he says. ‘I got you a hot dog on the off chance you were here already.’
‘Ooh, thank you,’ I say taking one, my stomach rumbling at the sight of it. ‘You not having one, Mum?’
‘No, they’re full of terrible things,’ she says, turning her nose up. ‘If they don’t clog up your arteries they’ll probably give you cancer.’
My dad gives me a conspiratorial wink before he bites into his and I follow suit. Over the last couple of years my mum’s become paranoid about our health and what we eat.
‘I’ll get us a cup of tea,’ says Mum, getting up. ‘Keep you warm.’
‘She OK?’ I ask Dad as she leaves. ‘How’s the baking?’
‘Not too bad this week. We’ve only had one lemon drizzle cake.’
‘That’s not bad,’ I say. Baking is like a barometer of Mum’s grief: the more cakes she bakes, the worse it is.
‘She’s getting there. She’s finding tonight hard, though. What with it being the first match she’s been to without Ben and the whole charity thing. They were talking earlier about how people could get tested for heart conditions and she nearly cut off the circulation in my hand she was squeezing that hard.’
‘I get that.’
Dad leans over and puts an arm around me and gives me a squeeze. We never used to be a very tactile family but that all changed two years ago when they phoned to tell me that my brother had died.
Ben was only 31, the same age that I am now. He went to bed one night and never woke up. His fiancée, Becca, found him when she woke up the next morning. He died of sudden arrhythmic death syndrome; he’d had a heart defect which acted like a ticking time bomb, and we’d never known. That’s one of the reasons that we try and support Heart2Heart whenever possible.
It might have been two years ago, but it feels like it was yesterday. People tell you that you’ll heal in time but they’re lying. You learn to cope better but you don’t properly heal. How could you?
I just can’t get over it. One minute he was in my life and the next he was taken away without any warning. I’d never even told him I loved him. I mean, who tells their brother that? But every day since then I wish I had.
That’s all I seem to do. Wish about all the regrets I have. I wish I’d made more effort to come back to Basingstoke to see him. I wish I’d invited him up to stay more. But I mostly I wish that he was still here.
‘I got chocolate too,’ says Dad as I try to blink back a tear without him noticing.
‘The hockey hasn’t started yet and we’ve already gone through most of your snacks,’ I point out.
‘That’s the beauty of a game that has two breaks: plenty of time to run for reinforcements.’
He pulls out a giant packet of Minstrels and, despite having just polished off the hot dog, I’m not shy digging in.
The music starts to blare out as they announce the teams and Mum hurries back and hands us both a steaming cup of tea.
My dad wolf whistles and claps as his team comes in – as does everyone in the rink – and my ears start to ring. The players are all wearing special Heart2Heart jerseys and I feel proud. I hope that thanks to tonight’s match more people will be able to be tested for heart defects and other families will be spared our pain.
My parents cheer loudly and I find myself joining in. Whilst it wouldn’t be my number one sport to be a spectator at – I prefer ones which have lower risk of a frozen projectile hurtling towards me – I do love the cheesy North American elements of all the music and lights; it’s a complete theatrical spectacle. At least thanks to my mum’s new aversion to risk since Ben’s death, we no longer sit behind the goals. I’m never convinced that those black nets are going to stop anything.
I pull my phone out and hold up my camera to take a video to pop on my stories.
‘You’re keen,’ says Dad.
‘It’s for Instagram,’ I reply, wincing as two players slam into the wall near us. I finish recording and add a few monkeys covering their eyes and horror face emojis to articulate what I’m feeling watching this.
‘Right. You still doing that?’
‘Uh-huh,’ I say, biting my lip a little waiting for the tone of disapproval. My parents think it’s a waste of time and that I should get a proper job. They think it’s a waste that I’m temping after I had what they thought was a glittering career in London. They don’t understand that being an influencer could be a job in its own right. Or that it was the last thing that Ben and I talked about properly and that it was him that had spurred me on.
‘I was speaking to Ned the other day and he was saying that they’re expanding at White Spot,’ says Dad.
I bring up my Insta profile and check the comments and likes.
‘That’s good for them,’ I say, trying to sound uninterested to make him change the subject.
I spent a university summer doing an internship for a family friend’s advertising company. It might have looked impressive enough on my CV to get me the copywriting job in London but the only things I learnt that summer were how to make barista-level coffee and that fancy photocopiers are the root of all evil.
‘They’re recruiting again. I could put a word in. Oooh,’ Dad says, gasping when blood spurts out of a player’s nose after a collision on the ice. The player continues to skate and I’m slightly mesmerised by the trail of red now following him.
‘I’m not actually looking for anything at the moment,’ I say.
‘I told you not to mention it,’ whispers Mum.
‘She can’t temp forever,’ he says as if I’m not here.
‘This isn’t the time, Si.’
‘It never is,’ he says, folding his arms.
‘I’ll tell you what, Dad. I’ll take a look at their website and see what they’re up to. Thank you,’ I say, intervening to stop them from bickering. They’ve been doing that a lot lately and I hate it.
‘Izzy, I bumped into Roger Davenport’s mother whilst I was getting the drinks,’ says Mum. ‘Do you remember Roger? He had such lovely thick hair.’
I almost choke on my tea. I remember Roger Davenport all right. I went to school with him and I used to chat to him sometimes because I thought he was funny. It wasn’t until years later that I learnt that Roger had told all his friends that he and his fingers had got very friendly with me one night at a party.
‘I remember him,’ I say through gritted teeth. I’d love to give him a piece of my mind.
‘Apparently he’s single, recently divorced, has a nice big house just outside Basingstoke. He runs a call centre.’
She’s not exactly selling him to me.
‘I’m not really interested in meeting anyone at the moment.’
Dad shakes his head at Mum.
‘So it’s OK for you to give our daughter life advice, and not me?’ she snaps at him.
There’s an edge to her voice that I haven’t heard before.
‘I’m trying to get her to fulfil her potential at work by moving on to a better job, not to get her a boyfriend so she stays in the area.’
‘That’s not what I was doing,’ says Mum, pursing her lips.
‘Of course it was.’
‘Hey, hey,’ I say, thinking that I can’t keep up with of all the fighting on the ice, let alone having to keep up with it off it, too. ‘Look, I’m fine, really. I’m happy being single and the Instagram account is going well. I’m getting sent free products and I’m really close to getting a paid deal.’
My stomach sinks as I think of the email I got last month but I’ve got to stay positive – there are plenty of other companies that are looking for micro-influencers like me. Plus I’m off to hear the wisdom of Small Bubbles next week and I’m hoping that I’m going to become instant BFFs so that we can rule Instagram, or at the very least she offers a little nugget of advice that’ll make my follower numbers rocket up.
Our team scores and the player who scored does a speedy lap round the ice to cheers and whistles.
‘I just don’t get why you do all the funny phone stuff and you won’t go back to an agency,’ says Dad.
‘But I’m on the cusp of getting paid for it. This way, I’ll get to run my own business.’
Mum and Dad exchange a sceptical look and I’m pleased that they’re at least united in something, even if it is that they think I’ve lost the plot.
‘Some influencers make a lot of money and they do it as a full-time job.’
‘I just think you should give Ned a call. I bet he’d be pleased to hear from you,’ says Dad.
‘And Roger’s mum gave me his number, just in case you wanted it.’ Mum passes me a piece of paper.
I take it, only because now I can send Roger an abusive text whilst drunk telling him where he can shove his fingers. And spoiler alert: it wouldn’t be anywhere near me.
Mum smiles like it’s a victory and I almost wonder if I should go out with Roger as it’s so nice to see her looking happy.
A player slams into the wall before falling back and hitting the ice. ‘Holy shit,’ I say. ‘This is brutal.’
‘We’ve not even made it through the first period yet,’ says Dad, laughing. ‘More chocolate?’
‘Always,’ I say, needing a sugar hit.
I thought this evening would be stressful because of the charity connection to Ben, but I hadn’t factored in my parents trying to meddle in my life, the underlying tension that’s appeared in their marriage or all the fisticuffs on the ice; my nerves are practically shot. If only I could make my Instagram career take off and then my parents would have one less thing to worry about. It would show them that my life’s not such a disaster after all.
Chapter 5
If Marissa doesn’t get a move on we’re going to be late for the Small Bubbles event. I hastily dial her number and scan the street whilst it’s ringing, hoping that I’ll see her hurrying along to meet me.
‘Hey, don’t kill me,’ she says as she answers. My stomach sinks. Nothing good can possibly follow that phrase. ‘But I was at a Bumps and Burpees class this morning and I pulled a calf muscle and I can’t put any weight on it.’
I knew those baby classes were a bad idea.
‘Is the baby OK?’ I ask in concern.
‘The baby is fine seeing as she’s nowhere near my calf,’ Marissa says, laughing. ‘Tim was the same, he wanted to take me to A&E as a precaution. Could you imagine, A&E on a Saturday morning when all the football and rugby injuries are piling in? I’d be there forever.’
‘Well, as long as the baby is fine, that’s the main thing.’
‘Yes, and the calf will heal apparently, might take a bit longer with the weight of the bump. Are you already there?’
‘Uh-huh,’ I say, looking up at the imposing hotel front, wondering if I’m brave enough to go in by myself.
‘Take a selfie with Lara for me! I wanna hear all about it when you get home.’
‘Of course,’ I say, feeling nervous. ‘I hope you get on OK your end.’
‘Don’t worry about me; Tim’s waiting on me and I’ve got the Amazon Fire Stick controller. Speak to you later,’ she says, hanging up.
I’m not usually one to mind going places on my own; I often go to the cinema and I’ve been to local Ted X talks, but it’s not every day I get to go to a masterclass with Lara McPherson, aka Small Bubbles, aka the Queen of Instagram, where there is massive potential for me to totally fangirl. If Marissa was here she’d keep me in check and make sure I didn’t do anything stupid to jeopardise the future where Lara and I become BFFs.
I still can’t believe I managed to get tickets to the event in the first place; they were limited and sold out within minutes. I’m guessing that we’ll get loads of one-on-one time to talk and for me to make a good impression.
I head towards the revolving door and my phone beeps. I look down whilst walking and smack into someone.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, holding up my phone as a way of apology.
The man I bumped into holds up his too and laughs.
‘I guess it’s inevitable, right? You come to an Insta-event and everyone’s walking with their heads down, looking at their phones.’ He smiles, and his teeth sparkle with their perfect whiteness.
Hang on. I’d recognise that quiff anywhere.
‘Oh wait, it’s you,’ I say, amused.
His eyes light up and he smacks his lips together.
‘You know me?’ he says in a Joey Tribbiani voice, his eyebrows raised.
‘I do,’ I confirm.
He gestures for me to walk in front of him through the revolving door. He’s giving me such a deranged look that I’ll quite happily go inside where there are people rather than be left outside on the street here alone with him.
‘Thanks,’ I say, stepping forward.
‘I can’t believe this has happened. I hoped it would but it’s totally unexpected,’ he says, following me, his hand clutched over his chest like he’s giving an Oscars acceptance speech.