‘It’ll all be OK,’ I reassure her.
‘This doesn’t feel the same,’ she admits. ‘My mum has started to get really shouty. Screaming about the nuns trying to take her away and shit.’
I realize that Violet has needed Ted, and the community she has created in thrall to him, probably more than any of us.
‘Is there anyone there with you?’ I ask, knowing it’s probably futile. It’s enough to set Violet off.
‘Oh yeah, hang on a sec, I’ll just round them all up,’ she says hurriedly, opening a nearby window. ‘Where’s my gang at? C’mon, I know you’re there somewhere.’
‘Sorry, Violet,’ I tell her, and I genuinely am.
‘There’s a girl on Twitter that’s annoying me,’ she says. ‘Her name is Benni Brisk. Look at her profile.’
Benni Brisk has pinned a tweet: ‘Love tweeting about Ted Levy and literally only Ted Levy and nothing else, only follow me for Ted Levy tweets only.’
Benni looks twenty-five, lithe and pretty in an unimaginative, chai-latte way, which is I’m sure what is really driving Violet to despair. She doesn’t want to share him with some random bikini model, although I guess none of us do.
‘Like who even is she?’ Violet spits.
‘Violet, her tweets seem to be coming from Alaska. She’s in the middle of absolutely nowhere.’ Is that what is concerning her? Benni’s proximity to Ted?
‘Yeah but… she’s not in the group, she’s never asked to be in the group.’ She is clearly spinning.
‘I know, but… she doesn’t have to be in the group to be a fan. She can just do her own thing and tweet whatever she likes,’ I reason. ‘She can be a fan of Ted’s if she wants and that’s OK. It doesn’t need to mean anything.’
‘It’s just… he’s getting bigger,’ Violet says. ‘Like a proper famous person.’
This too, makes me shiver a little, though I won’t admit it. ‘All we can do is tend to our own patch of the online universe and have a bit of fun with it,’ I tell her. ‘Ours is a space to just appreciate and talk, remember?’ I note the long silence. ‘Well, it’s your space, but…’
‘I still can’t believe you haven’t met him yet,’ she says. ‘What’s stopping you?’
‘If only I knew,’ I tell her truthfully.
Violet huffs an unkind laugh and, shaking her head, she signs off, giving me the middle finger as she goes.
21
The gods have anointed the Tedettes with a little treat; so good it’s like five birthdays in one. Ted has just starred in an ad campaign for a car company. In the black-and-white image, he is crouching down like something that has just arrived from another planet, wearing nothing but a pair of angel wings strapped to his back and a slightly bewildered look.
‘Modifications are what we do best’ is the slogan. A reference to that old viral video of his, where he said that the one thing he would ever want to change about his body is having a pair of wings.
The overall effect is meant to be comically absurd, but I am in a kind of heaven looking at Ted as nature intended. I zoom in until the image pixelates. I study every single square inch of flesh, marvelling at his rounded shoulders, the hairs on his back that seem to lie this way and that, the curve of his calf. I sigh a little when I catch the softness of his tummy. He is looking straight into the camera and it’s easier than ever to picture him, post-coital, staring back at me as he puts his clothes back on.
Immediately, I post the link to the Tedettes page. No one else has posted it yet– there hasn’t even been so much as a sniff of a new advert among the group, so someone on news duty has clearly been asleep at the wheel– and it gives mea strange flush of pride to be the first to do the reveal. Like I’m officially part of the gang.
‘Ew, bit of a sellout,’ is Layla’s response to the ad. ‘Car companies? What the fuck?’
‘Agreed, Layla, this does not chime with the guy I thought he was.’ This one from Juliet.
‘No one else think he looks even a bit cute in this?’ I offer. ‘It’s a smart move on their part, I think.’
‘The butt is unmatched, I’ll give him that,’ writes Maxi, performatively horny as ever.
‘Bit strange for someone at the top of their creative game tho,’ says Molly.
No one is saying it, but already I can sense our collective unease, that Ted is pulling even further away from us into the realm of genuine movie stardom.
To dampen the gnaw of anxiety, I take the laptop to my room, open the picture, take one look at Ted Levy’s arse again, ball up a towel and grind down on it without taking my eyes off him. It’s a watery, barely-there orgasm, but still: it’s the first I’ve had in weeks.
