Luke puffs out his breath. ‘We could sue, you know. That crazy cow told the whole country Darcy’s Dishes is broke. That kind of crap being broadcast to a whole nation isn’t right. It isn’t.’
Lindsay St Claire’s eyes round like two shiny pennies. She pretends to be surprised by Luke’s ridiculous outburst, but the bright studio lights emphasise the glisten of tiredness in her eyes, and I can only imagine that she wants to retreat to the sanctuary of her dressing room and forget all about this morning.
Jinx squirms and tries to wrestle his way out from under Luke’s arm. I reach over to take him and I ask, ‘Is it true? Did she really come to you for a job?’
‘Oh God, Darcy. I don’t know,’ Luke says, calming down. ‘Half the girls who follow you on Instagram want to come work for us. I can’t keep track of them all.’
‘Didn’t you recognise her?’ I ask, surprised.
Luke shrugs. ‘Should I have?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s Tina.’
Luke stares at me blankly.
‘Tina Summers.’
He’s shaking his head.
‘From school.’
‘Oh.’ Luke pulls a face. ‘That nutter. I wonder what’s dragged her out of the woodwork after all these years.’
A shiver trickles down my spine as Luke’s words resonate. I do wonder. ‘Tina is trouble,’ I say.
Luke snorts. ‘No, she’s just weird. It must be twenty years since school and she’s still thinking about you.’
‘She was obsessed with you, actually,’ I correct.
‘Whatever.’ Luke shrugs. ‘You’ve got to feel sorry for her, really. Who doesn’t move on after school?’
I sigh, still shaky. ‘It was a disaster, wasn’t it?’
‘Darcy, I promise viewers will empathise with you,’ Lindsay cuts across me. ‘Honestly, even the best PR people can’t make this stuff up. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have a meeting. It was sooooooo lovely to meet you both.’ Lindsay’s sing-song voice is back as she shakes our hands, kicks off her heels and hurries away.
Luke and I see ourselves out of the studio. We sit in our car in silence, both a little shell-shocked. Jinx is quiet too, as he lies on the back seat. He’s never usually this content in the car. It’s as if he can sense something is wrong. As if he, too, can’t believe that Tina is in touch after all these years. It was never going to be easy to hear from her again. I guess part of me thought, or hoped at least, that we never would. But on live television, of all the bloody ways. It’s just so typically her. To be honest, I’m even more shocked that Luke seems to barely remember her. Or at least that’s what he’s saying.
Luke tries to strike up a conversation on the drive home but my mind is elsewhere. Friends text to tell me I looked great, or that the show was really interesting. Unsurprisingly they avoid any mention of the crazy call. The rest of the country is not so considerate. Lindsay was right when she said that everyone would be talking about us. We’ve barely left the studio car park when #DarcysDishes is trending on Twitter. And not in a good way. My phone is hopping as notification after notification lights up the screen.
‘Listen to this,’ I say, reading a tweet with hundreds of likes already. ‘@LoudMouth says, Something fishy about that Darcy woman.’
I glance at Luke but his eyes are on the road.
‘Oh brilliant.’ I cringe, scrolling on. ‘They’ve tagged Lindsay too.’
‘Ignore it,’ Luke says. ‘They’re just trolls.’
‘Someone else has replied,’ I add. I scrunch my nose and mimic, ‘Something fishy going on? Isn’t she a vegan!’
Replies are coming in as fast as I can read them. There is a string of tasteless memes. And finally, I read a comment I was expecting – a mirror of my own thoughts. ‘Car crash interview. Is perfect Darcy really walking away from that one?’
A car horn honks and startles me. The irony pinches.
‘Keep in your own lane! White lines are there for a reason, mate!’ Luke shouts, honking the horn again. ‘Look at this guy,’ he says. ‘He’s all over the road.’
I look up. A stream of traffic stretches out in front of me. I sigh, accustomed to city mornings, and look back to my phone.
‘They think they’re hilarious adding a million laughing emojis,’ I say. ‘Oh God this is bad, isn’t it?’
‘Honey, don’t let it upset you,’ Luke says.
‘Yeah.’ I lift my head to look out of the window as we sit in the bumper-to-bumper chaos.
I feel Luke’s hand on my knee. ‘Darcy’s Dishes is today’s news. Some other poor sod will be on the receiving end of their hate tomorrow. That’s the internet for you.’
‘Mmm. You’re right,’ I say, wishing I found it as easy as my husband to zone out.
I close my eyes and try not to think about how much of a spectacular fail this morning was. I’m napping when my ringing phone wakes me.
‘It’s Mildred,’ I say, jolting.
‘Leave it.’ Luke shakes his head. But he knows a call from the production manager at the factory isn’t something I can ignore.
‘Hello,’ I say, flicking my phone on to loudspeaker.
‘Hi. Hello, Darcy. Can you talk?’ Mildred’s voice fills the car.
Familiar cherry-blossom trees come into view as Luke turns on to our road. But the feeling of relief at almost being home is marred by the sense of urgency in Mildred’s tone.
‘Yeah, of course,’ I say. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Erm, someone has found a photo online of you in a fur coat and . . .’
‘Bloody Instagram,’ I cut across Mildred immediately, knowing the photo she’s talking about. Darcy’s Dishes donated some goodies for the bands playing at a charity rock concert in the Phoenix Park last year. It was one of the last PR events I attended before I became pregnant. I got as many photos as I could of various artistes munching on a Darcy’s Dishes brownie or muffin and bombarded social media with them. People went crazy for them all. But the stand-out shot, with countless comments and likes, was me with all four members of the headline act backstage.
‘It’s the photo of me with The Polar Kings, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ Mildred says.
‘It’s not real fur,’ I say. ‘I checked with their manager. You know how I feel about fur.’
‘Of course, I know. But I don’t think the general public gets that.’
‘I don’t even know whose coat it was,’ I say, becoming teary. ‘The bass guitarist’s, I think.’
‘I don’t think it matters,’ Mildred says. ‘Some goody two-shoes has printed the photo off and stuck it to a placard. A small group have been marching outside the factory for twenty minutes now.’
‘What does it say?’ I ask.
‘Oh Darcy.’
‘What does the placard say, Mildred?’
Mildred takes a breath and pauses before she says, ‘It says THE ONLY FAKE THING IS DARCY.’
My heart aches. I can’t count the number of interviews I’ve given over the years condemning fur and begging people not to buy or wear it. How can people not believe me?