Meet Me In Manhattan

by Claudia Carroll

  They’re doing exactly what I set out to do, I remind myself. In fact, were I reading this before I ever went to New York, I’d probably have had nothing but sympathy for them. After all, wasn’t I once this angry and worked up myself? I was that soldier and I can’t blame them for feeling the way they do.

  But all that changed the minute I met the McGillis family. And as soon as I started to see that Harry was just acting the idiot and really was genuinely sorry for what he’d put me through, I got past being angry. I even forgave him and just got on with having a Happy Christmas instead.

  But these girls are baying for blood now and all I can do is sit here, powerless to do anything except wait it out.

  Chapter Thirty

  First alarm bell: Mike promised to call when he could talk properly and then doesn’t. Which is odd to say the least. It just doesn’t seem like the guy I know and have even got to trust in the past week. So just how well, I find myself asking, do you really know him anyway?

  All I get is a brief, to-the-point text message that pings through just as I’m wearily hauling my still jet-lagged arse out of bed and into the shower, right after 7 a.m. on the morning of the 29th.

  APOLOGIES FOR NOT CALLING, WILL EXPLAIN IN FULL WHEN WE TALK.

  I text back immediately:

  HAVE TO KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON. YOU OK?

  Then not long after I arrive in work at the News FM office, a reply:

  YOU WERE RIGHT. TURNS OUT ALL OF THIS SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN DONE SOLELY WITH YOUTUBE IN MIND. BUSY TRYING TO CONTAIN ALL THIS CRAPOLOGY, AS YOU’D SO ELOQUENTLY PUT IT.

  BE IN TOUCH SOON AS I’VE GOT NEWS.

  YouTube. Exactly what I’d dreaded; exactly what I’d hoped to avoid. Fingers trembling, I switch on my laptop and go straight onto YouTube. I type ‘Catfish’ into the toolbar and wait.

  Mother of Divine, there are so many videos to choose from, I scarcely know where to begin. There’s a TV documentary show with that name, then several people – women in the majority – posting videos with banners screaming across them that read, ‘You haven’t heard anything like my catfish hell!’ or else ‘Turned out I got catfished … and by a woman!’

  I keep scrolling down the page and that’s when I first spot it. Utterly unobtrusive at first glance, in fact that’s what strikes me. Amid all the finger-pointing and sensationalism about catfish, instead this is just a video still of three women sitting in a café, freeze-framed in front of the camera. Three normal-looking girls who look like they’re doing nothing more than enjoying a mug of coffee, a sticky bun and a big post-Christmas catch-up natter with each other.

  The caption written directly above it is what catches my attention and suddenly I find myself shivering, even though it’s like a furnace in my room.

  TO CATCH A CATFISH.

  So I hit the play button and wait.

  ‘Hi there!’ the woman in the foreground says cheerily, like she’s off for nothing more than a girlie spa day with two old mates. This one is a Melissa McCarthy-type in her late thirties at a guess and with a chunky build. ‘A girl who could sink a pint of Guinness,’ as my mother was wont to say. Cropped brown hair, wearing a pair of those clever, square glasses you only ever see on architects: whoever she is, she’s clearly the driving force behind all of this malarkey.

  ‘And welcome to my video blog, To Catch a Catfish!’ she goes on. ‘I’m Mary-Clare Travers …’

  Mary-Clare. Of course you are, I think, you’re the woman who wrote that blog in the first place. The one who instigated all this, then went and rounded up a posse.

  I keep on watching, eyes glued to the screen.

  ‘OMG girls, I kinda feel a little like I’m hosting my own TV documentary show here!’ Mary-Clare laughs over at the other two, who just wave awkwardly to camera and wait for their turn.

  ‘Let me introduce my new best friends,’ she chats on, pointing to a thin, blonde girl in workout gear, a hoodie and a very obvious spray tan who’s sitting just to her left.

  ‘First up, this is Kelly, who’s visiting New York City for the holidays and who, like me, is a fellow catfishee.’

  ‘Glad to be here,’ giggles Kelly, who then proudly holds aloft two Macy’s shopping bags along with three stuffed bags from Abercrombie. ‘Plus it’s so great to be able to do a little shopping on the side while I’m in town too. Ladies, I got so many bargains! Did I tell you about this great discount store that I found called Century 21? It’s right down by the Freedom Tower and they practically give stuff away for free, it’s so cheap …’

  ‘I suggest we just get to the point please?’ a neatly dressed woman beside her politely interrupts and suddenly my focus is pulled over to her. This one has tidy brown hair pulled back into an efficient chignon and is wearing a crisp white shirt with an immaculately cut black jacket that has LK Bennett written all over it. There’s an iPad right on the table beside her that she keeps glancing down at like she’s on a strict time schedule and is due back at work any minute.

  ‘And now let me introduce Natalie,’ says Mary-Clare. ‘She’s travelled all the way down from Albany to be with us today …’

  ‘And I’m afraid I don’t actually have a whole heap of time,’ Natalie interrupts her crisply. ‘So if we can just cut to the chase here, ladies, that would be greatly appreciated.’

  I catch the other two throwing a tiny glance at each other, then Mary-Clare immediately swivels the camera back towards herself and expertly takes over.

  ‘Ermm … yeah, sure,’ she says. ‘Well, for readers of my blog, you’ll all know that we’re pretty much here to catch ourselves a catfish …’

  ‘And it turned out to be the exact same guy!’ Kelly giddily interrupts her. ‘Can you believe it was the very same person who we all thought we were simultaneously dating?’

  ‘It’s an absolute disgrace, that’s what it is,’ says Natalie tightly. ‘I’m a lawyer, and I can tell you, it won’t be so long before we start seeing cases like this flooding the courtrooms.’

  ‘As you can see, we all feel pretty strongly about this,’ Mary-Clare barrels over her, moving her big, round face closer to the camera, so close, she’s almost swollen-looking. ‘After all, this kind of thing is happening all of the time online …’

  ‘… You can say that again! In fact, this is my third time being a catfishee,’ says Kelly, tossing her swishy long blonde hair. ‘Wouldn’t you have thought that I’d have learned to know better by now? But that’s the thing, this guy was just so convincing.’

  ‘Well, we’re all here now and we’re finally prepared to do something about it, aren’t we?’ says Mary-Clare.

  ‘However you’re both ignoring the point,’ says Natalie, impatiently tapping immaculately manicured nails on the iPad just in front of her. ‘Catfish are by their very nature virtually impossible to detect. Their lies and half-truths are just so realistic, not to mention persuasive, it’s impossible not to get sucked in. I went to Harvard, for God’s sake, I have degrees, diplomas and MBAs hanging out of my earlobes and even I found myself being duped, just like you.’

  ‘Oh come on, you’re among friends now,’ says Mary-Clare, patting Natalie’s hand supportively, like she’s chairing a meeting of Catfishees Anonymous. ‘And remember, the whole point of today is … come on, what is it, ladies?’ she asks cheerleader-style to the other two.

  ‘To catch a catfish!’ the others dutifully chime in.

  ‘To redress the balance.’

  ‘To teach this asshole a lesson he hopefully won’t forget.’

  ‘And most importantly of all, to send a clear message to the online dating community …’

  ‘… There may have been a time when you could reasonably expect to get away with luring in the unsuspecting online …’

  ‘… But those days are most definitely over.’

  ‘So stick with us: we’ll be back to you with live updates!’ says Mary-Clare, wrapping it all up. There’s a tiny pause while she leans into the camera then fumbles round with it, like she’s
trying to switch it off. All you can see is her very generous bosom filling the screen before it goes to black.

  Meanwhile I can clearly hear in the background Kelly’s worried voice saying, ‘But girls, just one thing. Do you think we’ll be finished by three this afternoon? It’s just I have matinee tickets to go and see Les Miserables and I’d really hate to miss it …’.

  Mother of Jesus, it’s like following a soap opera, and I’m clearly not the only one who thinks so either. And the killer is, these ladies all make a valid point; what was done to them was unforgivable and time was when I felt every bit as angry as they do right now. But if they could only see just how sorry Harry genuinely is, if they could only realize that he’s just a thoughtless kid who has well and truly learned his lesson, maybe they’d call the whole thing off?

  But even I know in my waters that would be a Christmas miracle too far.

  By the time I manage to snatch a quiet minute in work later on where I can log onto YouTube and check in again, I’m not joking, there are over two thousand five hundred and fifty hits. Not counting the number of people who’ve linked this up onto Twitter and then of course bleeding Facebook.

  Two thousand five hundred and fifty hits. I actually break out into a clammy, cold sweat just thinking about it. My breath will only come in short, jagged shards and I find I have to concentrate hard on breathing.

  In for two and out for four, in for two and out for four …

  Now I’ve posted several anonymous online comments, pleading with them to stop and call the whole thing off, begging them, saying that there’s a young life and reputation at risk here, but there’s no reply. Well, no reply from Mary-Clare that is, but there’s plenty from all the professional comment-posters out there, in a wide-ranging array of abuse aimed right at my pretend-y username.

  I’m hurled with everything from ‘Excuse me, why shouldn’t these ladies teach this guy a lesson, whoever he is?’ to ‘You coward! You don’t even sign your name to your post, so I’m guessing you’re one of them. You’re probably a catfish too, lying to dozens of women all at the same time. Well shame on you, asshole, thanks to these brave ladies, now your days are numbered!’

  Delightful, but right now the least of my worries.

  I’m at News FM, but given that I’ve lied through my teeth to Aggie about all this, I’ve actually sneaked off to the loo to get another update with YouTube on my phone. Heart hammering, all I can think is, please have died down. Please can this all have fizzled out and amount to nothing, please can this just be one of those flash-in-the pan stories that burns brightly for a nanosecond and then, just as quickly, is gone.

  Eyes almost blurring with nervous tension, I scan down the page for the link I’m looking for, and there it is. Posted about an hour ago under the banner: ‘TO CATCH A CATFISH, PART TWO.’ Jeez, like Mary-Clare and her cohorts think they’ve morphed into Peter Jackson and are making a full-on Lord of the Rings-style trilogy now.

  So this time Mary-Clare, Natalie and Kelly are all bunched up tightly inside a New York yellow cab and I’m guessing the driver must be belting down the street like a lunatic, because the camera keeps jumping around as Mary-Clare tries to hold it steady.

  ‘So welcome to the second instalment of our vlog,’ she chats easily into the camera, while you can clearly see Kelly preening and lashing on lipgloss into a little compact mirror beside her.

  ‘We’re on our way to an address on the Upper West Side and we’re hoping our catfish is home so we can bring this to you LIVE.’

  ‘Course he’ll be home,’ quips Natalie dryly as the camera swivels round to focus on her now. She’s pale, tight-lipped and the only one of the trio, I notice, who looks steely and determined about all this. Mary-Clare looks like a Girl Guide on some kind of overzealous mission to bring some good into the world, while Kelly keeps squealing every time she sees a shop with a ‘SALE NOW ON!’ sign plastered in the window.

  ‘But how can you know he’ll be home for sure?’ Mary-Clare asks her pointedly. ‘After all, it’s the holidays, he could be anywhere.’

  ‘Because the character profile of the kind of catfish we’re after rarely varies, that’s why,’ Natalie tells her briskly. ‘Mark my words, this guy will doubtless turn out to be a loner, probably living off a parent or a significant other and very likely unemployed.’

  ‘How do you figure all that out?’ asks Kelly, blinking innocent blue eyes wide into her compact mirror.

  ‘For the simple reason,’ Natalie sighs, like she’s explaining this to a six-year-old, ‘that someone in full-time employment just wouldn’t have the time to spend online that this idiot does, that’s why. And Kelly, what exactly are you doing, may I ask?’

  ‘Just touching up my make-up,’ she smiles angelically as the other two turn to look at her. ‘Well, supposing you’re both wrong and by a miracle this guy actually turns out to be cute and single? Nothing wrong with wanting to look your best now, is there?’

  I can just make out the other pair rolling eyes at each other when suddenly Kelly’s mobile, or rather her cell phone, starts pealing. The song ‘Let it Go’ from Frozen, wouldn’t you know.

  ‘I don’t believe this … another blocked call,’ she says absently. ‘That makes my third so far today.’

  Has to be Mike, I think, instantly on high alert. Either Mike or Harry, ringing to tell them the truth so they’ll call this all off, before it’s too late.

  ‘Funny, I’ve been getting blocked calls too,’ says Mary-Clare. ‘More than a few, since yesterday, in fact. But I never answer when it’s a blocked call, so I just deleted the message and ignored it.’

  ‘Oh my God … look! They’ve got a branch of Sephora here!’ Kelly interrupts her. ‘Can we please just take a quick five-minute detour?’

  ‘NO!’ chime the other two and that’s when I see it. Suddenly there’s a cold clutch at my heart and it’s like I can’t breathe.

  Because there it is. I’d recognize it anywhere. West 62nd Street. The neat row of brownstone buildings with railings in front of them. The same deli right on the corner. And now here we go; there’s a shaky imagine of it as the three girls clamber out of the taxi and pay their fare.

  The house where the McGillis family live. That very same brownstone where I spent the happiest Christmas I’ve had in years.

  ‘We’ll be right back with part three,’ says Mary-Clare determinedly and that’s where the video ends. For the moment. But to be continued.

  I immediately whip out my phone and text Mike:

  HAVE TO KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING. ARE YOU ALL OK? CALL ME AS SOON YOU CAN.

  Next thing, there’s a sudden rapping at the door of the ladies’, making me jump with sheer antsy nerves.

  ‘Holly? Are you in there?’

  Dermot.

  ‘Ermm … yeah! Just coming now …’ I call back to him, but next thing the door opens and he just barges in, leaning all long and louche up against the hand dryer, head to toe in gym gear, like he’s just heading out for a gentle jog in sub-zero temperatures.

  ‘Something you want to tell me?’ he asks, the eyes narrowed down into two suspicious slits.

  ‘You know you shouldn’t be in the ladies’!’ I tell him, trying to sound a lot brighter than I feel.

  ‘Oh please, I come in here all the time. Where else do you think I pick up all the juiciest grade A gossip?’

  I gather up my bag and make to leave, but it’s no use. He knows me too well and is onto me in a blink.

  ‘You’re holding out on me, Ms Johnson, and it’s useless to deny it. I’ve a sixth sense about these things,’ he says, blocking my way so I can’t physically get out the door.

  ‘Don’t be so daft, and come on, let me out of here …’

  ‘Not only that, but you’ve been acting as weird as arse ever since you got back from New York …’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! Now come on, I have to get back to work …’

  ‘How about you just start at the beginning and tell your Uncle Dermot
the whole story?’

  So with not much choice in the matter, I do. The whole truth and nothing but.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Then much later on that night Mike finally calls, but again, it’s a brief, to the point, truncated mini-call. By my calculation, we’re only on the phone for exactly two and a half minutes.

  ‘You OK?’ he asks.

  ‘Mike! I’m the one who should be asking you that. So tell me, what’s going on? I’ve been glued to YouTube, but what’s the latest?’

  ‘You near your computer by any chance?’ he asks tersely. There’s a lot of background traffic noise though, like he’s on the street, and it’s a strain just to hear him properly.

  ‘Go online, check out their latest YouTube post and I’ll call you right back in five minutes.’

  Seconds later, I’m on YouTube and scrolling down for the latest installation from the Catfish Crew. Fingers shaking, I click on the link, which picks up right where the last one left off. My heart freezes when I see the image in front of me; it’s the hallway in the McGillis’ brownstone, I’d know that carpet anywhere. The exact same hallway that I once stood in myself, petrified and shaking, all set to meet Harry for the first time and not realizing the shock that lay ahead.

  I click ‘play’, and Mary-Clare is talking straight to camera, keeping her voice low this time.

  ‘So we’ve just been buzzed into the apartment,’ she’s whispering, ‘and here we are, all set to give our catfish the land of his life!’

  The camerawork is shaky now as they turn the corner to the apartment. And there, standing outside, waiting for them with his arms folded is Mike. Looking tense, steeled for the very worst.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t film any more, ladies,’ he says firmly but politely, putting his hand up to block the camera. ‘This is a private apartment and I have to ask you all to respect that. But you’re welcome to come inside. There’s someone you need to meet and then we’ll have to talk.’

  Click. Video ends. I’m on the edge of my seat waiting on Mike to call me back, thinking, maybe this’ll spell the end of the whole bloody nightmare? Maybe now, when Mary-Clare and co. see just how contrite Harry is for what he’s done, they’ll listen to him and realize that they’re just up against a misguided kid? And maybe then they’ll drop the whole thing? Maybe.