We Just Clicked

He bent down and retrieved my phone and wrinkled his face.

‘It’s a little cracked,’ he said, handing it to me. I slipped it into my handbag without looking.

‘Least of my worries,’ I said, and he nodded.

‘Let’s get you on that train.’

He steered me by the elbow towards a platform, taking care not to rush me, as I tried desperately to hold the floodgates of emotions shut.

The man walked me halfway along a platform and he continued to hold my elbow until the train arrived, like he was propping me up. It was only when he escorted me onto it that I noticed he wasn’t leaving.

‘Your train,’ I said in protest. ‘You don’t have to take me to Basingstoke.’

He guided me to a seat, and sat down on the one next to me.

‘It’s fine, I can catch a later one. I just want to make sure you get there safely. That’s all.’

‘But really, I’ll be fine,’ I said, trying to hold back the tears.

‘You’re not fine, and you don’t have to be either,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure you get to your mum and dad’s. Do they live near the station, or do you need a taxi?’

‘Taxi,’ I just about managed. His kindness was starting to make me choke up.

‘OK, then I’ll make sure you get in one.’

I stopped protesting and nodded and then the tears started to fall. I cried all over his blue shirt and he sat there patiently passing me napkins that he’d nabbed from the buffet trolley.

I didn’t even realise we’d reached our final destination until he gently guided me out of the seat and led me out of the doors. I walked down the stairs into the tunnel to the main entrance, not caring what an absolute state I must have looked like.

I found my ticket and put it into the machine on autopilot and he followed me through the barrier using the ticket he’d purchased on the train. Then he led me to the black cabs waiting outside the station.

‘Are you OK from here?’ he asked, helping me inside the cab.

I nodded back, ‘I am.’

He leant into the front of the cab and handed the driver a £20 note, asking him to take me to where I needed to go.

‘She hasn’t been drinking, has she? I don’t want to clear up any sick,’ said the driver.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She’s just had a really awful start to the day.’

He turned to me and smiled with his head tilted.

‘I’m so sorry for whatever’s happened to you,’ he practically whispered.

‘Thank you. Thank you for everything,’ I stuttered. It didn’t seem adequate for what he’d done.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s what anyone would have done.’

‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Aidan,’ he said softly.

‘Thank you, Aidan,’ I said.

‘You take care,’ he said, stepping out of the car and gently closing the door.

‘Where to, love?’ asked the taxi driver.

I gave him my parents’ address and he pulled out into the road. I turned back and looked at Aidan standing there on the pavement. He waved and I waved back. But then I remembered that Ben had gone and the rest of the journey became a blur.

Two Years Later

Welcome to May

This_Izzy_Loves IGTV

No. followers: 15.3k

Hello! I’m back. Sorry to those who missed me over the last couple of days. I was away with my family and we chose to stay offline – I know, I KNOW! But I survived and I had lots of time to think up wonderful things that I’m going to put up on my feed this month. Can’t wait to share it all with you – including hopefully a great brand collaboration. Keeping all my fingers and toes crossed, and wrapped in plastic – wink.

Chapter 1

There are many ridiculous things I have done in the name of ‘the Gram’. Walking past restaurants that I know have mouthwateringly delicious meals only to eat at mediocre places because their food is more photogenic. Standing alone on the South Bank posing like I’m in Britain’s Next Top Model whilst discreetly pressing the remote for my camera. Maxing out my credit card to bring home an ideal #OutfitOfTheDay wardrobe only to take all the items back after I’d snapped myself in them. But being wrapped up in three 20m rolls of clingfilm in an attempt to snare a lucrative marketing campaign probably takes the biscuit.

‘Are we sure this is a good idea?’ I ask, staring at the rolls of clingfilm in Marissa’s hands like they’re a deadly weapon.

‘It’s a great idea, it’s going to be fantastic,’ she says. Of course she’d say that; she came up with it. ‘It is the perfect Halloween costume and probably the easiest one.’

‘Do you think people will get that I’m one of Dexter’s victims? Is it too old a TV programme?’

She tuts dismissively and walks closer towards me. She’s so keen to get me wrapped up in this plastic that if she wasn’t my best friend that I’ve known for practically my whole life, I’d be worried that she was actually trying to bump me off Dexter-style.

‘OK, hold tight,’ she says, a glint in her eye.

I know that there’s no point in protesting. The only positive I can think of right now is that it might warm me up. I’m standing here in a skin-coloured strapless bra and giant knickers, shivering. I’d turned the heating down thinking that I’d be far too warm when wearing my new plastic fantastic outfit. I hadn’t factored in the pre-wrapped stage.

Marissa starts to pass the plastic round and round and it starts to get tighter and tighter.

‘Do you think it’s actually safe? Are you sure I can’t suffocate?’

‘Come on, we checked this. Google never lies, right?’

‘Did we google that specifically? “Can I die from a clingfilm costume?” Maybe we should have used the American brand name. What do they call it, it’s something-wrap isn’t it?’

‘Saran wrap,’ says Marissa, bending down to start wrapping up my waist.

I go to reach for my phone to check and Marissa slaps my hand away.

‘It’s not like you’re going to be covered in it for long. We only need to take a few photos.’

‘A few photos?’ I laugh.

It makes it sound like one or two, but to get the one golden shot we usually take fifty or sixty. Luckily Marissa’s a fellow Instagrammer so we go above and beyond classic best friend duties by being each other’s stylist, muse, photographer, editor and number one fan.

Our friendship has always been mutually supportive. At fourteen, when I joined the school choir, Marissa did too, despite being tone deaf. At sixteen, when she went all goth I dyed my hair black and boiled all summer long in black velvet dresses. At eighteen, when I wanted a Chinese symbol on the small of my back before I went to university, Marissa not only held my hand but got a matching one on hers too. So when Ben died and I moved back to my hometown of Basingstoke with a serious Instagram addiction, it wasn’t long before we fell into our old pattern and she became an addict too.

‘OK, here we go,’ she says, bending down and wrapping my bum. ‘We’re getting there. How are you feeling?’

‘Like I’m in a straitjacket.’

‘Perfect. It’s looking great.’

She switches to a new roll.

‘We’re going through them quickly,’ I say. ‘Is my bum really that big?’

‘It is a lot of plastic, isn’t it?’ she says.

‘Oh crap, do you think I’ll get in trouble? Will the brand call me irresponsible?’

Marissa stops and stares at the empty rolls on the floor. ‘Shit, I hadn’t thought about that.’

We both look down at my costume.

‘The thing is, if you stop now and don’t post this then we’ll have used these rolls anyway and that would be worse,’ she says.

‘You’re right. It’s not like I can reuse it,’ I say.

‘No, you don’t want to be covering any more chicken fillets with them,’ says Marissa, laughing.

‘I’ll have you know these are real,’ I say, looking down at my chest that’s flattened like a pancake and could actually do with something to pad it out.

She carries on and I hope that I don’t lose out on the contract because of a misjudgement in green credentials.

Finally she stands back. ‘You’re all finished,’ she says, taking a snap of me on her iPhone to show me.

‘Wow, that actually looks pretty good,’ I say.

‘Now for the blood,’ she practically cackles. My eyes widen as she slips on an apron, much too like the real Dexter for my liking.

‘What?’ she says. ‘I don’t want to get any on my jeans.’

Marissa signals for me to lie on the plastic sheeting that we’ve covered my very white lounge with whilst she stirs the lumpy cocoa powder and food dye paste like a witch stirring a cauldron. She bends down and expertly applies the fake blood to my stomach.

‘Now the duct tape,’ she says, taping my arms above my head. ‘And the knife,’ she says, whipping one out from her handbag.

‘What the—’ I shout until I realise there’s no glint on it and it’s quite clearly plastic.

‘Can you believe they still make these?’ she says, pushing the fake blade into my stomach, causing the blade to retract into the handle.

‘I haven’t seen one of those since primary school. I don’t think that’d be allowed in the playground anymore.’

‘Not likely,’ she says, taping the handle to my stomach as discreetly as she can.

‘I think you’re done,’ she says, pulling over the tripod. ‘You ready?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘OK, pull some scared faces,’ she says as she starts clicking.

She takes a couple of shots and then looks down at the camera and pulls it off the tripod.

‘I think it looks pretty good. I’m so going to do this for my costume when it’s actually Halloween.’

I stare at her emerging bump.

‘Erm, you do realise that you’re going to be eight months pregnant by then.’

‘Oh yeah,’ she says, looking down at her stomach. ‘I guess that would be way too much plastic.’

‘Yep, that’s the problem with this costume for a pregnant woman.’

‘What do you reckon?’ she asks, holding the camera above my head so that I can see the photo.

‘I love it. But I should have duct tape over my mouth too, don’t you think?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, just don’t stick it down too hard!’

Receiving a message from an agency representing a well-known supermarket was like a dream come true. They’re looking for influencers on Instagram to pitch them ideas for Halloween posts – the caveat being you have to come up with a costume from products you can buy in store. And with a little help from Marissa, who was insanely jealous that I got asked and she didn’t, I came up with a killer concept in all sense of the word. I’m just hoping it’s enough to win me the campaign. It would be so on brand for me – my theme is all about affordable lifestyle.

My Instagram following has been growing over the last three years and I’m just teetering on the edge of starting to earn good money for sponsored posts. I desperately hope that soon I’ll make enough that my monthly earnings go into triple figures. In my wildest dreams I get caught up in fantasies that I’ll be able to earn enough to give up the temp job I took when I moved back to Basingstoke or at the very least move out of the little flat I now share with Ben’s ex-fiancée Becca and its mouldy bathroom, but right now I’d settle for making more from an ad than the cost of the props involved, which in this case (clingfilm, cocoa powder, food dye and plastic knife) is probably about fifteen quid.

Marissa rips a strip of tape and places it gently over my mouth.

‘OK?’

I go to nod but realise that I’m restrained and instead I blink twice, hoping she’ll pick up on the new code.

‘Right then.’

My phone on the table starts to buzz and ring loudly. Only two people ring my phone: salespeople and my mum.

Marissa peers over at it. ‘It’s your mum,’ she says and without hesitation picks it up.

‘Hello, Dawn, I’m afraid Izzy’s a bit tied up at the moment and I mean that literally… No, unfortunately I’m not being cheeky, it’s not a man who’s tied her up… No, she’s still not dating anyone… No, as far as I know there’s been no one since Cameron… I have suggested that… and that… uh-huh, you know what she’s like.’

I make a muffled noise through the duct tape to remind her that I’m still here.

‘Yes, the bump’s fine, thank you… Over the worst of it now, I haven’t been sick for a couple of weeks… Yes, December… Yes, Tim is over the moon about being a dad… Yes, Mum said she’d told you at Zumba. OK then, shall I get her to call you when she’s free?… uh-huh, uh-huh… right, yes, hopefully see you soon.’

She hangs up the phone and pops it back on the table, as if it was totally normal to have a chat with my mum whilst I lie here constrained by clingfilm.

‘Your mum says, can you call her when you’re less tied up?’

I blink twice in recognition and Marissa picks up her camera once more. She takes a couple more shots and looks at them, wrinkling her brow at the results.

‘It looks a little dark.’ She takes the camera off the tripod again and turns it round to face me and I totally agree.

‘I’ll go and get the standing lamp from your bedroom.’

She leaves me alone and I look up at the ceiling and see there’s a cobweb hanging right above my head. I’m scanning it for signs of life – or death in the case of any flies trapped in it – that would signal the existence of a spider. What if there was one right above my head, ready to drop down from its web, and there would be nothing I could do about it? I shiver. There’s absolutely no way I could go on I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here! I’ll have to remember that when they try and lure me onto the show when I’m a huge Instagram star. I might be willing to do crazy things like this whilst I’m a mere wannabe but hopefully the crazy and the ridiculous will stop by the time I become a megastar.

I hear the key in the door and I go to move, but Marissa’s done a pretty good job with the duct tape and I’m stuck.

‘Don’t come in!’ I shout. I’m shocked that I can make myself heard through the duct tape; so much for all those Hollywood movies. It doesn’t stop Becca though, and I hear her scream before I see her peering over me.

She puts her hand to her chest and takes an over-the-top deep breath.

‘What the hell are you doing? You scared the life out of me.’

Becca leans over and rips off the tape, which fortunately wasn’t stuck anymore or else I might have had an impromptu waxing session. Her arms are now folded and her nostrils are flaring. And from this angle with her angular bob and straight fringe she looks pretty fierce.

‘We were just taking photos,’ I stutter.

‘Don’t tell me this is one of your Instagram photoshoots.’

Marissa walks into the room and Becca points a finger at her. ‘You’re not going all Sweeney Todd for one of your recipes, are you?’

‘No, no. I gave up on the food porn ages ago. Now my feed’s more yummy mummy-to-be.’

Becca looks accusingly at me. ‘Right, so this is for you then. Bloody Instagram.’

‘But this is different, it’s for a possible contract – you know, as in paid. It’s for Halloween.’

‘Halloween is months away,’ she says, putting her hands on her hips.

‘I know but the agency have to pitch it to their client and I guess these things take time to develop,’ I say, trailing off.

‘Well, a little warning would have been nice.’

‘You usually go to the gym on Thursdays. But seeing as you’re here we could have a proper girls’ night in.’

‘Groan,’ says Marissa. ‘I’ve got a ticking time bomb in my belly and I’ve seen what happened to my sister; in a few months’ time it’ll be like a military operation to even leave the house, let alone see you guys on my own or have the energy to go out-out. Let’s go for drinks! It is Thirsty Thursday.’

Marissa has a name for every day of the week to make it sound like it’s a socially acceptable night of the week to go out drinking: Tipsy Tuesday, Wicked Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday, Sunday Funday.

‘Tempting as that sounds,’ says Becca, ‘I’ve got a date tonight. I just came back for a shower.’

‘A date?’ says Marissa, arching an eyebrow.

‘Uh-huh, with Gareth.’

‘Again? Good for you.’

Becca tucks her hair behind her ears and it only highlights how crimson her cheeks have turned.

‘Looks like you’ll have to make do with Kirsty and Phil and a takeaway,’ I say.

Marissa doesn’t look pleased. Once she’s got a night out in her sights she won’t let it go. We’ll be out in heels and sequins whether we like it or not.

‘We could always go for drinks next weekend,’ she replies.

Becca and I exchange glances; we both know we’re doomed.

‘I’m free on the Friday night,’ says Becca, flipping through the post. She pulls a letter out and starts opening it.

‘I said I’d go out for drinks with Cleo after work,’ I say.

‘Ooh I really liked her when we met at your birthday. Why don’t Becca and I come and meet you guys? We can get the train to Reading, can’t we, Becca? Then it really will be a big night. We can go to one of those cocktail bars and get dressed up all swanky.’

Now it’s my turn to groan. The best part of only going for an after-work drink is that I get to leave early because Cleo thinks that Basingstoke is really far from Reading. I’ve never corrected her that in reality it’s only twenty minutes on very frequent trains because my ‘long and arduous commute’ is an excellent excuse to use when I want to sneak away from work socialising. Unfortunately, Marissa knows when the last trains are and also a cheap cab company that’ll drive us home at goodness-knowswhat time.

‘I’m not sure,’ says Becca, wrinkling up her nose. ‘I’m old now, I don’t know if I can be arsed.’

‘You’re only two years older than us,’ says Marissa. ‘And, hello, I’m pregnant if anyone is playing the I’m-not-going-out card, it’s me and I’m not. So you have no excuse.’

‘Fine,’ she says, sighing. She turns her attention back to the letter in her hand. She pulls a face and puts it down on the kitchen island. ‘Gas bill.’

I pull the same face. Looks like I won’t be drinking that many cocktails whilst we’re out next week.

‘I better go shower,’ says Becca, ‘and this place better be less CSI when I come out.’

She disappears off and Marissa turns back to me.

‘So, she’s going out with Gareth again?’

‘Uh-huh. I think this must be her third date.’

‘Oh right, so it’s going well?’

‘I guess so. She hasn’t really talked to me about it; I think she feels a bit awkward.’

Marissa nods. ‘Hmm, I imagine she would. So, should we take more photos?’

‘Absolutely. Phil and Kirsty wait for no man,’ I say, relieved that Marissa knows when to change the subject.

‘But you’ve got to phone your mum back first.’

I nod as she goes to reapply the tape.

‘It didn’t sound important – it was something about baking banana bread and some chocolate cake,’ she says, shrugging and picking up her camera again.

I wince. ‘Oh God, she’s baked two cakes?’ That’s never a good sign. The more she’s hit by grief, the more she bakes.

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘Oh bugger. Do you mind if we take a raincheck on Kirsty and Phil? I better go and make sure she’s OK.’

‘Of course, go, go.’

‘I might need a little help,’ I say, trying and failing to wriggle my arms.

‘Oh yeah.’ She bends down and helps me out.

‘Do you think we’ll have got the right shot?’

Marissa’s carefully unwrapping me, trying not splatter fake blood all over the flat.

‘I’m sure with a little photoshop magic we will have.’

In an ideal world we’d take a few dozen more. As much as I love to escape to Instagram to distract me from the real world, sometimes it’s too hard to ignore, like now, when my mum needs me. All I can hope is that we’ll have a photo that will be good enough to help elevate me to the next level of influencer – preferably just in time for me to pay the gas bill.

Chapter 2

I pull my cardigan further round me whilst I wait for my computer to boot up. It’s not even warm outside today but for some reason our office has cranked up the air conditioning to Baltic proportions. I dig around in my office drawer and feel triumphant as I pull out a woolly scarf that I haven’t needed since last summer.

‘Almost time for the fingerless gloves,’ says Cleo, her teeth chattering.

I laugh. I love sitting next to Cleo; she makes my job so much more bearable.

After Ben died I wanted to be closer to my parents, so I quit the job in advertising that I hated, moved back to my hometown and started temping at an insurance company in nearby Reading. It was only supposed to be temporary whilst I made the leap into marketing or PR, but like most best-laid plans it hasn’t worked out that way and I’ve been here almost two years now.

Colin is next to arrive at our bank of desks. He walks over to his seat opposite Cleo, looking over his shoulder as he does so for any sign of Mrs Harris. Relieved that she’s not in the vicinity he manages to nod a hello to us, which is progress. Last week, after Flamingogate, he wouldn’t even acknowledge anyone, choosing only to look at the table.

‘Poor Colin,’ whispers Cleo.

Someone drops a ream of paper from a box over the other side of the room and we both watch as he flinches.

The poor soul. He’d only gone to touch Mrs Harris’s bread flamingo out of admiration, he hadn’t intended to break its leg and therefore in her eyes hinder her chances in the Great Office Bake Off competition. Whilst we all love our work colleague Mrs Harris we are all secretly terrified of her, and woe betide anyone who gets on her wrong side.

My computer clearly has that Friday feeling and is slow booting up. I know how it feels. I look at my to-do list, wishing my tasks were a bit more interesting, but temping in the contracts department of an insurance company isn’t really the job of my dreams.

My computer still hasn’t started, so I slip my hand into my bag and I pull out my phone as quietly and unobtrusively as I can. But nothing gets past Cleo.

‘Hello, my name is Izzy and I’m an Instagram-aholic,’ she says.

‘Very funny.’ I put my phone face down on the table. ‘I wasn’t looking at Instagram, actually. I’m waiting for an email. A very important email.’

‘Uh-huh. About what?’

‘Important things.’

‘Important Instagram things?’

I grit my teeth.

‘I’m not addicted,’ I say, pushing the phone further away from me.

‘Sure you’re not,’ she says, smirking.

‘I’m not, honestly.’

‘Do I need to remind you of the day that your network went down and you couldn’t get online? You nearly went mad.’

‘I wouldn’t say mad…’

‘You went to The Swan to use their WiFi.’

‘It’s a nice pub,’ I say, finding it hard to keep a straight face.

‘Um, it’s a nice pub if you’re touting for business.’

‘It’s not that bad in there.’

‘You got propositioned twice by people wanting your services.’

‘Well, they’re not that used to having women in there.’

‘And you went to McDonald’s, multiple times.’

‘They do surprisingly good coffee.’

‘Uh-huh, and have surprisingly good WiFi.’

I fold my arms defensively. My computer is finally showing signs of life. ‘So the fact that you’ve not been to either establishment since that day…’

‘Still doesn’t mean to say I’m addicted!’

Cleo’s eyebrow is arching – she’s not convinced and neither am I.

‘I’m just checking my email, that’s all,’ I protest.

She smiles and turns back to her keyboard with a smug look on her face as if she’s older and wiser, when in fact she’s only 23 – eight years younger than me. Trust me to sit next to the only millennial who isn’t surgically attached to her phone.