For one fleeting minute, I’m almost confident that I’ve got her on board.
‘So your Captain Andy whatever his name is turned out to be some kind of middle-aged saddo in front of a computer screen, like we guessed?’ she asks briskly.
‘Ermm … absolutely!’ I lie through my teeth. Hate doing it, and to Aggie of all people, but I have to. After all, if she found out the truth, she’d flag it as a leading story and you can be bloody sure it would go viral sooner or later.
Don’t get me wrong, Aggie is a fabulous boss to work for, but at the end of the day, there isn’t an executive producer on the face of this earth that doesn’t have strychnine instead of blood running through their veins. They’d literally sell their own granny if they thought it would make for a half-decent story, particularly during this ‘silly season’, when the whole world seems to be on holidays and hard news is thin on the ground.
So for better or for worse, I make a judgement call. Given the kindness the McGillis family showed me at a time of year when I really needed it most, the least I owe them in return is a modicum of discretion. They’re about to be hit with God only knows what kind of trouble, so the very least I can do is not add to it. Plus I promised didn’t I? And so what if Aggie does get a bit narky with me for dropping the whole catfish story? After all, I came over here at my own expense over the Christmas holidays anyway, so it wasn’t like I was frittering away valuable News FM resources now, was it?
I think of Harry’s man-child face, the adult voice still trapped in the teenager’s body. Then I think of Dorothy who welcomed me so unquestionably into her home. Then I think about Mike—
And just like that, it’s done.
‘Sorry Aggie,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Believe me, I’ve dug high and low. But the thing is, there just isn’t any story here that’s worth our while reporting. Trust me.’
Mind you, if I’d known what was coming I may just have handled things a little differently. No, scratch that, a lot differently.
‘I won’t lie to you,’ Aggie replies curtly after a scarily long pause where I can just hear her sucking in the air around her. ‘I’m deeply disappointed. That big speech you gave in my office about how confident you were that this would be the perfect story for us to fill in the gap between Christmas and New Year? I was counting on you, Holly.’
‘I know you were,’ I say sheepishly, hating myself for putting her through this. ‘And I really am so sorry.’
Another long pause, except this time I distinctly hear her puffing on one of those e-cigarettes she always has on her.
‘Well, in that case,’ she eventually says, ‘how soon can you get back to work? Because you’re needed back here, ASAP. Without your story, we’ve now got an entire blank week to fill. Which is not exactly good news.’
I tell her the airports are due to reopen today, and just like that, she’s gone. Then figuring I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I log onto the hotel’s Wi-Fi and taking a deep breath, fire off the one email I’ve dreaded sending. I’ve already had one tongue-lashing so far this morning, might as well get them all of out the way and have the torture over and done with in one fell swoop. I’m a lousy liar though and inevitably give myself away with one to many over-embellishments, so I try to keep this as brief and to the point as possible.
From: [email protected]
To: Tony@TonightWithChannelSix.com
Subject: Some disappointing news
Dear Tony,
I’m so sorry to disturb you if you’re spending holiday time with your family, but I just wanted to keep you abreast of the latest developments here.
Not good news from New York, I’m afraid. My ‘catfish’ story turned out to be absolutely nothing at all worth reporting. I really am so sorry about this, particularly as I know you were depending on this feature for next week’s slot, but I thought it best to let you know sooner rather than later.
I’m home first thing tomorrow and will hopefully speak to you then.
Warm wishes,
Holly.
I take a deep breath, hit the send key and just like that the die is cast.
More news, and when troubles come, they come not as single spies, but in battalions, etc. For a start, the roads are an awful lot more passable by now, and even from my hotel window, I lose count of the amount of snowploughs weaving their way through all the cross streets, slowly bringing the city back to life again. There’s traffic on the roads again and most of the shops I can see from my bedroom window seem to be open for business once more. All the weather channels are united in telling us the worst of the snowstorm has passed and that it’s all going to be reasonably plain sailing once the big thaw sets in.
News that a few short days ago would have had my heart singing, but not now. Not when there’s just so much unfinished business here. Not to mention the tsunami of trouble that’s about to hit the McGillis family.
I go back online and, sure enough, when I go onto the airline’s website, there’s a brief, curt message saying, ‘We apologize for recent delays due to adverse weather conditions at JFK airport. We anticipate running a full schedule today, as normal. Please contact your airline to reconfirm.’
So I do. After a bleeding twenty-minute wait, where all I can think is the size of the whopping hotel phone bill that I’m about to get smacked with, where you’ve to listen to an incredibly annoying answering machine doling out options like, ‘To change a flight, press one. To make a new booking, press two. To smack someone over the head very, very sharply, press three.’
After an interminable delay, lo and behold, I actually get to speak to a human being, who confirms that yes indeed, my flight is scheduled to run tonight and not only that but apparently, ‘I’m in luck.’ There’s just a few single seats left, but because I’m travelling alone, it’s easy enough to accommodate me.
‘So what would you like me to do, Ma’am? Will I rebook for you?’
I can hardly believe my own voice when the strangulated answer comes out.
‘Yes, thanks. Please do.’
‘It’s my pleasure to take care of that for you, Ma’am. So check in will be at 3 p.m. and thank you for choosing to fly Aer Lingus.’
That much taken care of, I call down to reception to thank them for allowing me to stay on at the hotel while the snowstorm lasted. I get Sabah again, I know her immediately by her warm, bubbly stream of chatter.
‘So you leaving us today then?’ she says brightly.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Hope you don’t mind my saying, but you sure don’t sound too happy about that.’
‘It’s … well … it’s kind of a long story, really.’
Nor is it one that anyone would believe. And believe me, I know what I’m talking about here: I work in a gig where peddling outrageous stories is how we make half-decent radio shows.
‘Well that’s just a shame. Sounds like you had a real fun time here in NYC.’
You don’t know the half of it, I think.
‘And we sure hope that you’ll come back to us, real soon!’
I only bleeding wish.
*
I’m just out of the shower and packing when this time the phone rings and it really is Mike. Swear to God, my heart leaps just at the sound of his voice, followed by the immediate tacked-on thought: how much longer do he and I have? Like it or not, the sands of time are against us and there’s damn all I can do about it.
‘Holly, how are you today?’ he asks, the only giveaway that the Sword of Damocles is about to fall, the polite, almost formal way he’s talking to me, not full of chat and teasing like he normally would.
‘Packing,’ I tell him, sounding about as unenthusiastic as I feel. ‘It was on the news earlier. JFK airport has just reopened. I’m rebooked onto another flight.’
Subtext. This is it then. I’m really leaving. This evening. In just a few short hours.
‘Oh, of course. Packing,’ he says flatly, which I instantly take a grain of h
ope from. Just the fact that he sounds as subdued about this as I feel right now has to count for something? Doesn’t it?
‘But do you really need to leave today?’ he asks suddenly. ‘You can’t put it off even for a bit longer?’
‘I’m afraid not. I already had my boss onto me this morning …’ I trail off a bit here though; figuring that discretion is always the better part of valour.
‘Right … right,’ he says, sounding absolutely miles away, like he’s got so much else on his mind he’s barely even taking this in. ‘Of course. Work. You’ve got to get back to work, don’t you.’
Didn’t sound like a question though, more a statement of fact, so I change the subject and ask the one thing that’s completely burning me up.
‘And ermm …’ I ask tentatively, twisting the coil of the phone round my finger nervously, ‘how are you? I mean, after last night and everything?’
‘As well as can be expected, I guess.’
‘And … Harry?’
A deep sigh now, sounding so deep it’s like it’s coming from the soles of his feet.
‘I’m about ready to swing for my kid brother at this stage, but other than that—’
‘Of course. Sorry. Stupid question really.’
‘Jesus, Holly,’ he says, and I suddenly get a clear mental image of him practically slumped over the phone. ‘What in the name of hell are we going to do about this? How do I even begin to fix it? I can’t see straight … I’m actually finding trouble believing that …’
‘Well I’ll tell you exactly what we’ll do for a start,’ I say firmly.
‘What’s that?’
‘Give me half an hour to get out of here, then meet me for breakfast.’
*
So we do. In the Barnes and Noble bookstore, just round the corner on Fifth Avenue, to be exact. There’s a quiet Starbucks upstairs there, according to Mike, where he and I can really talk properly.
He’s there ahead of me. I can see him sitting with his back to me, playing frustratedly with the thick black hair in a mannerism I’ve come to associate with him so much by now, and dressed down in that casual gear that suits him so well; a navy blue cashmere sweater and jeans.
He stands up when he spots me and kisses me lightly on the cheek. And there it is again, that spicy, musky smell that I swear I’ll probably associate with him for the rest of my days.
‘So how are you doing?’ I ask uselessly. Although the answer to that one is writ large across his face. He looks tired, washed out and sick of having to clean up other people’s messes that weren’t anything to do with him in the first place.
‘I keep blaming myself,’ he tells me. ‘Over and over again. I can’t help it.’
‘But that’s crazy! Why would you do that?’
‘Because there I was in loco parentis. Don’t get me wrong, Mom is the best there is – you’ve seen that for yourself. But she’s not getting any younger and it’s unfair to expect her to deal with an unruly teenager who clearly needs a firm hand.’
‘Mike, you’re being way too hard on yourself!’
‘But don’t you see? It was up to me after Dad flaked off. It was my job to step in and take charge of Harry. If I’d just been around the apartment more often, if I’d spent more time there, I’d have probably figured out sooner or later what was going on under my nose. But it would seem that I’ve failed spectacularly.’
There’s a pause so long, you could drive a truck through it, as Mike looks anywhere except at me, miles away.
‘It may not be as bad as you think,’ I offer tentatively. ‘You’re imagining the very worst now, but you know there’s every chance it’s all containable.’
He doesn’t answer though, just shrugs instead.
‘So, worst-case scenario, when do you think it’ll all start?’ I ask.
‘Who knows?’ he says, so quietly I almost have to strain to hear him. ‘Maybe this big thaw will delay things a little, which would at least be something. And if it’s not too big a favour, I’ve got something to ask you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Don’t you know I’ll do anything?’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mike very kindly offers to come with me to the airport this afternoon. Which, given exactly what his family might be facing, is more than I could possibly have expected.
We leave Barnes and Noble and walk side by side back down Fifth Avenue, across 45th Street and back to the Roosevelt so I can pick up my luggage. We’re both unusually silent on the walk and for the very first time between us, it’s uncomfortable. Tense.
He seems to be wrapped deep in thought while I’m just staring flatly ahead, all the while thinking, why can’t I come up with an excuse to get out of leaving? Why do I have to go now? Today? When friends need a bit of support?
Even the sight of snowploughs cleaning away mounds of slush along the streets sinks me. I find myself irrationally clutching at straws, wondering why the weather gods can’t oblige me just this one last time. Maybe send a freak snowstorm that suddenly closes all the airports again? Or else the airline crew could go out on a last-minute strike about pensions or coffee breaks or similar?
Anything to keep me here. Just a bit longer. I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m in such a depressive slump about going home when I knew this was only ever going to be a whirlwind trip anyway. All I know is that leaving just feels so wrong. Not now. Not considering what’s about to explode onto a family who’ve shown me nothing but warmth and kindness.
Mike stares straight ahead grimly, jaw tightened the way it always is whenever he’s preoccupied. He’s quiet too, a million miles from his usual warm, chipper self. The Mike I know would right now be happily describing all the buildings around us to me and filling me in on useless little scraps of trivia about each and every one of them.
Not now.
We get to the Roosevelt, and automatically acting the gentleman, he more or less handles everything for me. I’d already packed before I went out – not that it took me all that long – so he offers to come up to my hotel room with me and help carry my luggage down to a cab, ‘to save a porter all the bother’. We grab a lift, zoom up to the eighteenth floor and I lead him to my room, uncertain of how much of a pigsty I left it in.
It’s fairly messy when we get there, alright, but Mike barely even seems to notice. Instead he just walks over to the bedroom window, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and looks down onto the street below, just like I’ve been doing every morning since I got here. Exact same gesture and everything. Seeming to fill the tiny room, just because he’s in it.
‘What must you have thought when you first came here, Holly?’ he asks from out of nowhere. His voice is soft but his face is preoccupied. I’m just shoving the last of my moisturizers into my carry-on wheelie bag, but I stop to look up at him.
‘And what,’ he adds, slowly turning back to face me, ‘must you make of all this now?’
*
So I check out, Mike beside me carrying my heaviest suitcase like it is virtually weightless.
‘Architect,’ he shrugs at me by way of explanation as we queue up at reception. ‘I spend a lot of time on building sites. Trust me, you develop strength you never knew you had.’ Then he pulls that crooked little smile and I swear it’s the first time all morning that things have seemed even halfway normal between us.
‘Awww … you mean you’re really leaving us now?’ says Sabah, who’s on reception to check me out. We’ve spoken so often on the phone I almost feel like I know her by now, and she turns out to be absolutely gorgeous in the flesh, too, with swishy hair extensions tied back into a ponytail and the widest grin this side of Julia Roberts.
‘I’m afraid so,’ I smile wanly back at her.
‘You’ll be back though,’ she nods sagely, looking up from her computer screen and really taking me in. ‘I’d put good money on it.’
‘You think?’ I ask hopefully, half aware that Mike is hovering in the background, probably overhearing ever
y word of this.
‘Sure, honey, it’s sticking out a mile! I know a guest who’s fallen in love with New York City when I see one. You just take real good care of yourself, and make sure to come back and stay with us on your next visit.’
I bleeding wish.
Next stop is the Upper West Side, to say one last and final goodbye to Dorothy and Harry.
‘They’ll appreciate this so much,’ Mike says to me in the taxi as we zoom through Central Park on our way there, with my luggage strewn all over the floor around us. ‘Particularly today of all days.’
‘How are they both holding up?’ I ask him worriedly.
I see his knuckles whitening with edginess before he turns away from the window to face me.
‘Mom was furious at first, as you can well imagine,’ he says, ‘but now I think she blames herself more than anyone. And that’s what really gets to me more than anything. After all, the woman did nothing wrong, did she? It’s hardly her fault if—’
‘Here we go, apartment 744,’ the taxi driver interrupts us as we pull up outside the all-too-familiar brownstone. Mike asks him to wait as we won’t be long and the driver kindly agrees. Then, barely able to believe that this really is for the last time, I’m tripping up the stone steps all set to say my final goodbyes.
The atmosphere in the apartment is about as different as it’s possible to be compared with how it was on Christmas Day. All that light-hearted joviality and warmth that hung about the place seems to have completely evaporated. It’s muted in here now and there’s a tension pinging off the four walls that’s unmistakable.
Mike lets us both in with his key and calls out, ‘Mom? Holly’s come to say goodbye.’
Dorothy instantly emerges from the kitchen and my heart immediately wants to break at the sight of her. It’s like the poor woman has suffered a coup de vieux in the last eighteen hours – if possible, she now looks a good ten years older and so tired that all I want to do is wrap my arms round her and tell her it’ll all be OK. Even though that’s so far from the truth, it’s actually scary.
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 23
