Chapter Eight
Maeve
"Jesus fucking Christ, it's too early for this horseshite," I say with a groan after I read their message.
What planet are they on, spouting all that sanctimonious nonsense about astrology and the planets and my fecking ‘personal growth and spirituality'?
I check the timestamp for the message and see it was sent just over an hour ago. I've no idea what time it is where they are now but I'm guessing it was in the evening, possibly even late at night.
What the fuck were you smoking when you sent that?> I type out and only hesitate for a second before hitting Send. They clearly threw their filter out of the window when they sent that message so the least I can do is return the favour.
I tap out of the app and go to my Messages app. I quickly send my sister-in-law a message, like I have every morning since I found out she was pregnant.
Morning. How are you? And Bubba? Give them some squeezes from me.>
I'm not surprised when Jenna replies almost immediately. I'm doing great Auntie Maeve. Thanks for the squeezes. Come and hang out with me, my mum and dad soon.x>
I smile at the message and make a mental note to try and see Jenna and Marty out in the suburbs soon, before I reluctantly tap through to my emails, scrolling through what's come in overnight. I feel somewhat relieved that I can archive or delete most of them.
Then I look at my calendar. I'm spending most of the day in town having a meeting with my next-to-useless agent, having lunch with some other influencers at a wanky, I mean, swanky new eatery that's just opened and is paying us to show our faces inside their four walls, and then I'm doing some test shots for a possible modelling job for a brand I'd really like to work with. They're a fashion brand that employs refugees and newly arrived immigrants to make their garments, paying them a good living wage and helping them get set up with their lives in Dublin. And after that I finally get to have that drink with Arabella, my best friend. With all that hanging over my head, I slowly and reluctantly crawl out of my bed and get in the shower.
Half an hour later I've showered, done my skincare and make-up, and have mentally planned what I'm going to wear. It's habit that has me rummaging through the duvet for my phone and opening it. I also tell myself it's habit that has me checking my TikTok inbox to see if Loncey has replied. However, it's not habit that has my lips twitching when I see that they have.
I stopped smoking weed in my twenties although I am partial to a gummy or two now and then. But I promise you, Maeve, I am very clear-headed right now. You, however, may have just woken up on the wrong side of your bed so maybe a quick hit would take the edge off.>
"Cheeky fucker," I say and frown at their message. I wonder momentarily how they know I've just woken up but decide not to overthink it.
So, tell me, Astrology Wizard. You saw the video. What does my birth chart say about me?>
Then I'll tell you just how right, or wrong, you really are.
As a Cancer sun, you're ruled by the moon, meaning your moods can change as the moon waxes and wanes, but you're consistently a few things – loyal to and protective of those you love, creative in life and work, and often take on nurturing and caring roles in friendships and relationships. Cancers are often considered the matriarchs of the zodiac but that doesn't necessarily mean they're maternal, more just a natural and attentive leader. Your Gemini moon is probably why you're so good at what you do as that makes it easy for you to think out loud and to express yourself. Just watch out for full moons as that could lead you to reveal too much. A Pisces rising with a Cancer sun means you're a soul who has a deep connection to their emotions – good and bad – and you're very aware of not only how you are feeling, but also how those around you are feeling. In short, it makes you caring, loving. Your rising sign being Pisces also means romance is important to you and not just in classic romantic relationships but in all aspects of life. Don't tell me you don't like to romanticize your life, MaeBae?>
Well, fuck.
Lucky guesses.>
I believe the words you're looking for are, how interesting, Loncey.>
It's a fluke.>
It's more than that. It's actually a kind of science.>
I'm no genius but I believe scientists have better things to do with their time than track when Venus is dicking around in Mercury or whatever.>
Who says you're not a genius?>
I wasn't expecting that question, so I choose to ignore it.
Where are you? Isn't it really late?>
Las Vegas. Yeah. It's getting late. Nearly midnight.>
You live there?>
I do. And you're in Dublin, right?>
For my sins.>
What's wrong with Dublin? I'd love to go, one day.>
Weather is shite. It's as expensive as fuck. And a long way from anywhere else.>
I don't know why I'm saying that. I actually like living in Dublin. I'm proud it's where I grew up. Maybe I'm due on or something.
Try living where I live. Now that's a long way from anywhere else.>
But you have a lot there already. Anyway, don't most Americans not have a valid passport or something? So they probably don't give two shits.>
I'm not most Americans.>
I say out loud. I don't know much about this person, but I think I already know that.
So why astrology? Astronomy? "Science" Whatever.>
My mom got me into it. I resisted it at first but it started to make sense by my late teens.>
Nothing made sense in my late teens.>
I find myself typing and sending without even thinking about it.
I know, right. You couldn't pay me to be a teenager again. Although, it's not like my twenties have been much better.>
How so? Tell me more?>
That question finally stops my fingers moving of their own accord. What the fuck am I doing baring my soul like this? I don't want to answer their question but I also don't want to stop this conversation.
I bet you were really rebellious as a teen.> I deflect.
Why do you say that?>
You're telling me you're a nerd who grew up to be a porn star?>
I wasn't a nerd, but I wasn't a rebel either.> They add a laughing emoji.
Why not?>
At the risk of bringing down the vibe, my sister was very sick during that time of my life. And my mom had to work three jobs to put a roof over our heads. It was up to me to take care of Jessica a lot of the time.>
I read that message a number of times.
You're right, that was a big fat buzzkill of a message.>
Sorry.> They reply but the laughing emoji is back.
Don't be. I need to crack on anyway.>
Okay, Maeve. Go have yourself a good day.>
I chew on my lip as I type out my response. But is your sister okay now?>
Yes, and no. She's still sick. Cystic fibrosis, and a few other co-morbidities, like diabetes. But now my mom doesn't have to work three jobs just to pay our bills.>
I start typing a new message, asking them if that's why they do the work they do, the porn, the online sex work, because I know enough to know it can pay well. But I delete the first few words and instead type out a different sentence. I'm sorry to hear she's still sick. Cystic fibrosis is proper shite. Does she take modulators?>
Their response is quick. You know about CFTR modulators?>
A friend at school had CF but her life changed a few years back when she started taking modulators. We lost touch years ago, but I still follow her on Facebook and she posts updates now and then. She says it changed her life.>
I consider adding that I donate every year to a CF charity in Ireland because the memories of her having to disappear twice a day and sit in the school nurse's office with her weighted vest on have never left me, but I am just as quick to tell myself that's a stupid fucking egotistical idea.
They are life-changing. But they only work for certain gene mutations and unfortunately, my sister's is not one of them.>
Fuck. That sucks extra hard.>
Exactly. It's been rough on her seeing a lot of people she knew in the community get this whole new lease of life. She's happy for them, of course, but it's definitely bittersweet.>
For you too, I can imagine.>
Yeah, for me and my mom too.>
I sit looking at the screen of my phone for a long time, feeling both the urge to say more and the very real need to sign off, get on with my day. In the end I do nothing and just keep looking until Loncey sends another message.
Anyway, I'll let you go, Maeve.>
They say my name a lot in messages. I don't know if that's weird or if I'm weird for thinking it might be weird.
For fuck's sake, I need a coffee.
And you get some sleep. That porn isn't going to make itself tomorrow.>
Ethical porn.> They add another laughing emoji. Good night, Maeve.>
Good morning, Loncey.>
I'm smiling as I type that last message. Smiling and scrolling back to the top of our conversation to read it all over again.
*****
Despite it raining all day, my day hasn't been an utter shitshow. My meeting with my agent wasn't a complete waste of time. Sure, she still presented deals with brands I have no interest in working with, but there were a few potentially good campaigns discussed. I bristled a little when she talked about a swimwear brand I would be a fool for refusing, but I then confidently reminded Aisling that I didn't do bikini shoots. That had descended into us having a tense conversation about my reluctance to do any kind of work where I have to take my clothes off and I had to fight down this uneasy feeling of Aisling not even trying to understand my standpoint even though it was mixed with an equally unsettling paranoia that she had a point and that I was the problem. Whether it's her or me, I spent much of the walk after leaving her office hunched under my umbrella, criss-crossing cobbled streets and mentally promising myself I'd start researching other agents and maybe be more open to some of the cold calls I get.
The lunch was yet another hour of me wondering if I'm in the right industry as I listened to a handful of women roughly my age talk at great length about crises like how devastating it is when your favourite nail artist moves to Manchester, how shocking it is when a content creator who was outed as being a fuckboy this time last year cheats on you, and how there's this one girl down in Cork copying a handful of our videos. My ears pricked up when one of the girls tells us all she's taken the plunge and started a MyFans page where she sells photographs of her feet for $10 a pop.
"Ten dollars?" I'd declared with a snort. "That doesn't sound like much."
"It is when I sell around thirty or forty of them a day."
I did the sums quickly. "Every day?" I asked, but really I was wondering if she was getting that much for feet pics, how much cash was Loncey earning for sending… other kinds of photos on their site.
I'm still wondering how much money Loncey earns and how I feel about it as I walk out of the studio the fashion brand hired for my test shots. It was a successful few hours taking photographs, meeting the owner and some employees, and learning more about the brand. While I don't think they'll be able to pay my usual rate, I'm prepared to negotiate so that it works for us both because I really like Dervla, the owner, and the company's ethos.
It isn't a long walk over the river to the bar Arabella and I picked for our drink, and it looks like the weather gods see fit to save my suede ankle boots and expensive Brazilian blowout as the rain has stopped. The sky is still heavy above me, but it's a typical Irish sky and I don't hate it. Deep down, I have a lot of love for this grey and moody country of mine.
Once I step inside the wood and brass-filled bar, a popular haunt among workers from the nearby IFSC, it doesn't take me long to see Arabella sitting at a table near the wall opposite the long bar. The space is mostly empty considering it's only just gone three o'clock on a weekday afternoon. I smile when I see her, and it only widens when I see she's already got me a glass of white wine.
"Hamster!" she calls out as she looks up at me from her phone. I should blush or wince or react in a negative way to that godawful nickname she gave me back when we were kids taking ballet lessons together, but I don't. I love that she calls me that. I'll always be her hamster.
"Munchkin," I say as I sit next to her and lean over to kiss her cheek. Yes, I have an equally embarrassing name for her.
"You look tired," she says as she pulls back and studies me.
"Good to see you too," I deadpan back.
"It's not an insult. It's a fact. Are you sleeping enough?"
"I'm sleeping," I answer honestly. But regardless, I feel tired.
"Are you masturbating?" Arabella asks without hesitation.
"Jesus, Bella!" I say, self-conscious enough to look around us to see if we are in danger of being overheard.
"You know how much of an advocate I am for the benefits of self-love." Arabella gives me a little pout and nods her head to emphasise her point, making the thick twists in her hair shake. "It's literally the best thing for your skin."
I put a hand to my face. "Are you saying my skin looks bad?"
Arabella's fingers wrap around my elbow. "Just a little pale. Nothing an hour with your rose wouldn't solve."
I make a face.
"Too much?" Arabella asks as she takes a sip of her wine. She's still wearing the workout clothes I know she's been dancing in all day. She's currently performing in a jazz improv piece with a small company of dancers and next week she rejoins the Irish Modern Ballet, rehearsing for The Nutcracker which will perform all December and over Christmas and New Year.
"Too much what?"
"Too much sex talk?"
"We're not talking about sex. We're talking about orgasms and self-pleasure. Not the same things," I point out.
"Yes, but it's all… related."
"You don't have to pussyfoot around me. I'm asexual, not a nun." I appreciate Arabella's awareness and she has been nothing but supportive since I told her I am asexual, but I am sensitive to even a hint of being infantilised.
"Don't I know it." Arabella smirks.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You'd make a shit nun. You curse too much and don't like God enough. Besides, can you even imagine you wearing a habit and why would you ever want to hide your fabulous hair, especially when you throw it over your shoulder so expertly?" Arabella teases.
A bubble of words charges up my throat and I suddenly want to tell Arabella that I am more than a pretty face, pretty clothes and pretty hair, but I know this defensiveness has nothing to do with my best friend's teasing comments and much more to do with how I have been feeling about myself recently. Maybe there's something up with the moon right now, like Loncey said. I squeeze my eyes shut as that thought materialises. That idea can fuck all the way off. I'm not going to think about that, or them, for a second longer, not when I have a rare few hours of my best friend's company.
"How are rehearsals going?" I say, after giving her one of my signature hair tosses which we both smile at.
"My feet hate me. My knees crunch when I go up and down stairs. And I never knew I could get cramp in my actual heel but I do now. I hate tap."
"But you're so good at it," I say. Arabella is good at it all, but she truly excels at ballet. "Besides, soon you'll be back in your pointes and you'll have forgotten all about your cramp rolls and ball changes."
"I know. I just hope I'm fit enough."
"Oh, Bella, you are so fit enough. You've been dancing several hours a day for years."
"But ballet fit is different, as you know," Arabella says, and I always appreciate the way she talks to me like I'm still a dancer even though I haven't danced for over ten years now.
"You'll be grand," I tell her. "By the way, cheers!"
I chime my glass against hers.
"You want to help me one day with some warm-ups once I'm over the worst of these rehearsals?"
My wine nearly goes down the wrong hole. "You want me to do ballet with you?"
Arabella shrugs. "Why not?"
"Because I don't dance."
"Anymore… but you could easily start again. I'd bet it would all come flooding back to you in no time."
"It may come back to me up here." I tap one of my French-manicured nails to the side of my head. "But my legs would be clueless. You know I try and avoid all kinds of physical exertion."
"Says the woman who thinks nothing of working twelve-hour days across multiple countries, all while looking like she doesn't lift a finger for less than ten grand."
"I don't." I give her another hair toss.
"Maeve, I love you to smithereens but you and I both know that's bullshit. You work harder than anyone I know. I have to schedule these catch-ups with you weeks in advance and do I need to remind you about the life you've built for yourself? A beautiful designer apartment, a wardrobe most women would gouge out their own eyeballs for and complete control over your own finances and schedule."
A heavy weight settles in my stomach. Arabella's right. I am living the life I've always dreamed of. And yet…
"What is it?" Arabella has one of her hands on my wrist and a concerned expression on her face. "You look like you're about to bawl your eyes out. What did I say?"
"Nothing," I say, forcing a smile on my face. "It's nothing."
"My arse is it." Her fingers dig into my arm.
"Bella, it's grand. I'm grand," I protest. "Just tired, as you know from my sickly pale face." I emphasise the words she said to me earlier.
"You been getting more weird DMs? Some melter bothering you online?" Arabella asks, her frown still creasing her dark brown skin.
I roll my eyes. "No, nothing like that," I say but then pause.
"Good, because you know there are some serious weirdos out there and a pretty face like yours is going to attract them, I'm afraid," Arabella replies, but I'm not really listening.
"Bella, do you watch porn?" I ask and when my best friend's face drops completely, I realise I've shocked her, which never happens. The only other time I did that was when I kissed her under some mistletoe at Christmas, when I was considering if I was attracted to women because I'd finally admitted to myself that men didn't really do much for me. Turns out women didn't do much more for me either – especially not my best friend of twenty years.
"Did you just ask what I think you asked?" Arabella's dark eyes narrow on me.
"Yeah, do you watch porn? Or specifically, do you go on sites like MyFans to watch it?"
"MyFans?"
"Yeah, you know where people sell their videos and—"
"I know what MyFans is, Hamster, I am just as much of a millennial as you, you know, even if I don't lipsync on TikTok for a living."
"I don't lipsync on… at least not very much anymore."
"For the record, I love your lipsyncs. And all your dances. Which is why you should dust your pointes off and come help me once I start to get ready for The Nutcracker."
"Bella, I—"
"And as for your question," Bella continues. "Yes, I watch porn."
"You do?"
"Sure. Don't you?"
I give Bella a sharp look with my chin pointed down.
"Hey, asexuals can enjoy porn too," says Bella. "I'm pretty sure you've said that in one of your TikToks before. About how all asexuals are different."
"Well, I'm glad you were listening, but no, I don't watch porn. I don't… feel the need."
"And that's totally fine. But why are you asking me this question?"
"Because…" I pause. Do I tell Arabella the truth? That someone slid into my DMs and although the vast majority of our shared conversation has rubbed me up the wrong way, there's a small part of me that keeps thinking about them and wondering what their daily life looks like and how, just how, they can do the work they do. I decide against it. "Aisling wants me to do sexier stuff, says it will be better for my business, and then at lunch today, another influencer, Niamh, her name is, she was saying how she sells feet pics for hundreds every single day via her MyFans page and it just… it got me thinking."
Arabella blinks at me. "You're thinking of starting a MyFans page?"
"No!" I say, possibly sounding a little horrified, which is something I will interrogate later, a lot later. "I'm just… curious."
"Well, so am I. That's some serious money. But what about bruised, battered and bleeding feet?" Arabella pulls her foot up to her chair and massages it through her Converse trainers.
"I'm starting to think there's a market for everything in this sex-crazed world," I say, half to myself.
Arabella lifts her finger to me. "Hold that thought! I need to go to the loo."
She's off her chair and walking to the Ladies before I can even acknowledge what she's said. I watch her go for a few seconds, then I pull out my phone. I ignore all my new notifications, open up my TikTok app and go straight to the inbox. I find our conversation and I start typing.
Just out of interest, how much do you charge for feet pics?> I hit Send and then put my phone away. I've no idea what time it is in Vegas but I'm not going to sit here waiting for a response to a question that I only half-heartedly want an answer to. In fact, maybe I should just delete it…
I retrieve my phone and am back at the conversation in no time, but then I see the icon that tells me Loncey is replying, and as my breath hitches, I shut off the screen and shove the phone deep down in the very bottom of my bag.