Page 26

Messy fame

Deciding that denial was the most comfortable option, I agreed to go to London with Susan. Lucy and Charlie thought I should go. The show had called me again. I’d even asked Linda when she rang, but of course she just gave me non-committal therapist jargon. Ben didn’t text me. I didn’t text Ben. We just left ourselves in that horrible quiet place. Making Susan happy seemed like the least I could do, and things with Ben had been getting messy, like they were destined to; like everyone had warned me.

My mind was a maze of emotions, but London had several guiding arrows, so I followed them.

I had no idea what to wear for a breakfast show, so we went shopping and picked out outfits. Susan chose a floral dress, and I settled on a tartan skirt and an oversized turtleneck. My cousin and his husband cooked us dinner at their flat, and I got to spend time with little Harry. It was bittersweet, watching Susan fuss over him.

Once we’d finished dinner, Vince and Freddie dragged us out to a swanky London bar, leaving Harry with a babysitter. I’d been anxious about going out drinking, but it was surprisingly enjoyable – the cocktails were so fancy, all delivered in different pots and jars with smoke and props, that it felt glamorous rather than raucous.

IvyMWhite I might have to start collecting random recycling to make cocktails in, because I’m convinced it makes them taste better. Thanks Vince and Freddie for showing me London, did I mention I’d never been? What’s your favourite cocktail recipe? #londontown #coolcousins

IvyMWhite You guys are getting demanding, here’s a photo of all of us. Doesn’t Susan look gorgeous? Wish me luck tomorrow! @themorningshow

Arriving the next morning at the studio was intense; they re-did most of my make-up and everyone was buzzing around. We were taken to a small holding room where we were introduced to comedian Robert Jones, who was involved in the show. Fortunately for my already frayed nerves, he was really friendly and absolutely hilarious. I could see why people thought he was attractive; he had a broad jaw and well-groomed beard, brown eyes, and thick dark hair. He was rugged – manly. Even his voice was deep.

“I thought comedians hated being funny outside of shows,” I joked.

“Only the shit ones.”

He winked. “You’re more famous than me, anyway, I’m only here to gap-fill for you. I do demand a photo on your feed, though – help another lowly Instagrammer out.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Ooh, feisty. You have fifty thousand more followers than me, I counted.”

He slid his hand around the back of my jumper and picked up my phone to take a photo. “Can I write the caption?”

“Absolutely not.”

IvyMWhite It’s an honour to have been asked to share more of my story this morning on ITV @themorningshow. Thank you to everyone for welcoming me so warmly. P.S. @robertjjokes requested the photo.

Before long, we walked onto the live television set, straight past a small audience, and were invited to take a seat on a sofa next to the two hosts. It was like being in a living room that had been cut in half, surrounded by cameras, wires, people and chaos. The crowd obediently clapped in response to the giant digital cue board.

“Now, joining us on the sofa today, we have a story close to all our hearts. Maeve White, now known as Ivy, who found her way back to her family after nineteen years, joined by her mother, Susan,”

the female host began.

The male host smiled at us. “Thank you so much for being here today, we’ve had so many requests to get you on. I don’t know about you all”

– he gestured to the audience and the camera – “but I’m an avid follower of yours.”

I blushed. “Thank you for having us, and for following my story.”

“So, tell us,”

the female host chimed in, “did you ever suspect anything growing up? What led you to leaving after so many years?”

I took in a breath to steady my voice, but the words still came out shaky. The audience went quiet in anticipation. I stared longingly at the words scrolling on the little screens, wishing I had prompts of my own.

“Sometimes, I knew things were different on the site, more so when I was old enough to go out on my own. But whenever I suspected anything, they were ready to bury it and make me feel stupid for raising it. Over time, you get desensitised. I can see that now, living on the outside. When you see violence frequently, it stops shocking you. It becomes your normal. I can’t say too much due to the current police investigation, but one day, a few too many things added up. I found the photo of Maeve after my, um, parents had a fight. I used the anger I felt to convince myself to drive away. It was a combination of circumstances and luck, really.”

The faces in the crowd intensified. I wondered if that was on cue as well.

“What led to you thinking you might be Maeve?”

“The photo I’d found. There weren’t any baby photos of me. It was like as soon as I’d opened that door, questions and doubts came easily, but I honestly never truly believed I was her. I nearly didn’t get to the door.”

The female host leant towards me. “And what about the famous scar?”

That got to me. They called it famous: a part of my body. I looked at Susan, who gave me a reassuring smile.

“After Lucy found me at the side of the road, I met her brother, Ben.”

His name hurt on my tongue, but I forced another awkward smile. “They have been so amazingly kind. I wouldn’t have made it this far without them. Ben told me about the scar, but that spot on my shoulder had been burnt, twice. Once when I was young, and once as a teenager.”

“Burnt?”

There was a soft gasp from the crowd, which made my jaw tighten.

“Yeah, at the time I thought it was an accident, but looking back now, I’m not so sure. Luckily, the skin has healed enough now that you can see the shape underneath.”

“So, after Lucy found you, you went to find Susan and Derek,”

the male host prompted.

“Yes, I found their address online.”

I turned and smiled at Susan, before explaining briefly what happened.

The male host straightened. “So, Sam, that was an interesting story. What really happened there?”

I shifted in my seat, unnerved by the abrupt change of direction. I couldn’t stop myself from checking the corridor behind the set, praying that Sam wasn’t there.

He wasn’t.

I took in a grounding breath. “Oh… we were together for a while. It ended before I left.”

“That’s not what he’s been saying,”

the male host pressed, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, there are two sides to every story. This is your chance to tell us yours. I mean, he’s been telling the press that the site was your community, that they were your family. You had horses there, and a job you enjoyed. How much of his story is true?”

I took a slow breath, stretching the bottom of my skirt further over my knees. “I just want to move on from my past. Leaving the horses behind was heartbreaking. They were never mine, to answer your question. The job I did suited the site’s needs, but I can’t say any more about it.”

“You got out sometimes, right?”

he continued to pry.

“Yes, on a limited basis. I never got to go to school. They signed me up to this homeschooling site and I would spend hours learning and trying to teach myself. Whenever I earned any money I’d spend it on online courses, or buy books. I could never get close to anyone; it would always end badly.”

“What about the other people you got to know, other than Sam. Did no one suspect anything? Your photo was widely published, and it sounds like a very strange way to grow up.”

“Like I said, I barely recognised myself in the photo. I think, looking back, they were very clever. I think that’s why I wasn’t allowed to get close to people. Why I was so heavily watched.”

“So, Susan, what was it like when you first saw Ivy, at the hospital, was it?”

the female host asked, changing the subject smoothly.

Susan swallowed, her first words too quiet. “It was at the police station. When I saw her, she was quite badly injured, but I knew she was my daughter. I felt like I knew when I heard there was someone looking for us. I can’t explain it.”

“And you’ve been catching up ever since?”

the male host asked.

Susan took my hand. “Trying to. Obviously there were lots of processes to follow.”

The female host looked back to me. “So, Ivy, how does it feel going back to your old home? That must be strange.”

A male production member caught my eye as he pointed to his watch.

“Yes, it’s all very unpredictable. Some days I feel great, and some days I struggle. I would’ve loved to step back into Maeve for Susan and Derek, they’re such wonderful people, but it’s like I’m a new person altogether. I remember the odd bit, but it’s more like remembering a fleeting feeling rather than remembering being a certain person.”

“Well, I think we can all agree it’s been an amazing journey, thank you for being brave enough to share some of it online and with us today. What are your plans going forwards?”

the female host asked, wrapping up.

I cleared my throat. “I’m taking things a day at a time. I’m focusing on helping the police as much as I can and just trying to build a life. I would like to say thank you to everyone who has followed along and for all the supportive comments. I genuinely appreciate it.”

The female host smiled. “Hopefully we can get the result through the courts we all want. Thank you both so much for coming on.”

The audience clapped politely as some instrumental music started fading in.

Robert strolled onto the set from behind a runner, catching the camera’s just before they went to the advert break. “Right, let’s get her over to Beat the Chef!”

Crew members stared at one another. The audience fell silent. I looked between their varying expressions. One of the directors spun his hands at the hosts.

“Well,”

the female host jumped in, smiling warmly at me. “If you have time Ivy, we would love to have you.”

Robert winked; he had this huge energy about him that drew you in. Everyone’s eyes fell on me expectantly; a camera man with a clipboard gestured aggressively for us to hurry up.

“Sure,”

I agreed hesitantly, as they cut to adverts.

Suddenly, people were moving us.

I turned to Robert. “Was that okay?”

“You did great, any chance you can cook?”

“Um, a bit. What exactly have I signed up for?”

“We’re going to cook and try to beat the chef.”

“Why rope me in to that?”

I laughed nervously as hairspray filled the air.

“Because I think you’ll be good, Ivy. Just loosen up, enjoy it. We’ll have a laugh together, I promise.”

The presenters walked past us, thanking me and Susan. Their gratitude felt so strange, but before we could finish chatting, the backstage crew were all preparing me for the next section with a flurry of words and an aggressive dash of lipstick. It was all so intense, I didn’t have time to think.

We were led behind a counter with a bunch of ingredients on it: one half was the chef’s, one half me and Robert’s. Before I knew it, we were off. The cameras started dancing around, people were gesturing silently to each other, and the audience were told to clap.

“Welcome back!”

the male host announced. “We have a very exciting Beat the Chef today, with our very own Oliver Wales in the professional corner, and in the amateur corner—”

“Steady on!”

Robert joked and the crowd laughed. “What makes you think I don’t know my way around a cucumber?”

The audience erupted with laughter.

“Many things, Robert, many things,”

the male host replied. “So, we have Robert Jones and Ivy White from earlier in the show. Today’s teams, you have five minutes to make… a pasta dish! Ready, steady, try and beat that chef!”

The crowd cheered.

Robert moved his hands up and down, demanding more noise. “Let’s go!”

he shouted, startling me as I tried to shrink behind the counter.

“Is the pasta cooked?”

I asked quietly, looking at Robert. My eyes darted around the shiny tools and colourful ingredients. The stare of the crowd felt exposing; a sea of expectant faces catching in the heavy studio lights.

He grabbed a lid off a saucepan. “Yeah, it’s flaccid.”

Laughter rumbled again.

“So, what sauce do we make?”

“We don’t have time for a planning meeting here, Chef White, grab some stuff and put it in the pan!”

He frantically rooted through the different foods. “Eggs!” he shouted, grabbing the large box. “Doesn’t that white Italian one use eggs?”

A laugh slipped out of me. His energy was contagious. “You mean Carbonara?”

“Yes! I knew you’d be useful. I’ll do the eggs, you get the bacon.”

I reached for the strips of meat; they’d set me up so I could stay mostly still, thankfully. I slid a pan onto the hob and drizzled in some oil. Robert dramatically cracked an egg in the pan.

“What are you doing?”

“Even I know the eggs need cooking!”

he yelled back.

“We just need the yolks, I think.”

I cracked an egg and started tipping it between the shell halves to separate it.

He threw the contents of the pan into the sink dramatically. “We don’t have time for this!”

He snatched the eggs from my hands, tipped them in a big bowl, and smashed them with his fists. He started pulling out the yolks and flinging them in the pan.

The audience ate it up.

“Get your hands in there, girl!”

“What’re you doing? That’s disgusting!”

Robert tossed them into the pan, but it was already hot and the yolks started furiously sizzling.

“They’re burning!”

I shouted, lunging for the pan but slipping slightly in the egg whites on the floor.

He threw a hand around my back out of nowhere as I practically slid back to the counter.

“Get a whisk, quick!”

I shouted, scrambling like a cartoon character as an awful, rubbery smell filled the set.

Robert toppled the utensils jar and frantically whisked the ingredients in the pan, exaggerating every movement and elbowing half of the sauce onto the floor in the process.

“It’s beautiful, si bellisima, smells delicious!”

I swung around to tip the barely-cooked bacon into the eggs.

“Two minutes!”

the host called as we frantically danced around each other.

“What else is in a Carbonara?”

Robert asked, wiping stringy egg all over a tea towel before lobbing it over his shoulder.

“I don’t know, but this looks more like a bad breakfast.”

Robert burst out laughing. “Yeah, Carbonara for breakfast. You wait, it’ll be a new trend – hashtag breakfastcarbo.”

“Oh, Christ, it’s lumpy custard!”

I laughed at the congealed, bubbling mess, pressing my mouth into my arm to stifle my giggles because my hands were so slimy.

“Shove some salt in, you don’t get savoury custard.”

“Shove some salt in? You can’t turn pudding into dinner just by adding salt.”

He tossed in a giant sprinkle of salt anyway and we plated, well, tipped it onto a plate. It looked truly disgusting. Lumpy yellow egg with pasta and bacon. I laughed so much a tear fell out. I’d never cried with laughter before; I’d always wondered where the saying came from. It felt great. Robert looked at me, wiping smears of sauce over his jeans, grinning, milking the joke with the crowd. I was out of breath as I looked around at the joyous mess.

We lost. Obviously.

They asked us to stay to try the dish Oliver had made. Luckily, we didn’t have to have anything to do with preparing it.

Then, just like that, we were done.

“Well, that was epic. What a team we make! Thanks for being such a good sport,”

Robert enthused as we sat in the green room. “We should go for a drink, or dinner. Let me make it up to you.”

“Thanks, but I can’t, I’m exhausted. I didn’t realise TV personalities were athletes. Thank you for the laughs, and hopefully not the salmonella.”

“Ah, you should have said that on air! I prefer comedians; TV personalities are what we do when we run out of material.”

He reached over and typed his number into my phone. “You know, I was very much expecting you to be boring, Ivy White. It’s been a very pleasant surprise. Good for you not losing your sense of humour with everything you’ve been through.”

I dropped my phone into my small, brown satchel. “I seem to not be what most people expect. To be honest, it was good to get lost in some fun, but I am worried about the reaction online now.”

He looked at me kindly, more seriously. “How so?”

I swivelled on my chair, facing the lit mirror. “I guess people think I should be fragile all the time. It’s more like a constant up and down. Like, sometimes I smile at something, or laugh, like today, because life was so hard before that I appreciate these things more now. Other times, most of the time, I’m just a mess, because I’m still learning how bad things were, by allowing myself to heal and accept things. Sometimes I’m breakable, sometimes I need a distraction, and heck, sometimes I just cry.”

His jovial expression dropped as I spoke, giving way to something more sincere. “That’s a lot of things to feel all at once. I don’t know if I’d be so brave.”

“I’m not brave.”

He rested a hand on the back of my chair, spinning it to face him. “You’re brave, Ivy White. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise. What you survived, other people can’t imagine, so don’t put any value in their opinions. You’re better than that. Also, fuck ‘em.”

He spun the chair around with a flick of his wrist.

I squeaked as my legs flew out and I gripped the handles. “Fuck ‘em?”

I repeated, dropping my feet to the floor to steady myself.

“Yep. Fuck ‘em.”

“Oh, they’re all so lovely!”

Susan announced as she burst through the door. “I met Angela, you know, who does the makeovers? She was telling me about eyebrows and showing me better shapes for my eyes.”

It felt really good to see her relaxed and happy.

“What are you two chatting about?”

she asked.

“How great she is,”

Robert answered to my surprise, embarrassing me.

Susan raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t she?”

“Stop!”

I mumbled, diving into my hands.

“You have wonderful eyebrows Susan,”

Robert added.

Me and Susan slowly made our way out, through corridors of crew – some clapping, some more emotional. One even asked for an autograph. It was surreal and I was beyond overwhelmed.

RJ

I need you to come to do more TV with me, properly, no more eggs, I promise. I enjoyed work for the first time in ages. Let me buy you that drink. We can just talk some more, if you’d like ??

The thrum of the car was soothing; I rested my tired body back into the soft seat as Susan drove. The passing cars were almost hypnotic. What a morning we’d had.

Robert’s energy had helped me gain a new perspective on things. I could do whatever I wanted, well, within reason. I did like accounts, but when I considered all the times I’d felt overwhelmed in the past, I realised I always ended up with the horses. Ebony would rest his big head on my shoulder and whinny away my troubles. Just the feeling of bobbing up and down, trotting, was food for the soul. Even the rain felt soothing on the back of a horse. Maybe that’s what I could do, if I could earn some more money from my story? I could take a few of the other interview requests, the smaller, lower profile ones. Maybe I could open stables where kids could come for therapy. That would be an amazing job.

The car pulled sidewards into a service station. As Susan went to pay, I dialled Ben’s number. I felt ready to talk things through now – my head was clearer. I needed to get him to understand, because I didn’t want to hurt him, I just hadn’t explained myself well.

I was pleased when he answered straight away, wanting to hear his voice.

“Hey, we’re due back at four.”

“Alright.”

“You okay?”

I asked, the tightness in his tone setting me on edge. Disappointment flooded through me.

“Fine.”

“Did you see it?”

I asked nervously.

“Yes.”

“So?”

I probed, feeling my heart start to thump.

“So what? Look, we should probably just chat later.”

My stomach knotted. “Oh, was it not good?”

“Some man was throwing egg at you. It was bit much, don’t you think?”

My heart plummeted. I’d been on such a high. It was silly, I knew that, but to laugh so freely, have people laughing with me, felt electric. As the familiar feelings of shame crept in, terrible memories banged at the doors in my mind. Memories of thinking I’d done something well, only to be beaten and mocked for it.

Anger rose in me. “It was just a joke,”

I defended.

“Yeah, I hope so.”

There was a weird pause.

“Look…”

Ben’s voice was cold. “I don’t want to upset you, I’m just not enjoying the whole office laughing at you with another man on TV. I didn’t find it funny. I thought it was all inappropriate.”

“Okay.”

I felt confused, struggling for something else to say. “What time are you back later?”

“I don’t know, I’ll probably go the gym for a bit.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He hung up.

Susan climbed back into the car, tossing a bag of skittles into my lap. “I always bought you these when you were little. You and your dad used to lick all the green ones and pretend to be monsters,”

she reminisced, pulling the car back onto the main road.

I picked up the bag and moved around the little sweets, replaying the conversation with Ben.

“Was it stupid?”

A familiar quiver rose from the pit of my stomach.

“Is that what Ben said?”

she asked, glancing at me.

I nodded, biting my lip.

“No. It was hilarious.”

She patted my thigh. “You’re allowed to have a little fun. You didn’t hurt anyone. In fact, everyone else I’ve spoken to thought it was brilliant.”

“Was it too much?”

“No!”

she insisted. “It was just a part of the show. People loved seeing you be you. I think it’s good to forge a new path as yourself.” She patted her hand reassuringly on my knee before continuing. “Look, we love Ben. We love you and Ben. But you’re both in a bit of a boiling pot. Out of the fire and into the frying pan, and all that. If you want a relationship with him, I think you both need more space. He has a lot of sway with you, and that’s developed before you truly know each other. It doesn’t seem like you have much space to be you, even if he means well.”

“I think you might be right.”

It hurt to admit so frankly, but I could sense the feelings between me and Ben slowly fraying the last week, seemingly despite both of our efforts. I wanted to cling onto every thread, grip it as it spun away, but we were both complicated. I wasn’t sure how to make it work. Maybe he liked the broken, brunette Elle better. Maybe she was easier.

When Susan helped me to the lift, I thanked her. She offered to stay, but I just wanted to talk to Ben. I needed to. I’d truly had a lovely time with her; I was starting to feel like I understood her, who she was. She hadn’t put any pressure on me, or even mentioned it, but I was starting to feel like calling her Mum one day.

I waited anxiously for Ben, ready to talk, but 6:30 p.m. came and went and he still hadn’t come home. I moved through feeling patient, to angry, then fell into scared. I looked around the empty apartment, surveying all the memories, some good, some not so much. I looked at the fresh chips on the skirting board; the scratch in the glass coffee table.

Me

What time are you due back? I want to talk, I missed you xxx

Nothing.

I started flicking though my phone. My jaw physically dropped as I read that I now had six hundred thousand followers. Six hundred. I blinked. There were reams of comments from people saying they loved the show; some blue ticks scattered amongst them. Of course, it wasn’t all positive – there were the expected comments calling me a liar, saying that me having fun on the show implied my guilt, that my life couldn’t have been that bad if I was able to string a sentence together – but thankfully there were lots of comments saying it was nice to see me smiling. I was starting to realise I couldn’t please everyone – please Susan, upset Ben, laugh on TV to get called real and fake, help at the office but rub people up the wrong way.

Robert had messaged me again, saying the show had been a hit, but just like that, a little resentment crept in. Ben knew this would make me feel bad – he was letting me stew on it.

Ben

I’ll be back later. Don’t wait up.

I sat on the sofa for another half an hour, unable to settle or get comfortable. I didn’t even turn the television on, I just sat there, growing angry that all the positive comments didn’t mean anything to me without his approval. Susan was right, we could do with a few days apart to clear our heads. I pushed up off the sofa and started tossing a few things in a bag. I hesitated, looking down at my black holdall. Part of me thought that if I packed slowly, he’d come back, but it was still awfully quiet. I picked up my phone and started typing another text to Ben. I deleted it. There just wasn’t anything good to say.

I caught myself scanning the negative comments, trying to understand where Ben was coming from. There were hundreds, calling me everything from a slut to a liar, a manipulator and a thief. Sighing, I called Susan, not able to linger around the apartment – his apartment – a minute more. I’d only change my mind and I couldn’t do this to myself again. The feeling of disappointing people was potent and threatened to entirely drag me under. This time, though, I wasn’t giving in just yet; I wasn’t going back there, feeling like that without a fight. So I walked away, bag in hand and heart hurting.