The Maid's Diary(26)
Already 207 hearts. People love my post. The comment section is filled with congratulations and smiley faces and more hearts. I have no idea who these people are who have decided to follow some arbitrary false narrative in the name of @foxandcrow, but they are happy for me.
Usually this makes me happy, too.
But today it leaves me oddly hollow.
I’ve created in myself a longing.
Sometimes life direction is not a choice. It’s imposed on us. Against our will.
But what if, years later, we get an opportunity to redress that? Like Mary. We choose a different path.
DAISY
October 18, 2019. Friday.
Thirteen days before the murder.
Daisy holds her smartphone up high, angles her head, smiles, and clicks. Shifting her position, she clicks again. She’s searching for a perfect image for her daily @JustDaisyDaily Instagram selfie. For the next shot she tries to capture in the background the people fishing along the Stanley Park seawall. They sit with buckets at their sides, dangling lines into rocky pools. As she clicks, Daisy considers potential hashtags:
#SeaWalkFishermen #StanleyParkMorning #SunnyBreak #PregnantMomsNeedExercise
She likes to capitalize the first letter of each word in her tags. Uppercasing helps visually impaired screen readers, as well as Instagrammers who struggle to identify patterns and relationships between words. Someone with dyslexia, perhaps, or some other cognitive disability. Or so she’s been told. Her goal with her social media account is to demonstrate that she’s warm and inclusive. Culturally aware. Her narrative—the story Daisy so very carefully curates—has to land just right.
No, #SeaWalkFishermen doesn’t work because there’s a female fishing, too, with a child at her side. #FishersFolk? That doesn’t sit well with Daisy, either. The people fishing all appear to be of Asian cultural descent. #Folk might infer that she sees them as an inferior grouping. She decides on:
#Fishers #RareSunnyDayInPacificNorthwest #GladToBeBackInMulticulturalVancouver #PregnantMumsNeedExercise #BidingTimeTillBistroLunch
Daisy shoots a few more selfies capturing her tummy. She also takes a shot of the shimmering skyscrapers that rise high above Coal Harbour, where seaplanes come and go. Jon works on the top floor of one of those glass towers, sitting at his desk like a golden god in sunlight, surveying the ocean, mountains, and ski slopes across the Burrard. Daisy is tempted to use hashtags that declare:
#JonsOffice #Penthouse #TerraWest #SkiLife #MarriedToAnOlympian #DoubleGoldMan
But she’d never do that. Jon abhors her Instagram habit. He says it invites trouble. He particularly dislikes the fact that Daisy is becoming something of an influencer and that she’s being sent items from top companies catering to pregnant moms. Last week she received the cutest musical crib mobile with dancing unicorns and elephants. The week before a package arrived at Rose Cottage with the sexiest yoga leggings designed to accommodate growing bellies.
Jon thought the leggings were amazing until she told him she was going to pose in them for Instagram. He said “gifts” in exchange for publicity are demeaning. He said they were beneath her.
We don’t need handouts, Daisy. It makes us look needy. It makes it look like I am a failure and can’t take care of my own wife. It makes us look poor, for God’s sake.
Daisy lowers her camera, her gaze still fixed on the shining office tower where her husband works. His voice curls through her mind.
The only reason you even have a following of so many thousands is because you’re my wife. You openly exploited that association in the early days of your social media account. And you know it’s dangerous, Daisy. It’s not like we haven’t had nutjobs stalking us before. Anyone can use geolocation to pinpoint exactly where you are and when you’re there. If you post a photo of yourself in a restaurant as you sit down, by the time your order shows up, so can your stalker.
Daisy shakes the memory, but Jon’s chastising tone lingers like a cold, tight thing in her chest. Her thoughts turn to last night, when Jon came home reeking of alcohol.
He climbed quietly into bed in the dark, obviously thinking she was asleep. But she wasn’t. She’d been lying there for hours fretting over whether she dreamed the female voice on Jon’s phone. It didn’t help that she was already worried Jon might be finding her newly chunky body unsexy. He hasn’t tried to make love to her in a while. Daisy replays, blow by blow, her interaction with Jon this morning as he came down for breakfast.
“So what did Henry want to talk to you about?” she asks as she pours a fresh coffee for him.
There’s a tightness in his face, a guardedness in his eyes. Worry trickles through Daisy.
“Jon?”
He inhales, rubs his brow. He’s hungover, she thinks. Surely that’s all it is.
“Jon, please. Talk to me. Why did Henry invite you to dinner?”
“Something came up at the last board meeting. Henry wanted to discuss it with me in confidence. He felt I should have a heads-up.” He accepts the mug of coffee from her, sips, and when he speaks again, his words are quick. “He said I’m not a shoo-in for the new COO position.”
“What?”
“There’s a competitor.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘competitor’?”
Jon sets down his mug. He begins to straighten his tie. Tension rolls off him in waves.