‘Oh sweetie!’ she says, coming out of the kitchen with a mug of tea clamped to her hand. ‘Bless you for coming out of your way to say goodbye to us.’
‘Least I can do,’ I tell her, instinctively going to hug her warmly. And there it is for the last and final time, that smell. Lily of the valley mixed with home-made bread. Warm, comforting smells that instantly take me back. ‘Tell me, how are you doing?’
‘Well you might ask, honey,’ she says, slumping exhaustedly onto the armrest of a sofa beside her. ‘Haven’t eaten, haven’t slept. And as for Harry! I just don’t know what I’m going to do with that kid. Half of me wants to lock him up in his room until he’s forty …’
‘Without Wi-Fi or internet access obviously,’ Mike chips in wryly.
‘While the other half,’ Dorothy picks up from him, ‘is seriously considering packing him off to some class of a reform school.’
‘I completely understand how you feel,’ I tell her hopefully, though scarcely believing it myself. ‘I know it’s the last thing you need to hear right now, but remember, you’re imagining the very worst. And yet sometimes people can really surprise you.’
‘Oh Holly, you are such a Pollyanna,’ Dorothy sighs, all the exhaustion of a sleepless night clear in her voice, ‘but miracles don’t happen twice.’
‘I’m just saying that—’
‘You know, when you first came along,’ she cuts over me, like she’s been tossing this round her mind for a while and only getting to articulate it out loud now, ‘it was like the greatest stroke of good fortune. Sure, you almost died of shock when you realized what Harry had been up to, but then you were so gracious and forgiving about it.’
I smile, but it’s there, unspoken between the three of us. It’s not to be hoped that such a miracle could possibly repeat itself. Life just isn’t like that, is it?
Harry, Boy Wonder, Root Cause of All This, staggers out of his bedroom when Mike calls him, in a manky-looking Pharrell Williams T-shirt with the thick head of hair glued to one side of his head, like he slept that way and has only just woken up. One quick look at his face tells me exactly how he’s doing.
‘Jesus, Holly,’ he says when he clocks that I’m here. ‘Don’t tell me you’re here to bawl me out of it too?’
‘Oh come on now, you know I’m not,’ I say.
‘Because I really didn’t mean for any of this to happen …’
‘I’m sure you didn’t …’
‘And as soon as you showed up here before Christmas, I got such a fright that I swear, I never—’
‘—It’s OK, I believe you.’
‘Well thank God for that,’ he says, shooting me a quick, grateful look. ‘Because no one else around here seems to.’
‘Although I don’t know what to say to you,’ I tell him, ‘except to wish you good luck. And you’ll keep me posted, won’t you?’
‘Sure. And thanks. If they were all like you, I guess I’d have no problems,’ he says, eyes glued down to the floor now, unable to meet anyone’s eye. Not even mine and I’m certainly not responsible for this latest twist.
‘Better get going, Holly,’ Mike prompts, glancing down at his watch, ‘or you’ll miss your flight.’
I hug them both a tight goodbye.
‘Don’t stay away too long,’ is all Dorothy whispers in my ear. ‘You’re like family to me now. You just remember that, Holly.’
Family. Where I’m coming from, the most precious word in the English language.
*
Forty minutes later, in mercifully light traffic, Mike and I arrive out at terminal 5 in JFK airport. He insists on paying the driver, tipping him generously for being so patient with us, then he loads up an airport trolley with my bags and wheels it inside for me.
‘You really don’t have to—’
‘Course I do,’ he says, steering me towards the airline desk.
And now this is really it. We’re finally at the security gates and this is where we have to go our separate ways. Weird, but after all our easy chat and messing around and banter over the past few magical days, now all either of us can do is speak to each other in tight, broken sentences.
‘I really hate goodbyes,’ Mike says, eyes boring into mine, standing just inches from me at the long, snaking queue for security.
‘Me too.’
‘But it goes without saying that you’ll stay in touch, right?’ he adds, just as a stressed-out-looking woman with a toddler and a screaming baby in a stroller irritably bashes her way past us.
‘Oh now come on! Surely you already know the answer to that one,’ I try to smile up at him, but I’ve a feeling it probably looks more like a grimace. ‘And please … you’ll let me know the minute that there’s news. Good or bad, I still want to know.’
‘I could call you later on,’ he offers hopefully. ‘I mean, tomorrow morning your time, that is, when you land. I could Skype you as soon as it’s all over here, with a full report?’
‘Are you kidding? I’d murder you if you didn’t!’ I try to say as lightly as I can and he smiles back down at me.
And now a gaggle of women all wearing fluorescent pink T-shirts that scream HAPPY FORTIETH, KATIE! shove roughly past us, forcing the two of us apart. There’s about a dozen of these ladeez and it’s like they’re all on their way home after a piss-up that’s lasted for approximately a week.
I have to look around, momentarily having lost Mike’s familiar tall, dark silhouette in the crowded concourse, but next thing he’s right beside me, hovering protectively by my shoulder.
A long moment while we just look at each other, completely stuck for words.
‘Thank you,’ I eventually say.
‘For what?’
‘For everything. For turning my whole Christmas around. For making it so unforgettable.’
‘It was my pleasure. But you know, there’s still so much we never got to do.’
‘Are you kidding me? We did loads!’
‘Just a taster, Holly. An amuse bouche of the city before the main course. I wanted to take you to this great jazz club I know and you’ve gotta experience a carriage ride through the Park …’
‘And the Empire State,’ I tell him. ‘Everyone has to have an Empire State moment …’
‘And then of course there’s New Year’s Eve,’ he smiles crookedly. ‘Believe me, you haven’t lived till you’ve experienced New Year’s Eve in this town.’
‘But still, I’m leaving this city with memories that I never thought I’d have …’
‘Yadda, yadda, yadda. So how about you stop talking and just come here,’ he says, pulling me towards him now and wrapping his arms tightly around me. I nestle into his chest, feeling his warm arms locked tight around me. Loving it. Feeling like I could honestly stay like this forever.
Swear to God I think, I’ll honestly die if he doesn’t kiss me now, even if half the line for security can see us. I look hopefully up at him, to see his black eyes looking softly down at me. There’s a flickering moment of intensity between us just as he pulls me even tighter to him, and I think, finally, finally, finally and not before bloody time … this is it …
‘Excuse me, are you standing in line, Ma’am?’
We both jump slightly, only to see a security official in uniform with a swipe card dangling importantly from his neck.
‘Ma’am?’ Security Guy says impatiently, waiting on a response.
‘Oh,’ I say, jolted to the fact there’s an even longer queue that’s now formed behind us. Mike and I seem to be holding everyone up and attracting furious glares from other impatient passengers.
Mood completely and utterly shattered.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I stammer, ‘I didn’t mean to …’
‘If you’re travelling today, Ma’am, then you really need to move along right now.’
‘My fault entirely,’ Mike tells him smoothly. Then he leans down and gives me one quick, light kiss on the cheek.
‘Hopefully to be continued at a later da
te,’ he murmurs, as I pick up my hand luggage to leave.
‘To be continued.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘I just don’t get it, Holly,’ Aggie says, shaking her head and fumbling through the Marc Jacobs bag beside her (a Christmas gift from the husband, I’m guessing), then producing one of her e-cigarettes, which she starts to suck away on. ‘I mean for God’s sake, you went all the way to New York! You even sacrificed your whole Christmas break just to chase this up for us.’
So it’s the morning of the 28th and here I am, jet-lagged and exhausted, back in the office at News FM, almost feeling like I’d never left it. In the cut-throat world of radio-land, if you snooze, you lose, so we’re all present and correct, struggling back into the office between Christmas and New Year and feeling like we’re the only ones in the whole building working, while everyone else is still lounging around at home in their PJs watching box sets and demolishing their way through selection boxes.
In my case though, unlike Dermot and the gang who are all still operating on half-speed, I’m on bleeding high alert. Ever since the minute I first came through the doors, when Aggie instantly collared me and pulled me into her office, saying, ‘Holly, there you are, welcome back from your trip. Can you come into my office for a moment? Now is good.’
So here I am sitting opposite her, palms sweating, praying that she’ll just drop it and go with some of the other pitches I’ve brought into her this morning. Which wasn’t easy mind you, but then you try gleaning nuggetty little human-interest pieces during what’s possibly the slowest news week of the whole year, when shows like ours are practically screaming out for stories.
‘I know this is disappointing,’ I tell her, ‘but if I can just …’
‘Holly, at the very least you promised me a good, juicy feature out of this. Can I remind you that you were the one who came to me practically begging to do this? Pleading that we’d consider running it? I’ve been planning a whole exposé on the catfish phenomenon this week, mainly because there’s damn all else happening, and I was utterly dependent on you. And now you’re telling me you’ve come home with absolutely nothing for me? I need something. It’s your job.’
‘I’m so sorry, Aggie,’ I say in a small voice.
‘And is there nothing you can even pad out a bit? Surely you can at least put a story together about this Harry McGillis and how he hooked you in to start with? And how and why you uncovered him? That at least would be something for us to work with.’
I want to tell her that no, actually, I can’t, but I’m a useless liar so I don’t even bother trying. Pointless to. Instead, I just focus blankly on the desk in front of me and shake my head. Hating this. Hating not being straight with Aggie, of all people, who’s always been such a great boss and so supportive to me, all the years.
And if only she knew the half of it … Jeez, she’d generate enough airtime out of it to last a month, never mind a bare week.
Head held high, I remind myself of the most important thing of all. I gave my word: so much as I hate not coming clean to Aggie, I’ve got no choice. End of story. I made a promise and I’ve no intention of breaking it.
‘Look, I really am so sorry to let you down,’ I tell her, peeling my bum off the chair to leave, sensing that there’s not much more to be said. ‘But I’ll do my best to come up with something even juicier for us to report on. I promise.’
‘Go on then,’ she sighs, and I swear the disappointment in her voice is almost worse than anything else she could possibly say to me.
I’ve got as far as the office door, my hand is even on the doorknob, when suddenly her voice pulls me back, just like frigging Columbo.
‘Holly?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just one more thing …’
‘Ermm … fire ahead,’ I say nervously.
‘You say you’re adamant that there’s no story here—’
‘Afraid not.’
‘So what exactly did happen when you went to New York?’
She’s looking directly at me now, glasses thrust back into her neat grey bob, patiently waiting on an answer.
I turn back to face her square on.
‘Aggie,’ I begin falteringly. ‘You and I have known each other for a very long time, haven’t we?’
‘Jesus. That bad, huh?’
‘Let’s say I’m really hoping you’ll just trust me when I tell you that … it’s nothing that any of us would want to see broadcast.’
But if I’d known then what I know now, it would have been far, far wiser to just have kept my big mouth shut and kept on walking.
Nor do Channel Six make my life any easier. I swear, by the time I touched down back at Dublin airport, there were no fewer than three emails from Tony, exec producer on Tonight With … all with rising degrees of impatience. The first message came yesterday, while I was clearing airport security in JFK and never even heard the phone. Brisk and to the point as ever. And as usual, getting my name wrong.
From: Tony@TonightWithChannelSix.com
To; [email protected]
Subject: Some disappointing news.
Molly,
I won’t lie, this isn’t good. You reassured me that this was a 24-carat gem of a story and I was heavily depending on this item to fill our show the night of 28th December.
Call as soon as you possibly can,
Tony.
Second one came through as I was in mid-air, sounding, if possible, even narkier in tone:
From: Tony@TonightWithChannelSix.com
To: [email protected]
Subject: Some disappointing news
Molly.
I await your call as a matter of urgency.
Tony.
Meanwhile Joy is one of those jammy feckers who’s still off work till after New Year, and as she’s just driven back up from her family home in Adare, she insists on dragging me out for lunch. As she puts it, ‘Because I can’t shagging well wait till tonight to find out exactly what happened over in New York.’
We arrange to meet in Ely Gastro Bar, a popular spot with the lunchtime crowd, right beside the Bord Gáis Theatre on Grand Canal Square, and only a stone’s throw from News FM. The place is packed with shoppers fresh from the sales, not to mention families on their way to see a matinee of Wicked at the theatre, so I have to wade my way through a mill of people all patiently queuing for tables. Eventually though, I spot Joy here ahead of me, dressed as always head to toe in black.
My heart lifts just knowing she’s here. Mainly because I’ve been acting like I’m on numb autopilot ever since I came home and the very sight of her does my heart good. She’ll sort this unholy mess out. Somehow, she always does.
‘Oh, Holly,’ she says as the two of us hug each other for all we’re worth. ‘Just look at the state of you; you look like you’ve been through the wars! Suppose you start at the beginning and omit absolutely no detail, no matter how trivial?’
We order first: a Burren beefburger with handcut fries for her, which she demolishes in about four minutes flat, while I pick on a goat’s cheese salad and fill her in. But then that’s another thing about me ever since I came home – damn all appetite to speak of.
‘Sweet Mother of Divine,’ Joy says when I’ve finished telling her everything, mouth stuffed with fries. ‘You are so going to end up on Jeremy Kyle’s sofa one of these fine days.’
I give her a wan smile. The way I’m feeling right now, it’s the best I can manage.
‘And any word from Mike since you came home?’
‘He sent me loads of messages, saying he’d call this evening as soon as he had an idea of exactly what they were dealing with and how things were going to shape out for them all.’
‘So how do you feel about all this, hon?’
‘Honestly? Conflicted. I had the best Christmas, Joy, it was so completely perfect. You’ve no idea. I never expected that things would work out the way they did and it really was just amazing. I haven’t laughed as mu
ch or enjoyed myself like this since before … well, you know.’
‘I know, love,’ she says, putting down the bottle of ketchup she was walloping sauce out of and giving my hand a tight, supportive little squeeze. ‘The whole McGillis family sound gorgeous. Well OK, maybe that Harry I could take or leave.’
‘He’s great when you get to know him, really. He’s just a bit misguided, that’s all. Last thing he needs is this bucket of shite that’s just about to be dumped on him.’
‘And Mike?’ she asks lightly, but looking right at me like she’s only waiting on me to start flushing.
‘You’d like him, you really would.’
This, by the way, is really saying something as Joy automatically assumes any fella I drag home is either a douchebag or else just your common or garden gobshite. Sad thing is that inevitably, till now at least, she’s proved right.
‘He’s great,’ I go on, really trying to sell him now. ‘Warm, friendly, funny, generous and handsome. The whole package.’
‘I see. So did you and he …?’
‘No, nothing like that at all! We were very carefully chaperoned either by his kid brother or else his mum. Trust me, it was like something out of a Jane Austen novel. We never even kissed – well, not properly anyway.’
‘Maybe it’s a case of “to be continued”,’ she says tellingly.
‘Except there’s one slight problem isn’t there? He’s there and I’m here.’
‘Suppose we just take this one step at a time. So when you got back to work earlier, you told Aggie … what exactly?’
I give her the gist of my earlier meeting with Aggie and she listens intently.
‘So then I called Tony out at Channel Six,’ I tell her.
‘And?’
I fill her in on our phone call, which I think lasted for all of two and a half minutes.
‘Molly,’ he’d said when I rang, ‘is that you?’
‘Holly, it’s actually Holly—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he interrupted rudely. ‘So I understand from your email you’ve got absolutely zilch for me? Is that really what you’re trying to say here?’
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 24
