A banner notification alerts me to the fact that I’ve received an Instagram message from @felicity.loves. She always comments on my posts. I shouldn’t have opened the message, but clicked on the notification before rationalising this.
OMG! Are you in Wellys? X
I debate not replying, but Instagram will inform her that I’ve ‘seen’ the message. Plus the algorithm favours fast response times and, based on the question, I deduce that this person might be in Wellington, too. What if she sees me on the street, or observes the posts I share over the weekend, knowing I haven’t bothered to respond? She’ll think I’m a bitch, and then I’ll lose a follower. Possibly more if people in her friend group follow me. People are uncritical like that.
I am in Wellington, yup!
Before today our chat history only featured a cry-laughing emoji. I click through to her profile to see what I can discover. The settings are private and only a first name is disclosed: Felicity. Not a surprise. Her profile picture is a full body shot of Felicity, presumably, looking to the side and wearing a bright, magenta dress. Three heart emojis with bows around them make up all the information in her bio. My thumb hovers over the ‘follow’ button; but before deciding whether to press it, another notification drops from the top of the screen and I impulsively click on this one, too.
Coffee? Or a cheeky cocktail? X
So Felicity is in Wellington. Have we met before? I type the name into my Messenger app, but no ‘Felicity’ shows up. I scan my memory and strain to locate her somewhere beyond the comments section of my Instagram posts. A sense of obligation starts to simmer.
I would love to meet up!
But I’m reeeeeally busy this weekend!
Saying no makes my breathing shallow; but I remind myself that I don’t know this person. She may have commented on a few posts, but so have lots of people. I don’t owe her anything special.
*
The friend I met for lunch on Saturday had to get home to her two-year-old. I’m alone with nothing to do. Intermittent rain makes strolling between shops laborious. Conditions are terrible for taking photos. The engagement party isn’t for another three hours. I need somewhere to sit, and someone to pay attention to.
Hey Felicity! Are you in town? Might be free for a drink after all!
I lie about a meeting being cancelled at the last minute to explain my sudden availability. I use the word ‘meeting’ to keep up the illusion of importance. Felicity replies before I’ve clicked out of the message thread. She’s in town and can be wherever I am in ten minutes.
Craving a cocktail! X
I suggest a place that’s two minutes from me: well-known, modern, mainstream. Women who wear Country Road shirts with puffy sleeves wouldn’t feel out of place.
See you there! X
Babble rises and I cop a face of warm heat-pump air as I push open the restaurant’s heavy glass door. A striking maître d greets me from behind the bar.
“Can I take your coat?”
I peel off my damp, woollen trench, and hand it over.
“Table for two?”
The maître d gestures towards a round table near the back. I navigate chair legs and ponytails, then slip onto the cushioned booth seat that lines the entire back wall. A woman in a white vest a few tables over leans back to assess me. I swivel my attention to my phone and swipe through photos of the salad I had for lunch.
Perhaps it’s a whisper of cold air or something more cosmic, but I look up at the exact moment Felicity arrives. I know it’s her in the black dress and puffer jacket, with the green baguette bag tucked under her arm, because she scans the restaurant, clocks me, stretches her mouth into a smile, and ploughs forwards. Her white sneakers squeak against the polished concrete floor. Her bottom teeth are crooked, in an endearing way. She spreads her arms when she reaches me, and I stand up in response. She wraps me in a hug, squeals, then shimmies out of her puffer and hangs it on her chair. I dig fingernails into my thigh as she flumps down, drops her bag, drapes the length of her mousey-brown hair over her shoulder, and places both hands flat on the table between us.
“Okay, I have to ask. How’s your sister doing?”
I’m flummoxed by her opening question, seeing as we’ve never met; but I did share a lot about my sister’s football injury online.
“That’s so kind of you to ask! She’s doing okay. She’s been back home for a few weeks now.”
Felicity throws herself against the back of her wooden chair.
“Oh, that’s so good. You seem way happier recently. I wondered if that was why.”
I agree that it might be.
“You’re so observant.”
Felicity claps.
“Everybody tells me that!”
A waiter with visible acne approaches to take our orders. I feel compelled to get a cocktail, like it’s a thing Felicity and I normally do together, although I’d much prefer a beer.
“My university papers are killing me.”
I ask Felicity what she’s studying and, for a second, she appears offended.
“Philosophy. Just part time around the call centre. My lecturer is such a pain.”
Felicity explains the way her lecturer asks questions that he hasn’t yet taught them answers to.
“Did that ever happen in your commerce classes?”
I shake my head, and wonder whether my academic history is public information. Perhaps I mentioned it in an Instagram post once.
“Were your exams stressful?”
Felicity scrunches up her face, confused.
“They’re not for another month.”
My cheeks get hot, even though I’m not sure how I was meant to know this.
Two cocktails arrive. Mine is pink, garnished with a sprig of rosemary, and comes in a cut-crystal tumbler that’s packed with cubes of ice. Felicity’s is green, partially frozen, and in a stemmed glass with a slice of lime straddling the rim. As the waiter places it in front of her, Felicity squeals and claps again.
“Yummy!”
Felicity bends towards her bag and extracts her phone. She clutches it, turns away, extends her arm, and tilts the screen. The camera is on selfie mode. I’m squarely in the middle of frame.
“Smile!”
I comply and show teeth, even hold up my cocktail as a prop.
“Cute!”
Felicity swipes a few times, types something with her thumbs, then shuts her phone off and places it face down on the table.
“Done. Well, cheers. To friendship!”
She clinks my glass, then I take a substantial sip, eager for the alcohol to both dull and enthuse.
“Aria keeps asking me to help with her assignment, but she’ll just copy my work. She’s not that bright.”
I nod. I have no idea who Aria is, but it doesn’t feel right to ask. Felicity tells me about her aspirations to work as a beauty editor.
“Can you imagine the free products?”
I can, but don’t say this out loud. I learn that Brendan and Rawinia, who I deduce are her flatmates, are obsessed with having a clean kitchen to a standard Felicity can’t understand.
“I think Brendan has OCD.”
Felicity tugs at the sleeves of her black dress, and debates whether to buy another one she saw at Glassons.
“They’re different. The other one cinches me in more.”
My cocktail disappears a lot faster than hers. When the waiter asks if we want another round, I briskly insert a ‘no’.
“Sorry! The engagement party starts soon.”
There’s actually a whole hour before it starts; but I can’t afford another cocktail. I’m more broke than my online persona lets on. I do order a takeaway coffee, though.
“I knew you’d get a macchiato!”
Coffee is part of my brand. As we make our way to the counter I hope that Felicity will shout me, since she initiated the catch up. My shoulders stiffen: Felicity is a part-time student. Is she expecting me to shout? At the counter we both hang back, but my tolerance for discomfort is exceeded first.
“What are you paying for today?”
I struggle against the desire to appear rich and unbothered.
“Just one cocktail and the coffee, please.”
I congratulate myself. The maître d keys numbers into the EFTPOS machine and presents it to me. Both cocktails are included in the total. He must have misheard amongst the hubbub in the restaurant.
“Sorry—one cocktail. The pink one.”
I strain to keep my eyes away from Felicity as the maître d re-enters the cost. His slight annoyance makes him less attractive.
After settling the bill, Felicity struggles with her puffer jacket while I’m helped into my coat. I receive my takeaway coffee, then Felicity trails me outside into the snapping cold, and crushes me goodbye under the restaurant’s awning.
“It was so nice to see you. Please give my love to your sister and tell her that it’s only up from here. Might go buy that dress now!”
Felicity pulls on the hood of her puffer jacket, and blows kisses as she scuffles away. I head in the opposite direction with a feigned sense of purpose, and duck into a bookshop when Felicity is out of sight. I open Instagram, and expect to be notified that Felicity has tagged me in her story, but there’s nothing. I click through to her profile and realise why: Unlike mine, her settings are private.
*
A few months later I’m invited to host an event in Wellington. While being herded through the terminal, I take a photo of a stationary plane with the sun setting behind it, then share it to my Instagram story with the words ‘get ready’ in cursive font. Felicity’s response is almost immediate.
Cocktail? X
Seen. I scold myself for not having the self-control to leave her message unread again, but click away without replying. My aunt, who I’m staying with, is waiting in the car park. I speed up at the thought of this, and my overweight carry-on bag repeatedly smacks me on the hip.
“Are you looking forward to your big event?”
I tell my aunt that I am, but in reality am sick with nerves.
When we reach her apartment, I throw myself on the springy single bed in the spare room and open Instagram. Twenty-seven people have ‘liked’ my story, and three more have replied to it, including a guy who runs a coffee shop in Newtown. I’ve never met him, but he ‘likes’ a lot of my posts.
Pop in for a brew if you’re in the city!
Resistance is my first reaction, but I flick through the movements I have planned over the weekend. I’ll be near Newtown on Sunday.
Will see how I go!
He probably just wants me to promote his coffee shop.
On Saturday morning, the friend I met for brunch is still chewing as she zooms from the glass-walled café. She didn’t tell me she needed to be up the coast by lunchtime when we organised this. I’m seeing my cousin at 1pm and my make-up is booked for 2.30, but I’m too nervous about the event to fritter about by myself. I open Instagram.
Hey! Sorry for the slow reply. Are you in town? Coffee?
Felicity’s response is immediate.
Tell me where and I’ll be there in ten. X
Felicity arrives wearing a black jumper and white jeans. Her hair is pulled back and it takes me a second to recognise her. Like last time, she opens her arms when she reaches me. I stand, and she gives me a suffocating hug.
“So good to see you!”
She perches on the wooden stool across from mine.
“I love this place. Hey, I’m so relieved that company paid you in the end. What a nightmare!”
A few weeks ago I shared a video about how a client had neglected to pay me for content featuring their products. I gave followers advice on how to navigate similar situations. It received great engagement.
“It was stressful! But got there in the end. What’s new with you?”
Felicity pauses.
“Dad’s been so annoying lately. His hip’s playing up again. And my brother’s back from overseas, so that’s been interesting with his mental health issues. His medication does not seem to be helping.”
I don’t know about either of these things, but still murmur with empathy. As the waiter in a ripped singlet approaches, it occurs to me that Felicity must think I follow her on Instagram.
*
My cheeks are roaring beneath layers of foundation. I’ve finished hosting the event and have been hiding backstage for over 20 minutes. People say I’m good at this stuff, but afterwards I feel I’ve had a brush with death. I want to stalk through the city wearing headphones and playing nothing; however I have to go back out and join the crowd. Mingling is part of my contract.
I perk myself up, and find the marketing team to congratulate them on a successful launch. They congratulate me back, but they’ll pick apart my performance later. I direct myself to the drinks table and try to look casual while scanning the crowd for Tamara, who I forced to attend as my plus one. I spot her teal minidress and cropped dark hair near a metallic helium balloon that’s anchored to the floor. She’s chatting to the sound guy. I swipe a glass of room-temperature bubbles and barge over.
“Tamara!”
She clasps my hands, and gushes over my red, v-necked dress.
“You did such a good job! You look stunning! And yes, I got photos.”
Her back is now to the sound guy, and he takes the opportunity to leave. It’s selfish, but I’m glad he’s gone.
“Are you seeing anyone while you’re here? Like, seeing.”
I tell Tamara I’m not, but mention the guy who messaged me on Instagram.
“Is his profile public? Show me!”
Together, we scroll through images of him boxing, making coffee, boxing, making coffee.
“We love a man who knows what he likes.”
I float that all he wants is free advertising.
“Then give it to him. Worst case is you get some cream on the side!”
I pinch Tamara’s waist, lock eyes with her, and cackle. It’s the most alive I’ve felt in weeks. The speakers start humming.
“Excuse me!”
The event lead wobbles to the microphone in a bright orange pantsuit. People shoosh until the conference room is quiet enough for her to speak.
“I just want to say, thank you so much again for coming to the launch of our new modem!”
She holds up and kisses a modem that’s the same colour as her suit. The crowd politely whoops.
“Honestly, it has been such a wild ride to get here. And I want to give a special shout-out to our beautiful host who came all the way from Hamilton!”
The crowd whistles and claps, and I submit a small wave. The marketing woman in the yellow floofy dress records this with her phone.
“Remember, we’ve got the venue until eleven. So drink up. Enjoy! And thanks again for coming!”
The event lead is escorted offstage, and applause is drowned out by jabbering. I spin to face Tamara.
“So embarrassing!”
She guffaws, and I whack her lightly on the upper arm.
“Hey, tell me about that… Sound… Guy…”
I’m distracted by a woman in a stretchy blue tube dress. She’s waving in my general direction, and vigorously wiggling towards me from the far side of the room. I glance over my shoulder to see who she’s trying to get the attention of, but no one has registered her. As she closes in, I take small, instinctive steps backwards.
“It’s so good to see you!”
The woman squeezes me so hard I can barely bend my own arms.
“I actually didn’t know you’d be here!”
I smile and play along.
“My brand has been going so well thanks to your tips. I have so many followers now!”
I respond exuberantly while trying to place her in my head.
“Let’s hang out soon!”
The woman turns, extends her arm, and snaps a selfie with me. I look startled. As she snakes off and is subsumed by the crowd, one side of Tamara’s mouth creeps up.
“Who was that?”
It takes me a few moments to form a reply.
“No idea.”
Tamara hoots.
“Really? Well, she sure seemed to know you!”
*
A few weeks after the event, I share a blog post about how hard things have felt lately. The word ‘journey’ shows up eight times. I don’t publish this post to be trite, but do fret that people will interpret it that way. After sharing the link to Instagram I go for a walk without my phone, and loop around the block, twice, to prove that I am not addicted to technology. I need to pee when I get back to my flat, but charge straight to my bedroom and refresh my website analytics. The page stutters and I don’t blink until a line graph with an upwards trajectory loads on screen. My stomach froths: This vulnerability thing really works, but the feelings I had when I wrote the blog were genuine. Weren’t they?
I open Instagram. The post promoting my blog already has 76 likes and 30 comments. Twelve unread messages taunt me, and I click in and out of them frenetically. One is from a podcast host who wants to interview me. Another is from a skincare brand whose current campaign is ‘authenticity’. The others are brief platitudes from strangers, all lovely, but draining. As I’m responding to these with kissy-faces, a notification drops from the top of my phone. I click on it before I can think. I’ve received a message from Felicity. I cringe, and tell myself off.
I just want to say thank you. Your blog post was real talk. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who feels lost, but you made me realise that even my most amazing friends have off days! You’re on your way to even bigger things and I’ll be with you every step of the way. X
It’s important that my reply matches the length and tone. I thank Felicity for supporting me so selflessly, and say how lucky I feel to have her as a friend. I tell her she can lean on me whenever she needs to, and state how excited I am to see her again soon. Beneath my message the word ‘seen’ appears immediately. I imagine Felicity devouring my words, pupils dilating, phone a few inches from her face. None of what I said was true, but I need Felicity far more than she needs me. Felicitys are essential for business.