Chapter Eleven
Sleep won’t come. Instead I spend the whole night thrashing around the bed, working myself up into a state of white-hot fury, mentally dress-rehearsing all the things I’m going to say to ‘Andy’, or whatever his real name is. Assuming I’ll ever hear from him again, that is.
Then there’s the one terrifying thought I just can’t hide away from, and believe me I’ve been trying into the wee small hours. How could I have been so bloody stupid and gullible? With my long and chequered dating history? I’d like to think that I’m not completely naive, yet what’s most frightening of all here is just how completely and utterly easy it was for this guy to hoodwink me.
But just like Joy’s been saying right into my ear like some kind of a Greek chorus from day one, all I ever really knew about ‘Andy’ was exactly what he chose to tell me. So why was I really dim enough to be so trusting? With, at the end of the day, so very little to go on? What kind of a hold did this guy have on me that I could have been taken in so easily? And how desperate must I be to have swallowed it all hook, line and sinker?
This, I think furiously as yet another sleepless hour ticks by and the bed sheets get more and more knotted at my feet, is exactly how it feels to be swindled by a confidence trickster. And now I’m officially one of those women who ends up as a cautionary tale, like some kind of urban myth whose story spreads like wildfire.
I can just see it playing out: people talking about me on buses saying, did you hear about your one? And she was a smart girl too, they’ll say. A researcher for News FM who’d just started a new job out at Channel Six. She should have known better. But what happened? She met this guy online who fed her lie after lie about himself, all of which she bought unconditionally. Then it turned out he’d completely invented a whole cardboard cut-out of a man who never really existed in the first place.
I’m nothing more than the punchline to a bad joke, I think, as all my anger and disappointment and frustration now turn in on myself. Image after fragmented image crowds in on my poor addled mind: me sitting all alone at a table for two in Fade Street Social, with freshly blow-dried hair and too-tight new shoes, waiting on someone who’d absolutely no intention of ever showing up in the first place.
Then on the night of the Government Budget and how I could almost have blown my chance at the single biggest career break I’ve ever had just for this git. It’s bloody frightening, I think, remembering back to how I raced into the Shelbourne Hotel like a madwoman, practically hammering on the locked, barred and bolted doors to be let in, and at the end of the day, all for what? For some non-existent arsehole who was probably sitting in New York at the time, reading my frantic messages and doubtless having a right good laugh at my expense.
Which leads me squarely onto my next question; the one unavoidable fact that’s staring me in the face. Just how cruel and vindictive would someone have to be to put another human being through all that in the first place?
After yet another good hour of tossing about, till the bed sheets are wrapped round me tight as a mummy, my thoughts begin to veer off a bit. And very slowly, I start to formulate a plan B.
I’m wise to this gobshite now, so why not string this out a bit further? Why not see just how far ‘Andy’ is actually prepared to go with the lie? Because Joy and Krzysztof are absolutely right: I’m dealing with a malicious fraudster here, there’s no question about it. So why not just sit back and let him tie himself up into more and more knots with all of his unrelenting lying?
Not the worst idea I’ve ever had. Then I can calmly and coolly have the last laugh by revealing to him that I actually had him sussed and was two steps ahead of the git all along. Plus, if nothing else, I think, this will make a terrific item for Afternoon Delight. Long-distance internet dating: perils and pitfalls of.
Then just past half one in the morning, my phone peals, suddenly snapping me awake.
Him. It can only be him; no one else in their sane mind would ever ring at this time.
Now just stay nice and level-headed, I tell myself. Do not rush into outing him, at least not yet. Hear him out and try to keep your tone as light and normal as possible. And remember at all times, information is a wonderful thing and, right now, I’ve got the upper hand.
‘Holly?’ comes that familiar lazy Southern drawl. ‘Please tell me I didn’t wake you up?’
I’ll give you this much, I think coldly. Whoever you are, at least you’ve got decent manners.
‘No,’ I tell him, trying to keep the iciness out of my voice. ‘No, not at all.’
‘That’s great, Holly. Fact is, I’ve just touched down here in Atlanta after a round trip down to Palm Beach in Florida … you ever been there before?’
‘No,’ I tell him.
And I’ll bet you never have either, you lying bastard.
‘It’s beautiful, you sure would love it,’ he says, sounding all warm and relaxed and up for one of his hour-long natters. ‘Course it’s not as gorgeous as Atlanta, but then I guess you’ll just have to come visit here one day, so you can see for yourself.’
‘Yes,’ I say flatly, this time thinking, you bloody out and out chancer. What would he do if I said, actually fantastic idea, why don’t I book a trip over to Atlanta tomorrow? Would he just sit back, let me do it, then have a good cackle at my expense, live from New York?
‘Holly? You there? You went all quiet on me there. You OK?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely perfect,’ I lie through tightly clenched teeth. ‘Just … ermm … about Atlanta. So … where was it exactly you said you lived again?’
There’s just the tiniest pause, and I could be imagining it, but I could almost swear I can hear the click-clacking of computer keys in the background, as he doubtless runs a Google search for some made-up Atlanta address. Any one will do.
‘Gee, sure, Holly. Matter of fact, I live right over on Parkside,’ he says smoothly.
Oh do you now? I think. Then in one fluid move, I’m out of bed and over to my laptop on my desk, about to do exactly the same. I switch it on and pray to God he won’t cotton on to the sound of it booting up in the background.
‘And of course, you live in that gorgeous house? The one you sent me the photos of?’ I ask, faux-innocent.
No doubt Photoshopped out of some online Ideal Homes magazine. Along with every other shagging photo he’s ever sent me.
‘That’s the one alright, Holly, but you know, we’re getting a little offside here! What I was really calling to say was …’
‘So is Parkside quite close to the airport?’ I interrupt, unwilling to let this drop. ‘Is it handy for work?’
‘Sure is,’ comes that deep, lazy voice.
I’m on Google by now and frantically searching for a Parkside estate. And lo and behold there is one. Close to the airport and everything. God, whoever this chancer is, I’ve got to hand it to him. I’m dealing with an absolute master.
‘Though you know what they say about Atlanta,’ he throws in lightly. ‘No matter where you need to be, everywhere takes just twenty minutes.’
Jesus, he’s good, I think. So unable to catch him out with that one, I change tack.
‘You know what else I’ve never asked you before, Andy?’ I ask, deliberately trying to keep my tone light and breezy.
‘What’s that?’
‘How many years have you been flying with Delta?’
‘Gee, you’re a whole mass of questions tonight,’ he says.
‘Oh I was … just curious, that’s all.’
‘OK, well … didn’t I ever tell you that before? Thing is, I’m shortly going to be clocking up fifteen years of service with the good folks here at Delta.’
‘Fifteen years,’ I say dryly. ‘Wow, very impressive.’ Particularly given that the company has never heard of you. ‘And did you train with them too?’
His reply is instantaneous and the really frightening thing is just how sincere he sounds.
‘No, Ma’am. I put myself through flight school d
own in Fort Lauderdale. I’m a little ashamed to say that it was the only one I could get into, given my not-so-hot high school grades.’
I laugh a bit tinnily, then Google that for good measure while I’m at it. And lo and behold, there is a flight school in Fort Lauderdale, just like he claims. Bastard.
‘Thing is though, Holly,’ he says, ‘I was really calling you just to firm up arrangements for tomorrow night.’
‘Oh yeah, of course. Tomorrow night. I’m all in.’
Oh this’ll be good, I think. Seeing just what kind of an excuse he’ll come up with to wriggle out of it this time. Which he inevitably will, no two ways about it.
‘So all going according to schedule, I’ll be airborne very shortly and on my way to the Emerald Isle …’
‘… And you’re staying at the Radisson out at the airport, again?’ I ask, trying to sound like I actually believe it myself. ‘As you usually do?’
‘Sure am. It’s a great hotel, one of my favourites.’
Yeah, right. Where they’ve absolutely no record of you ever staying before.
‘Great, fantastic,’ I chime automatically.
‘So my plan is to catch up on some zeds, then call over to pick you up say about eight tomorrow evening, if that is agreeable with my lovely date?’
You see, I tell myself. Here’s exactly how con artists like this prey on lonely single women. Take note, this is exactly how it works. Because if I wasn’t well wised up to the guy by now, that’s exactly the kind of sentence that would have me like putty in his expert hands.
‘That sounds absolutely wonderful,’ I tell him, trying to sound enthusiastic. Then for good measure, I tack on over-brightly, ‘Really looking forward to it.’
‘Well not as much as I am, Holly. So you go get your beauty sleep now. You’ve got a big night ahead of you tomorrow. And remember, I know all this being apart sure is tough. But for me, not being together really is unthinkable.’
We say our goodbyes and as I hang up, I suddenly feel a chill shoot the whole way down the length of my spine.
Who exactly are you? my mind races.
And why the hell would you put me through this?
*
Early the following morning, Joy comes into my room and plonks a big mug of tea on my bedside table.
‘You OK?’ she asks tentatively.
‘The funny thing is that I actually think I am,’ I tell her, lying flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling. Hard to put into words, but there’s a feeling of calm and control that you get from knowing the absolute worst. Instead of being gutted about what’s transpired, I’m actually feeling surprisingly clear-headed today. More empowered, if that makes any sense.
A pause while she gingerly perches on the edge of the bed, as though unsure of what kind of a reception she’s going to get from me.
‘I suppose what I’m really asking is whether or not Krzysztof and I are forgiven.’
‘Joy,’ I sigh exhaustedly, as the sleepless night catches up on me. ‘It’s not that I mind what you did. It was tough to hear, but you did it for me and, in a funny way, I’m actually grateful. But I mind very much the way that you did it. Going behind my back like that was pretty hard to take.’
‘I know,’ she says sheepishly, ‘and I really am so sorry. It’s just, well, I know how tough this time of year is for you. Holly, you’re the most together person I know for the other eleven months of the year, but literally once the first of December rolls around that’s when you’re always at your most vulnerable. If you ask me, I think that’s why you ran headlong into all this, and I just wanted to protect you, that’s all. So am I forgiven?’
There’s no answer to that, so I just give her a weak, watery smile as she looks anxiously back at me.
Impossible to stay annoyed with someone with a heart of gold like Joy’s for very long though. Ever since my whole world imploded two years ago, she’s been my best friend, my go-to person, my shoulder to cry on.
She’s had to put up with me howling and whingeing out of nowhere and totally unbidden at all hours of the day and night. She’s lived with me pacing the floor at 4 a.m. because sleep won’t come. She’s listened to me, talking and talking incessantly, reliving what happened time and again, as if I could somehow lessen it inside my own head. And she’s dealt with it with nothing but kindness and patience.
Of course she’s forgiven.
Chapter Twelve
As accurately predicted, the apologetic emails start to land in just after lunchtime.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Holly, it’s me.
Look, honey, I know it kinda seems like you and me are jinxed these days, but the thing is something’s come up here. Something kinda urgent. Just before I was due to fly to Ireland last night, I got a call from my mom to say Logan had fallen from a tree house we got out in our backyard and she was real worried he might have concussion. So of course that meant I had to haul ass out of work, get our dispatcher to find another pilot to cover my shift, then race straight back home to my little boy.
So I got him straight to the emergency room at Grady Memorial Hospital here in Atlanta. And I’m real sorry I couldn’t email you till now, but I was waiting in the ER with Logan on a trolley beside me and you’re not supposed to use cell phones in there at all. But if you’re not too mad at me, maybe you’ll let me call you later on, so I can explain to you in person?
One tiny little piece of good news though: Logan’s going to be OK. So I’m home with him now, and of course, he’s capitalizing on his ER drama. He’s insisting I stay off work to be with him all weekend and feed him only KFC and ice cream. And after the shock I got, I’m like putty in the kid’s hands.
I really hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, Holly. Do you think we can get past this latest blip? Because nothing would give me more pleasure than if you’d take my call and let me explain to you in person. And I know that being apart is hard, but not being together is unthinkable.
Till we get to speak later,
Andy.
Is it possible, I think, glancing down through it and then snapping my laptop shut, that one relatively short little email could contain so many lies? All this malarkey about a six-year-old who probably doesn’t even exist in the first place?
And then the one question that’s been lodged into the back of my mind all day now. Am I just going to take this lying down? Or am I actually prepared to teach this lying bastard a lesson that he’ll never forget?
*
Monday morning come 8 a.m. and, as usual, we’re all sitting round the big oval conference table on News FM’s top floor, everyone eagerly pitching snippets of stories that caught their eye over the weekend, as ever all competing for the golden prize of Aggie’s attention and a slot on the show.
‘Did you read about the guy who runs a Spar down in Galway?’ Dermot is struggling to make himself heard, as everyone just chats over him. ‘He was broken into on Friday and thieves got away with a full day’s takings. And as usual, the cops could do absolutely nothing, so this guy decided to take the law into his own hands and posted the CCTV footage of the burglars online. And now, if you can believe this, the Data Protection Commission have got in on the act and are chasing after him, saying he’s compromised the thieves’ right to privacy … I mean, it beggars belief really, doesn’t it?’
‘Hmmm,’ says Aggie, drumming a pencil on a notepad in front of her. ‘Maybe we’ll come back to it as a number three or four item … but what else have we got as a potential opener? Something a little more personal to our listeners.’
A chorus of ‘I’ve a gem here … did you hear about …?’ and Maia Mars shouting everyone else down as usual and coming out with this particular beaut: ‘No, no! Just listen to me! OK, so how about we open with a piece about how it’s now been proven that loneliness is far more likely to kill you in old age than either heart disease or stroke?’
‘Fabulous idea,’ says Sally tartly. ‘Yet another kick in the shins for sin
gle people everywhere. Great idea. Chapeaux to you.’
And so on we go, proposing, debating, shouting each other down; all the stuff of a normal Monday morning around here. Aggie works her way through each of us, formulating and dissecting each pitch carefully, then gradually piecing together the rough outline of the day’s show.
But by then my thoughts have long since drifted off, as suddenly, from left field, something strikes me. An absolute wow of an idea too. Something so stunningly simple, I can’t believe it never occurred to me till now.
And I could do it, I think to myself. Couldn’t I? Course I could. It’s perfectly straightforward. It kills two birds with one stone. It would nicely take care of the whole C-Day problem for me for another thing. And if nothing else, just think of the story I’d get out of it for the show.
As soon as our meeting is over and without a moment’s hesitation, I fish my mobile out from the bowels of my handbag and immediately call Krzysztof. He gives me exactly the answer I’d hoped to hear too. So striking while the iron is hot and before I’ve got time to talk myself out of it, I stride straight over to Aggie’s office, for part two of my little plan.
Her door is open and I find her inside, busy tapping away on her computer.
‘Got a sec?’ I ask her.
‘For you, always,’ she smiles.
‘I’m not disturbing you?’
‘No,’ she says, flipping her computer screen around so I can see exactly what she was at. ‘In fact, you’re doing me a favour. You’re saving me from buying this gorgeous Marni coat on Net-a-Porter that I can’t even afford. Grab a seat and tell me what’s up.’
Five minutes later, I walk out of there, head swimming, thinking, I love my boss. Because I’ve actually just been given the go-ahead. I’ve got full clearance from Aggie and now all I have to do is make it happen.
Right then. One down, one to go. As luck would have it though, Afternoon Delight is just wrapping up for the day and I manage to spot Noel just stepping out of a hot, sweaty studio, looking badly in need of a lovely reviving glass of his favourite vintage wine.
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 10
