This weekend sounds terrific, Andy. You just name the place and let’s arrange.
I glance down at my watch, do a quick mental calculation and, unable to resist catching him out in yet another lie, type on.
So it’s early evening here in Ireland, just wondered what corner of the States you’re in today? Wishing you a great day, wherever Delta have sent you.
I click send, and with the trap firmly baited, I haul on my coat, grab my bag and head out for the final showdown.
Captain Andy McCoy? I’m a-coming to get you.
*
‘Where to lady?’
‘Oh … umm … just a sec,’ I tell my taxi driver, as I root around my coat pocket and eventually filch out the scrap of paper that I wrote the address on, then read it carefully out loud.
‘Yeah, here we go; it’s West 64th street and 6th Avenue, please. Number 744.’
‘You got it.’
Two minutes later, we’re on our way. But now that I’m this close, the nerves I’ve been holding at bay all day finally start to kick in with a vengeance. So I just sit back and try to concentrate on breathing as we bounce around in probably the heaviest holiday traffic I’ve ever seen.
In for two and out for four, in for two and out for four.…
You’ve come this far, I tell myself sternly. And it’s not like this idiot doesn’t have it coming. Remember, I’m not only garnering a juicy story for News FM and Tonight With … I’m actually doing the whole of womankind a service here! Because God knows how many other poor gullible souls this eejit has been preying on apart from me. Maybe right now he’s onto another unsuspecting girl who believes in this whole fictional world that Captain Andy McCoy has so expertly created for himself?
The view out the window onto Madison Avenue is nothing short of incredible, but I’m getting way too keyed up and antsy to even drink it in. The closer we get, the more my nerves really start to fray at the edges and unravel. The potential danger of what I’m about to do now hits me full on as Joy’s dire warning about the possibility this person could turn out to be a psycho rings fresh in my ears.
Suppose he does turn out to be some kind of lunatic? What do I do then?
Next thing, we turn right and pass an iconic sign that reads, ‘5th Avenue’, and you just want to see it. I’ve seen photos of it and clips of it on countless TV shows and, were I able to concentrate properly, I know it would just take my breath away.
There’s a giant Christmas tree outside St Patrick’s Cathedral and just up from that, no messing, Saks Fifth Avenue’s flagship store has Christmas lights in the shape of giant white snowflakes tumbling all down the front of it. Ordinarily, I’d have the camera phone out and would be snapping away/uploading to Facebook to impress the arse off everyone back home.
But not right now. Not now that I’m a woman on a mission; this close and getting closer by the second.
I’m not certain what side street we’re turned onto now, but we’re just at Radio City Music Hall, stuck in even worse traffic. I barely give it a second glance though; instead I’ve turned into a wiry ball of tension, as a cacophony of car horns blares furiously at nothing in particular, just more traffic. So I try my best to keep breathing nice and deeply and somehow focus on exactly what I’ve come here for.
Just keep cool and stay calm … do what you came to do and all will be well.…
Then a ping on my phone as an email lands in. I correctly guess without even looking that it’s him; it’s got so I can tell. And sure enough, when I look down at the screen, there he is.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Hello there, Holly, it’s so good to hear from you. I can’t tell you how pleased and relieved I am that you’re not mad about last weekend; hell, you’d have every right to be. You sure are one forgiving lady and I deeply appreciate that.
Oh, do you now? I think, breaking away to look out the window. Well let’s just see how deeply you appreciate it about half an hour from now, arsehole.
Hands trembling, I read on.
So I’m in San Francisco right now, just about to shuttle homewards to Atlanta. I get two days of rest, then Ireland here I come. So what do you say to meeting on Saturday night? Same time, same place as we’d arranged before?
You’re in San Francisco then, are you? Jesus, is there no end to all the brazen lying? Then for about the hundredth time over the last few days, I mentally dress-rehearse exactly what I’m going to say. All the fabulous lines I’ve carefully worked out.
And if I say so myself, it’s a truly magnificent speech that’s got everything; every line you can possibly throw at a guy, from ‘Did you really think that you could get away with this?’ to ‘How stupid do you have to be in this day and age, not to realize that every email you send and every phone call you make leaves an electronic footprint that can easily be traced? Haven’t you heard of geotagging?’ And finally the humdinger, and also my personal favourite: ‘You’re about to rue the day you ever tried to dupe this particular girl online, Captain Andy McCoy.’ With the ‘Captain’ bit half spat at him, obviously.
Then once it’s mission accomplished, there’ll be nothing else for me to do but maybe hit the shops, do a bit of damage to the credit card, then get a lovely soothing glass of vino back at the hotel, in that order.
‘Here you go lady, number 744,’ growls the driver, like he’s pissed off at the traffic and irrationally taking it out on me. I thank him, pay him, then take a deep breath and hop out.
Absolutely no backing out of it.
Not now that I’ve come this far.
Chapter Fourteen
The building I’m looking for turns out to be pretty nondescript actually, on a residential street full of brownstones just like it, with a flight of stone steps leading up to the first floor where the buzzer and intercom are. I double-check the address on the scrap of paper I’ve been carrying around like a talisman all day now, then go for it.
You can do it, you can do it, you can do it. And remember, it’ll all be over in five minutes max. Just say exactly what you came to say in a calm, unwavering voice, do NOT deviate off-script, and wait till you see, all will be well.
Heart walloping, I buzz on apartment 7B. And wait. And wait some more. Then I buzz again and a woman’s voice answers. She sounds stressed and frazzled, like I’ve just disturbed her right in the middle of something important.
‘Hello?’ I say tentatively into the intercom, slightly mortified that a few passers-by walking their dogs on the pavement beneath me can clearly overhear everything.
‘Jodie, is that you?’ comes the hassled reply. ‘Because you’re late and I’ve been waiting in for you all afternoon!’
‘Ermm … no actually, I’m here to speak with …’
‘… Just get up here, and you better not have forgotten the cranberries this time, or there’ll be big trouble!’
‘… No, ermm … I think there’s a misunderstanding … you see, I’m not actually here about … cranberries—’
‘… You got all day to waste going back and forth like this, Jodie? Now move it and let’s see exactly what you got for me. Hurry! I’m waiting!’
I’m dimly aware that the dog-walkers are now looking up at this little sideshow, so faced with the choice of entertaining them royally by saying my piece through a street intercom or else taking the opportunity to get inside, I go for the latter. The buzzer sounds and in I trot.
Once inside it’s a fair-sized hallway, carpeted and well worn, comfortable rather than posh, with apartments 1–4 all listed as being here, so I’m guessing 7B must be up a flight of stairs. Up I go, palms sweating, knees like jelly, actually starting to go a bit numb now and kind of half wondering just what kind of crazy has possessed me these past few days.
And there it is, right at the top of the stairs, straight ahead of me. Apartment 7B. I brace myself, take in a deep gulp of air and knock as confidently as I can.
Two seconds later, the door is flung open, and standing there is an exhausted-looking woman in her late
fifties at a guess, with silvery, scraggly grey hair tied back into a scrunchie. She’s wearing a flowery dress with a thick, chunky cardigan over it and sensible clunky shoes, Marks and Spencer style, if you get me. She’s short, round and bosomy, and has a giant apron tied around her waist that reads, ‘Of course I talk to myself; sometimes I need expert advice.’
Has to be his mother, I immediately figure. Which suddenly makes perfect sense. After all, I reckon, this could easily be a guy who’d still live at home with his mammy and all the home comforts that would entail. Part of me is almost relieved; if he does turn out to be a sociopath, at least there’ll be a witness to hand.
‘Who are you?’ she asks me suspiciously in one of those Noo Yawk accents I instantly recognize from shows like The King of Queens. ‘You’re not Jodie. Where’s my groceries?’
‘I’m really sorry to disturb you …’ I begin tentatively, but she cuts over me, inadvertently shaking smatterings of flour from her hands onto the wooden floor beneath.
‘Just one second, sweetie, I’ve been waiting in all afternoon for my delivery from Kleinman’s. So where is it? I can’t make cranberry sauce without cranberries! Come on, it’s two days till Christmas, don’t mess me round like this, I’m a good customer, you know.’
‘The thing is, I’m not actually here to deliver anything … in fact, I’ve come to … ehh …’
She eyes me up and down, cagily. Two beady cornflower blue eyes, taking absolutely everything in.
‘I know that accent,’ she says, cutting right over me. ‘I recognize it. Irish, right?’
‘Yes, that’s right!’
‘I got a good ear for that kinda thing. You here collecting for the church or something?’
Oh Christ. This could turn out to be an awful lot harder than I thought.
‘I’m afraid not. Actually I’m here to see—’
I break off a bit here, but then just getting used to a whole new name and identity has been tricky, to say the least.
‘Who?’ she demands. ‘Do you mean Harry? Because he’s the only one home right now.’
He’s home! Thank Christ he’s here, means I can get it all over with quickly then get the hell out of Dodge.
‘That’s right,’ I nod nervously. ‘I’m looking for a Harry McGillis. If you don’t mind, that is.’
‘Oh shoot,’ she groans exhaustedly, ‘don’t tell me. Is he in trouble in school again? Are you a teacher? You kinda look like a teacher. No offence, but you sort of got a schoolmarm air about you.’
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that at all …’ I stammer.
School? Did she just say school?
Night school, she surely means. She made a mistake. It has to be night school.
‘HARRY!’ Silvery-haired lady yells, motioning at me to step inside. ‘Harry, get your face out of that computer and get in here right now, you got company!’
Mutely, I follow her inside and find myself in an open-plan living room of what looks to be very much a family home, with a giant flat-screen TV at one end of it, comfy-looking, well-worn armchairs dotted around and a big oversized dining table that looks like it gets more than its fair share of use.
‘Be right there, just give me one minute!’ I hear a man’s voice coming from the direction of what I’m guessing is a bedroom … and suddenly it’s like no air moves.
An instant shiver down my spine. Because I recognize that deep, sonorous voice.
I’d know that bloody voice anywhere.
It’s unmistakable. The same voice that for the past few weeks has been the first thing I hear every morning and the last thing at night.
‘So what’s your business with Harry then?’ Silver Head, who I’m now convinced has to be his mother, asks me, arms folded, eyeing me up and down suspiciously.
‘Well … it’s actually a bit complicated …’
‘What’s he been up to this time? HARRY! I said get out here, there’s a lady here to see you and it looks like you got some explaining to do too.’
Next thing, the bedroom door opens and when I catch sight of who’s standing there, I almost have to grab the leg of a chair beside me to steady myself.
My eyes lock into his as white-hot shock waves pummel through me. The whole room starts to spin out of control and next thing, I’m dizzy, physically dizzy, as black spots start looming in front of me.
I’m not seeing this. This cannot be possible. This can’t be for real.
And that’s the last thing I remember before completely blacking out.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Get her some water, quick!’ says Silver Head, helping me up off the floor and into an armchair. ‘Honey, you OK? You’re white as a sheet! Want me to call a doctor?’
I can barely answer her. All I can do is sit and wait for this wave of nausea to pass. Meanwhile Harry just stands there rooted to the spot, looking exactly as shocked as I feel.
Because this is not a man in front of me at all. This isn’t a thirty-something grown adult, like I’d automatically assumed. This is just a kid, a teenager, who barely looks sixteen years old, with puppy fat, thick black hair and braces – actual braces – on his teeth. And don’t even get me started on the teenage acne, there isn’t time.
‘Hey lady, can you hear me?’ Silver Head asks me worriedly. ‘Are you OK? You just passed out right here in front of me!’
I look up to Harry, who is staring back at me, snow-white, as if he already suspects what’s up, and now suddenly my fabulously well-rehearsed speech has completely gone out the window.
‘I’m sorry … but do I know you?’ he asks me, and there it is again, that voice.
This is who’s been calling me all this time. A kid who barely looks sixteen, with spots and an iPad.
‘I’m Holly Johnson,’ I manage to half stammer out at him. ‘And you know exactly why I’m here.’
*
Jesus Christ, help me. Can this really be happening? I’ve precious little memory of what immediately follows, all I can remember is a desperate impulse to get out of there, no matter how weak and watery I felt. I gabble something inane then make a bolt for the door, as Silver Head yells down the stairs after me to come back and explain exactly what the hell is going on.
‘Hey lady, don’t run off on me like that!’ I can still hear her screeching, the sound ringing in my ears. ‘You gotta at least tell me what this is all about!’ Then with their apartment door still wide open, I hear her turning on Harry.
‘So a total stranger comes in here, knows exactly who you are and then blacks out on my carpeted floor? Kiddo, is there something you want to tell me?’ she asks him sternly, her voice carrying all the way down to the bottom of the stairwell, and I think, good. Let her find out for herself exactly what he’s been up to, then she can bloody well judge for herself.
I remember Harry himself, white-faced even under all the acne, just staring at me, rooted so tight to the spot that it would nearly take a crowbar to shift him. In total shock, just like I am right now.
Somehow, I manage to stumble my way out of the brownstone and on to the icy-cold street outside. I take a few deep breaths, aware that my heart is pumping on overdrive and my legs are still weak. Cursing my too-high heels, I somehow stagger for all I’m worth onto a cross street, only praying that Silver Head won’t chase after me waving an umbrella and threatening to report me to the cops for having an online dalliance with a minor.
Oh Christ, I think, cold, clammy sweat pumping out of me as yet another horrible reality sets in … could I be charged for this? Is that possible? Could this end up being one of those sensationalist stories you read about in the National Enquirer that ends up going viral? Could I … maybe even go to prison for it?
Shock has given way to a full-blown panic attack now and my breath is coming in jagged, broken shards. The palpitations have started and the pavement is blurring right in front of my eyes.
Then, thank you God, through my haze I can just about make out the blur of a yellow taxi coming towa
rds me. I flag it down, mercifully it pulls over and two minutes later, I’m zooming away and back to the safety of the Roosevelt Hotel. In shock so deep, I swear I can almost feel it on a cellular level.
I have been taken for such a ride here, it almost would compare with Splash Mountain at Disneyland.
How could I not have known? How did I not guess?
He sounded like an adult.
He had all the lingo that a pilot would have, including that folksy Southern Jack Daniels accent. And I fell for it all, hook, line and sinker. Right down to the fact that he was a widower acting as lone parent to a six-year-old; I swallowed everything unquestioningly. And I know I should have known better, but he was just so bloody convincing! Then when Joy and Krzysztof rumbled him, I figured, OK, so we’ve got another catfish who deserves to be named and shamed for what he’s doing – and possibly not just to me either.
But I certainly didn’t expect this. I was all set to walk in on a guy of about my own age, very possibly jobless given the amount of free time he’s got to spend online and quite likely to be a complete weirdo. Absolute worst-case scenario, an out and out nutjob or else some kind of psycho.
Far more likely I reckoned though, he’d turn out to be a kid-ult; a bit of a loner and a no-hoper whose only way of interacting with women at all was by spinning an online concoction so convincing, it was almost seamless. Almost. On the whole journey over to New York, that’s what I was fully prepped and primed for. And then of course, my ultimate plan was to use all this as great material for the team back home. I’d spoken to Aggie about it, I’d even cleared it with the gang out at Channel Six; we were all systems go for a story that’s now gone completely pear-shaped.
But dear God, I wasn’t expecting this. A teenager? Living with that lady who now I’m thinking could either be his mother or his granny. I’ve always thought that real life trumps fiction every time; now here’s the bitter proof.
And yes indeed, mission accomplished, I certainly do get a great story for Afternoon Delight, but at the end of it all, the punchline is me. I’m the idiot here. I’m the stupid, over-trusting, gullible gobshite who’s going to come out of this looking like a national laughing stock.
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 12
