General note: there’s no need for multiple people to thank everyone who posts, the group has 300 members, and we all lead busy lives. I appreciate that some are busier than others, but please think before you type.
She’s not even the admin of the group, she just takes it upon herself to write posts like this. I read her message again and my cheeks flame. As the second and only other responder, I’m clearly the target. The “busier than others” part, a dig, no doubt, at my maternity leave, or maybe even my job. I’m a teacher. And nothing annoys people more than the supposedly shorthours teachers work. Celeste, something big in a bank, with her frequent travel and airtight schedule, hadn’t taken more than a minute’s maternity leave when her kids were born. That’s according to my sister Greta, who’s lived in Oakpark her whole life. And it’s Greta and my other sister, Leesa, I text, with a screenshot of Celeste’s message, my cheeks still hot:
omg she’s such a smug wagon. I’d love to send her the pics of her husband wrapped around the PR girl at the opening party for Bar Four. Or tell her that her bratty daughter bunks off school to see her boyfriend. And that everyone knows she covered up what her son did to the Fitzpatrick toddler. That would wipe the pass-agg smile off her face. Urgh. I know. I’m awful. I just needed to get that out of my system.
I throw the phone beside me on the couch and let out an irritated sigh. Everything is annoying me. This room, where I now spend most of my time. The deep-blue walls that looked so good when we first painted them. The velvet ochre couch that cost a small fortune. The cooling cup of tea on the coffee table, mocking me. At this point, the South Dublin water pipes are mostly filled with my cold tea. In the crook of my left arm, Bella nuzzles in, her tiny eyelashes fluttering in sleep. Seven o’clock. Sleep this late is a terrible idea, but god, I can’t bring myself to wake her.
Beside me, my phone buzzes and, at the same time, I hear the sound of the front door.Oh, thank god. Now Jon can take the baby and I can get a shower or do laundry or any one of the myriad things I’ve dreamed of doing all day. Imagine dreaming of doing laundry.
My phone buzzes again as Jon comes through to the living room. His eyes crinkle into a smile and he bends to kiss the top of my head, sweat glistening on his forehead from his post-work run. Running is new. He started about six weeks ago and has become completely obsessed. He’s already lean and wiry, so I don’t think it’s a fitness concern, despite what he claims—I have a sneaking suspicion it’s a response to Bella’s birth. A kindof early midlife crisis, a sense that he’s suddenly adult and old. If you could see him, you’d laugh at that—he’s thirty-eight, but with boyish looks and a bouncy energy that make him seem much younger. I get it though. Having Bella has changed both of us.
“How’re my girls?”
“OK.” I wriggle forward on the couch until I can stand, trying not to disturb Bella, then pass her into Jon’s arms.
“Oh, I was going to shower first and—”
I cut him off. “No chance. I’ve been waiting for a shower since this morning.”
He knows better than to argue. That’s when my phone begins to ring. Nobody ever calls. Greta, Leesa and I text all day, my friends text, my mother-and-baby group send voicenotes, because nobody has time to type. I turn over the phone. Greta’s name flashes onscreen.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Your message. Delete.Delete!”
Greta is the calm one, so to hear her shrieking down the phone unnerves me.
“What? Why?”
“Your message about Celeste. You sent it to the whole Oakpark group. I’ve been texting you. Delete!”
Fuck. Fumbling, I click into WhatsApp. Oh god. In the pit of my stomach, everything flips. Greta is right. My blood runs cold. I’ve sent the screenshot and my bitchy message about Celeste to the entire group.No, no, no…please say I’m wrong. My words stare back at me. I’m not wrong. I’ve sent it to all three hundred members. Including Celeste.
“Susan, make sure you click ‘Delete for Everyone,’ not just ‘Delete for Me,’ or it’ll be there for ever!” Greta is shouting down the line.
All fingers and thumbs, I hit delete. How many people have seen it? Has Celeste seen it?Shit. Shit. Shit.
Greta is still on the line, her voice distant, barely audible through theblood pounding in my ears. Jon is asking what’s wrong and Bella is awake and beginning to cry. Before I can process or explain what I’ve done, I manage to knock my full cup of cold tea all across the living-room floor.Oh, for god’s sake, can things get any worse?
As it happens, things are about to get much, much worse.
2
Susan
Tuesday
My message spreads like wildfire. In the ten minutes between sending it and deleting it, dozens and dozens of Oakpark residents have seen it, and many, it turns out, have taken screenshots and sent those on to friends. On a slow-news Tuesday in July, this is the quintessential open-the-popcorn moment. Updates on the screenshot-spread reach me via Greta, who has seen it in her hockey coach group, and Leesa, who has seen it in her school mum group. Replies and follow-up posts appear in the Oakpark group and I give silent thanks for my relative anonymity—my display name is “SO’D” and my profile picture is a daisy. But still, as I read them, I’m absolutely mortified and sick with guilt:
Uh oh, wrong group, I think?
I think he or she meant this for someone else…
Who is SO’D? Apt initials
*opens popcorn*
Guys, this isn’t funny, it’s not fair on Celeste. I’ve seen screenshots shared in other groups now, people need to think before they post.
