Chapter 45
Perhaps the best medicine, when panic hit, was to be in the company of someone so self-absorbed that your own worries felt a touch trifling.
Alyssa was huddled in the passenger seat of Rufus’s car which, as usual, was gleaming on the outside but full of stinky old takeaway wrappers on the inside.
The smell of stale chicken was making her want to gag.
‘I mean, who would do this?’ she huffed for at least the seventh time on their journey back to London, having already filled Rufus in on what was happening, other than the specifics about Devan’s daughter Emmalina. ‘It’s just plain nasty.’
‘Perks of being a Z-list vaguely minor celebrity,’ yawned Rufus, checking his fingernails when his eyes should have been on the road. ‘Though maybe a bit of scandal could help you scrape up to at least V-list.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You think this is a good thing?’
‘Hell no,’ he said, pulling a packet of battered-looking triple chocolate cookies out of the compartment in the driver’s side door and thrusting them at her.
Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. ‘I have to share my car and cookies with you, put up with your whinging all the way back to London, and let you hide in my spare room, when I was about to dedicate it to my new Butt Clench Master Machine. Now where am I going to do my Buttathon workouts? And no doubt you’ll want to hog my machine, between sobbing into your quinoa salads and posting photos of yourself wearing way too tight yoga pants. ’
‘I haven’t posted about quinoa for ages. Do you even follow my stuff?’
‘Not on purpose.’ He shrugged.
Hanging out at Rufus’s apartment was one of the very last things she would ordinarily choose to do.
But she wasn’t ordinarily being spied on and trolled by an unknown, possibly unhinged person.
If nothing else, Rufus’s building had good security – because oddly, he considered himself important and stalk-worthy.
And apart from Devan, who was busy in Liverpool, Rufus seemed like the least likely person to be sending her these twatograms.
Her phone buzzed with another message. She quickly checked it.
@whoami23456 – I see you’ve left Hartglove. Glad you’re finally taking notice.
Her heart hammered in her chest, fear mixing with anger and a whole heap of outrage.
She did not want this person to think they were pulling the strings.
She was not leaving because they’d told her to, nor was she decided on pulling out of the tasks, even if the thought of a final gesture of love was filling her with dread.
She was getting away for her own safety, and to think.
At least she could see both of Rufus’s hands and knew his phone was in his jacket, so he couldn’t be the troll.
And she did feel a wriggle of guilt in the pit of her stomach that she was leaving town without letting anyone know.
She had a ‘deal’ with Emmalina that she’d let her dad know if she was running out, because ‘communication is kinder’.
But the fewer people who knew her predicament right then, the better.
‘This @whoami person knows I’ve just left town,’ she barked at Rufus, anxiety taking over. ‘Did you see anyone hanging about when you arrived, or when we were leaving?’
Rufus scratched his head, which was covered by his usual backwards baseball cap.
‘Might have spotted a rustling in the bushes as I was checking my hair in the rear-view mirror. Difficult to tell. Could have been a dog taking a piss. Still find it hard to believe anyone’s into taking photos of your unmade bed. You’re hardly Tracey Emin.’
The rest of the trip back to London was quiet enough, other than Rufus bragging about his latest ‘clients’, who Alyssa was pretty sure were too close to A-list to ever consider him as an agent.
Between his tales of doing brunch with ‘that guy from Love Island’, Alyssa had time to start processing her thoughts.
Had she brought this trollish turmoil onto herself, by living behind a smokescreen of half-truths for so long?
If she hadn’t pretended her life was so polished, nobody would be bothered about bringing her down.
Though it was only her feelings of inadequacy that had led her to hide behind a guise.
She’d just wanted to be liked and accepted, and to build her career as a love coach.
She hadn’t set out to deceive people. She was just human.
Surely, she wasn’t the only person who was measured about what they shared online?
And when she’d done things that way, her soul hadn’t been on display. If people didn’t like her on social media, then it wasn’t truly her. She’d been protecting her heart.
She had been beginning to drop the mask and share a less filtered version of herself – but this was making her feel out of control.
Should she share the photos of her unmade bed and dirty dishes, to take back power from this bully?
It would be freeing, and the online space needed more honesty.
Sharing life’s chaos would give others a sense of relief that it was OK to be perfectly imperfect.
But if she did that, would the troll retaliate by posting things about Devan and Emmalina? She couldn’t risk it.
‘If I’m going to stop this troll, I need to find out who they are and confront them. How can I do that?’ she asked Rufus, who’d been busy droning on about his future toned bum cheeks.
‘What?’ he asked, as though her woes had already escaped his goldfish memory. ‘Oh right, that. Erm. I do know a few private investigators.’ He tapped his nose. ‘It’s part of the territory, in my job. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks.’
It sounded helpful, although there was precisely no way she was putting all her precious eggs in Rufus’s shoddy basket. When they got to London, she’d do some private investigating of her own.