This is the funniest thing ever. UNJOLLY HOLLY.
Omg she needs serious help.
A real life grinch! Where did u find her?
Is she acting? So f***ing funny.
What a bitch, Santa is cool.
I like her dress but she needs a decent haircut.
And on and on. I scroll through an endless debate. The comments are falling into three main camps: people that think I’m mean and awful, people that agree with me wholeheartedly, and people that have an opinion about my hair, make-up, or clothes. There are a small but growing number who are confused about why I’m wearing a shower cap—I’d like to know that myself.
The TikTok clocks up another thousand views just while I’m looking at it. The thing has a life of its own. I chuck my phone away like it’s electric, and it thumps screen down on the carpet. TikTok is crucifying me—two days before Jesus’s birth. There’s some irony in that, but right now, I can’t see the funny side.
This hangover isn’t helping. I have heart palpitations and blurry vision. I crawl over to the phone and quickly text Lewis,This is Holly. I saw the TikTok please delete it NOW!
I wait with bated breath for a full five minutes. Please please please reply! But there’s nothing. Either he hasn’t gotten my text, or he has and is ignoring me. I dial his number. It goes straight to an out-of-office voicemail:‘Hi, I’m on holiday until 28 December. But leave a message if it’s urgent, and I’ll get back to you then. Merry Christmas!’
Upon hearing his smarmy, upbeat tone, my anger threatens to erupt. But I try to keep a lid on it. My message is curt and to the point:‘Lewis, Holly. The TikTok you posted of me is going viral. I can’t believe you did that without my consent. I’m going to report it now, and you’ll probably get your account banned. For fuck’s sake, Lewis!’
I hang up and swipe frustrated tears from my eyes. How could he do this? I trusted him. He’s the CEO of a hotel. It’s so unprofessional. Speaking of which, if Valerie claps eyes on it, I’m going to get a huge rap on the knuckles. Or worse, I could lose my job. She wanted me to be more visible, but not this visible!
Andrea calls, but I ignore her and click back into the TikTok with a shaking hand. It’s like a car crash, impossible not to look. There’s another 200 likes and thirty more comments. People are still sticking up for me. Plenty of others want to lynch me. I’m afraid if I look outside my window, I’ll see a large angry mob shaking their pitchforks and shouting ‘Kill the grinch!’
This is not good. What if someone finds out my address and sends it to a Christmas extremist? For my own safety, I can’t stay here. It could be dangerous, and I have to think about Crumpet. Who’s going to feed him if I get shot?
In a daze, I head towards the hallway and haul my wheelie bag out of the cupboard. Trundling it back to my room, I start packing. Passport—check. Crumpet’s favourite squeaky toy, blanket, and lead—check. Sensing something’s up, he wanders in and gives an excited woof when he sees me packing his things, thinking we’re going on an adventure.Well, it is, but only to avoid my brains being blown out.
Andrea calls again.
‘Hello,’ I mutter, transferring a bundle of underwear from my dresser with one hand.
‘Finally! Did you see it?’
‘Yes, I saw it. I’m packing.’
‘It’s not that bad ...’ she attempts, but I’m in no mood to be mollified.
‘Are you joking? It’s worse than bad. I have to leave. There’s no other option. If someone hires a hacker, it’ll be easy to track me down since he used my first name. I’m not waiting around for a Christmas crazy to knock me off.’
Andrea gives an amused snort. ‘I don’t think it will get to that, surely! Can’t you ask Lewis to take it down?’
‘I tried that. No luck. He’s buggered off on holiday.’
‘Did you report it to TikTok?’
‘Yes, and they’re looking into it. But I’m not sure how long it will take or if they’ll do anything until I’m actively getting death threats. And judging by the tone of some of the comments, that’s not far off. If I stay here, I’m going to be a sitting duck.’
‘But it’s Christmas in two days!’ she exclaims.
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘Where are you going to go? I’d say come and hide out at mine until it dies down, but I’m hosting my parents. They’re coming up from the Borders tomorrow, and I only have a small flat ...’ Andrea trails off.
‘Thanks anyway. I don’t know. Somewhere. Just not Edinburgh.’ I’m too buoyed up on adrenaline to think logically. Cortisol is flowing through my veins, spurring me into flight mode—my preferred method of dealing with confrontation.
‘Maybe you’re right to get away,’ she says. ‘TikTok’s just the tip of the iceberg.’
