People LIke Her(10)
I still find it astonishing how upset some people get about social media and the picture-perfect unattainability they think it promotes; how smugly people point out, as if they’ve cracked the Rosetta stone, that influencers’ lives probably aren’t all that great beneath the filter. Novels are written about it, endless broadsheet opinion pieces, bad movies dedicated to perfect online lives that are actually crumbling behind the scenes, appearances kept up only for the lucrative ads. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone that it might happen the other way around.
Even prettier in the flesh than on Instagram, Emmy Jackson hurtles down the stairs of her Georgian town house in an increasingly fashionable area of east London with a flurry of apologies: “Ignore these awful roots; I just haven’t had the time to sort them out since baby Bear arrived. I’m so sorry for the mess—finding a cleaner is on my to-do list! I hope you’ve brought the camera that drops a dress size as I’m ninety-eight percent cake at the minute!”
She curls her bare feet up under her on the mustard velvet sofa as we chat. Her daughter, Coco, a cute three-year-old with a mop of blond curls and a face familiar to aficionados of Emmy’s social media feeds (on which she has been appearing since the day she was born), is happily bouncing on the seat next to her. The new baby, Bear—“We made a list of characteristics we wanted him to have, and then listed animals we associated with those characteristics”—is in Emmy’s arms. She tells me that in the first five weeks of his life, his pictures have already been liked over two million times. Beneath a layer of toys, scattered craft materials, and discarded crayons, the living room is elegantly appointed. Her broodingly handsome husband, Dan, a writer, stands at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, idly turning the pages of his own novel and occasionally chuckling to himself.
Emmy—known as Mamabare to her million-plus Instagram followers, the first of the British Instamums to hit seven figures—reaches for her Mamabare-branded mug and takes a sip. She loves nothing more than a nice cuppa, she says, although like most of her fans she rarely has time to sit down and enjoy one. “Drinking this while it’s still hot is like a week in a spa for a mum,” she jokes. “If sharing my little life with a million other mothers on Instagram has taught me anything, it’s that really, we’re all the same—doing our best, taking it one day at a time. You just gotta make it through the night, Mama!”
I had to stop reading at that point. I could feel something rising in my throat.
It took me a while to come back to it. To make it to the end. There was nothing in the piece I did not know already, of course. No claim I had not seen her make before, no anecdote unrecycled.
I had been hoping for a hatchet job, but instead it was a cover story and, inside, a five-page feature with photos of the four of them—mummy, daddy, son, and daughter—in their beautiful house, sitting on their expensive sofa, sun streaming through the window from their beautiful street. Four people without a care in the world. Four people whose idea of a tragedy is someone putting one of baby’s red socks through the wash with all of Dad’s white shirts. Who in their whole lives have never lost anything worse than their house keys. I swallow.
Despite the stresses that must come with being one of the UK’s most followed families, Emmy and Dan are clearly still deeply in love—you can just tell from the way they look at each other. Emmy points to their wedding photo, jostling for space on the shelf with framed pictures of their children, where they are both beaming. “It’s revolting, I know”—she laughs—“but I honestly still feel like that, every day. I knew the instant I met Dan that he was The One.
“I married my best friend—the funniest, kindest, cleverest man I’ve ever met. We may drive each other up the wall sometimes, but there’s nobody I would rather be on this journey with,” she says, resting a hand on his shoulder.
And that’s when I spotted it. Right there, staring at me, in the big photo, the one of them all together in their living room. Three letters—the top of an r, the tip of a d, then a space, then the upper half of what looked like a capital N. There in the mirror behind their heads, the one next to the window, the big, slightly foxed mirror, peeking in reflection over the shutters. A glimpse of the name of the pub opposite their house: ___rd N____.
It was all I needed.
Chapter Three
Emmy
It’s an odd thing, social media celebrity. When I see someone do a double-take or nudge a friend and gesture in my direction, it takes me a second to remember that there are a million people who know exactly who I am. I have a moment of wondering if I have my skirt tucked into my knickers before I realize that they are staring at Mamabare, not my bare arse. Half the time they want to chat too—which is actually better than just staring, as that can get a bit awkward. I shouldn’t complain really—being approached is simply what happens when you’re so very approachable.
It happens three times between my front door and my agent’s office. It was just staring from one guy who got on at the same station as me. The creep didn’t even help me down the stairs with the pram. He could have been just your standard perv, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he’d seen me in my underwear. Whoever started #bodypositivemama deserves a thump—our feeds have been a sea of rippling #mumbods recently, all of us Instamums posting pics with handfuls of paunch to prove we love our stretch marks and spare tires because we “grew a person in there,” nobody daring to say that actually they might like to lose a few kilos.