Well that settles it then. I no longer think that this might be Mum’s doing as she watches down on me from above.
I absolutely know it.
*
Still no word from Mike. Not a peep, nothing. So as soon as I get home, I text him to see if he can talk. It’s just past 3 p.m. here, early morning in NYC, so I figure it’s a fairly good time to catch him. Somehow things have managed to get back on track for me here, workwise at least, so now of course I won’t sleep properly till I find out what’s happening in New York right now.
As of last night, I pretty much abandoned my constant Googling of the Catfish Ladies on the grounds that a) it was physically making me want to heave, b) in my head, they’re already doing Letterman, doubtless with Oprah to follow, and c) what was the bloody point anyway? The three of them have turned into a nine-day wonder, they’re having their two cents worth, so why not just let them at it till all this blows over. Which it absolutely will.
It just has to.
By eight that evening, I still haven’t heard anything back from Mike. Nada. Nothing. Not a whisper. Not even as much as a reply to my text messages. Which is worrying, to say the least. In fact, no sooner has one worry been banished, than another one immediately begins to take form, swooping in to take its place. Because this just doesn’t sit right with me, it’s not like him. Something is going on. I’m not sure what, but something.
Joy, thankfully, is still in the flat, shoehorning herself into an LBD, all set for a New Year’s Eve party that Krzysztof is taking her to somewhere in town tonight.
‘I wish you’d just come out to play with us,’ she says, eyes glued to the bathroom mirror as she expertly lashes on black eyeliner. ‘This pal of Krzysztof’s who’s hosting the party apparently has an apartment with a balcony overlooking the Liffey, so there’ll be the most fantastic view of the firework display tonight. Come on, hon. What do you say?’
I’m perched on the edge of the bath beside her, blankly watching her doing her make-up, although I’m actually miles away.
‘It’s lovely of you to ask me,’ I tell her, shaking my head, ‘but trust me, I’m no company tonight. New Year or no New Year.’
Truth is, I’ve really been through the emotional wringer over the past few days. I’ve lost one job, miraculously clung onto another, and now want nothing more than to curl up on the sofa in front of shite TV, then haul my exhausted, jet-lagged body into bed and sleep for about ten hours, minimum.
‘Sure you’re not just staying home to stare at your mobile and hope the phone rings from lover boy in New York?’ Joy asks me suspiciously. ‘Because if that’s the case, I’ll physically fling your phone down the loo right now and drag you out with me by the roots of your hair if I have to. If he hasn’t rung by now, I’m sure there’s a perfectly plausible reason for it, end of story.’
I say nothing though, wrapped deep in thought. Or more correctly, wrapped up in the one worry that just won’t go away now, try as I might.
Joy’s all over it already though.
‘So come on, spit it out, love,’ she says, turning away from the bathroom mirror, abandoning applying her eyeliner and giving me her full attention. ‘I thought you’d be on cloud nine this evening, with the good news you got from your man Noel from Channel Six today!’
‘Oh, I am, don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely thrilled about that,’ I tell her, ‘it’s just … well, it’s stupid really. Yet another example of me being a complete moron and misreading signs that were all-too obvious from the get-go. Just like I did with Captain Andy, except somehow this is even worse. This one I really thought could be different.’
‘So, go on then, kindly elaborate,’ says Joy, efficiently packing brushes, eyeliner and Mac bronzer back into her make-up bag.
Hard to articulate it though, this feeling that’s been hovering over me ever since I got back from New York. But I take a deep breath anyway and go for it.
‘I just have this horrible hunch that …’ I start to say.
‘Yee-ess?’
‘Well … it’s just that Mike was all over me in New York. I mean you should have seen him, he was acting like he was devoted almost. You know, calling all the time, taking me out every free minute I had, including me in all the family stuff he had going on. Which was wonderful, and the best distraction I could possibly have asked for, given what Christmas Day means to me. At the time I hardly questioned it because, well, you of all people know how wobbly I always am over Christmas. But I’m bloody well questioning it now.’
‘So what’s worrying you?’
‘Thing is … now I can’t help wondering if Mike was only ever playing a number on me and nothing more. If all that attentiveness and mild flirtation was just to buy my silence. But of course now that the whole bloody world seems to know about Harry and his antics, he doesn’t need to bother so much about me anymore. Ergo, I’ve been dropped.’
‘You really think so?’ she says, eyes wide. ‘Because the way you described this guy, he sounded like one of the good ones. You know, a keeper. Besides, it’s not like he hasn’t been in touch since you got home, is it?’
‘Just a few short calls, Joy. And a few texts. That’s it. Otherwise it’s been me texting and calling him the whole time. It’s me that’s keeping all contact going between us, not him.’
And then the one thought that just won’t go away now that’s it’s got firmly lodged in my brain.
‘You see, Mike knew my weak spot. He knew I was single and that’s why I went online dating in the first place. He knew all the buttons to press. So maybe that’s all the whole thing ever was to him, just a mild diversion to keep me onside. And the little contact I’ve had from him since I got back, how do I know that’s not all just a bit of damage limitation on his part?’
She doesn’t answer me though. Hard to, when there’s damn all else to say.
*
Nothing but pure unadulterated crap on the telly. I’m sprawled out on the sofa with a rug thrown over me, channel-surfing and trying to decide which is the least shite: a ‘hilarious bloopers’ compilation show or else one of those New Year’s Eve live entertainment shows that’s so full of forced bonhomie it’s actually cringeworthy.
I keep intermittently dozing off, then coming to and checking my phone, which is right by my elbow. Nothing though, big fat nada. I nod off again, then am awoken by the sound of fireworks coming from the centre of town, that you can hear all the way out here.
On telly, they’re doing the whole ‘ten … nine … eight …’ countdown thing, so in a moment of weakness and thinking, feck it, what have I to lose, I weaken, pick up my phone and text Mike.
Yet again.
HAPPY NEW YEAR. LET ME KNOW YOU’RE ALL OK.
Absolutely nothing though. No reply, not a single shagging thing.
So that’s it then. I fling the phone over to the armchair opposite me, and two minutes later, drop off into a troubled, restless sleep.
Last thought going through my head? Feck you anyway, Mike McGillis. You asked if I was cursing your family name? Not so much your family, no, but as for you? Most definitely. And if the truth be told, cursing myself for being so bloody gullible, not once but twice.
Bloody typical. Firstly, his kid brother takes me for a ride online, and then Mike himself does exactly the same thing, except this time it’s if anything worse. Mainly because this fledgling romance I actually hoped had the potential to be three-dimensional and real. Ha bleeding ha, worst eejit me.
Still sprawled out on the sofa, I wake just after 2 a.m. and fall back asleep again while thinking up New Year’s resolutions for myself. Sorry, resolution singular that is.
1.No more online dating. Ever.
In fact, scrap that, no more bloody dating at all, full stop. The messers are complete bastards and the ones you earmark as ‘nice guys’ invariably turn out to be the most lethal of all. Mark my words. Hence begins My Year Off Men.
I stir again later in the night when I hear the door ope
ning, then muffled voices and giggles followed by footsteps. Joy and Krzysztof coming home from whatever piss-up they were at earlier. I’m half aware of Joy hissing, ‘Shhh! You’ll wake up Sleeping Beauty!’ then the warm, comforting feel of a duvet being thrown over me, bless her.
Back to sleep again, couldn’t tell you for how long, but this time, it’s a soft, gentle knocking sound that wakes me. In my half-awake/half-asleep state, I think, Joy must have locked herself out, but then I remember.
No, I‘m sure she and Krzysztof came home, like hours ago now.
I remember distinctly.
There it is again, that knocking sound, except even more insistent this time and most definitely coming from our front door. I sit bolt upright and check the time on the TV in front of me.
Six-thirty in the morning. Who the hell would be knocking at our door at this ungodly hour? Some messer looking for a party and accidentally knocking on the wrong flat? Or suppose it’s one of our neighbours who’s accidentally locked themselves out and needs a spare key now? Unlikely, but then after a few drinks too many on New Year’s Eve, who knows what could have happened. Particularly given that there’s a gang of PhD students who live on the top floor above us and who party so much they streel around the place like a pack of brain-dead monkeys half the time.
So in one movement, I’m off the sofa, still in last night’s tracksuit, and on my way to open up.
More knocking, getting even louder and more insistent now.
‘Shhhh!’ I hiss back. ‘Gimme a second to find the keys, will you? And keep it down!’
I’m just at the hall table, sleepily fumbling around the bottom of my handbag for my house keys, when from the other side of the door – clear as you like – I hear, ‘Holly? Is that you?’
And suddenly it’s like no air moves. I freeze on the spot.
That voice.
No.
Just no. It couldn’t be. Not possible.
‘Holly, it’s me.’
Trembling now, I grab at the keys, except now my fingers won’t seem to work properly. I drop them in a clatter on the ground, make another grab to scoop them off the ground and shakily open up.
It can’t be, it couldn’t be, things like that just don’t happen in my life.
I pull back the top bolt, undo the Chubb lock and open up.
And there he is. Standing right in front of me. Looking exhausted, red-eyed and about as white-faced as I’m sure I do myself.
Mike.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I’m seeing things. I’ve got to be actually, physically seeing things. And yet it really is him, standing right here in front of me, taking me in his arms now, neither of us able to say a word, instead just a pile of senseless, half-broken sentences. He pulls me tight into him, arms locked around me as I bury my head into his chest. Then slowly he pulls away, gently locking my head into his hands and looking me right in the face now, his eyes even darker with sheer exhaustion than I remember from before.
I reach out to touch his cheek, which is stubbly as he leans down and kisses me lightly, teasingly. He tastes of coffee and airline food and I don’t even care. It’s warm and sexy and there’s nothing I want more than to pull him towards me, but I don’t. Instead I manage to break away and surprise myself by bursting into mildly hysterical giggles.
‘Well, I’m certainly glad you’re happy to see me, Holly Johnson,’ he murmurs down at me, lightly nuzzling at my earlobe and moving tantalizingly down towards my neck.
‘But … I just can’t get my head around this! I mean why … how are you even here?’
‘Because …’ is all he says, leaving it hanging there. ‘Oh come on, Holly, you’re a smart girl. You know I could stand here and lie and say it’s because I’ve always wanted to see the Emerald Isle so I just thought I’d surprise you over New Year and yadda, yadda, yadda, but it’s more than that. You surely have guessed that much at least by now.’
He kisses me again and this time I lead him by the hand into our living room where he plonks gratefully down onto an armchair, pulling me down beside him so I’m sitting perched on his knee.
‘Don’t you think you’d better start at the beginning and tell me everything?’ I ask, still stupefied as he smiles back at me, that gorgeous, slightly off-centre smile I’ve come to love so much.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘in that case, it looks like I’ve just travelled three thousand miles to say thank you. To tell you that for all that the sky pretty much fell in around our heads, I’m so grateful to you for sticking by us. You were a rock when we all needed one.’
‘But …’ I say hesitantly, almost afraid to ask, ‘… the Catfish Ladies. I have to ask … what happened? It all got so out of control I couldn’t bring myself to follow it anymore—’
‘Simple, really. I hired a PR company,’ Mike says, playing idly with a strand of my hair, ‘who turned out to be worth their weight in gold. They’ve essentially spent the last twenty-four hours putting out fires. We’ve issued a press release pleading our case, saying that Harry abjectly apologizes for everything he did and asking for privacy. And, astonishingly, it seems to have done the trick. Classic example of a nine-day wonder really, although it certainly didn’t feel like it when we were in the eye of the storm. But it’s all over bar the shouting now, it would appear, or at least the very worst has passed. It was a hot novelty item for a while, but they’ve had their day in the sun and of course now the media are already chasing the Next Big Thing.’
‘And Harry? And Dorothy? How are they both holding up?’
‘Kid brother sure seems to have learned his lesson, that’s for certain. His school have even been in touch; I was sure to expel him, but no. One of their counsellors very kindly offered support. Which was much appreciated, I can tell you.’
‘And Dorothy?’
‘I think mostly relieved, now that we seem to be through the worst.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And of course, she’s really looking forward to seeing you again. Soon too.’ He’s sitting forward now and looking at me keenly, almost as though he’s trying to scan my face for a reaction to that.
‘That’s so good to hear,’ I say, smiling back at him. ‘But realistically, I think it’ll be a long time before I get back to New York again. For one thing there’s the small matter of the credit card bill I’ll be facing come January. Not looking forward to that one, I can tell you!’
‘Ahh, which reminds me,’ says Mike, fumbling around his breast pocket, then like a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat whipping out a neat brown envelope.
‘A belated Christmas gift,’ he smiles, handing it over.
‘But Mike … that’s crazy! You already gave me—’
‘Yes, kindly don’t remind me. A skydiving voucher, which clearly went down like a lead balloon. Whereas this on the other hand … I thought might just be a little more you, let’s just say.’
‘Oh come on, you’re mortifying me now,’ I tell him, taking the envelope and carefully opening it. Then when I see what’s inside, turning back to him, face the exact colour of whitewash, I’m certain.
‘So I suppose the big question now,’ he grins back at me; the old, relaxed, cheeky grin that I associate with him so much, ‘is how quickly can you get packed?’
*
It’s like moving through a dream, exactly that same ethereal, out-of-body sensation. Joy, Krzysztof and Mike sitting round our tiny kitchen table, doing the whole early morning coffee and croissants, polite, nice-to-finally-meet-you thing. Meanwhile all I can think is, can this be for real? Am I really standing here introducing my closest pals to Mike, who by some New Year’s miracle is here, drinking coffee and having breakfast, actually here in all three dimensions?
I’m in and out of the kitchen alternately laughing then getting panicky, remembering that I still have to pack. Yes, pack. And our flight leaves in exactly three hours’ time.
‘Feck’s sake,’ Joy says, following me into my room and perching o
n the edge of my bed as in my semi-shocked state I somehow fling jeans, jumpers and boots haphazardly into a suitcase.
‘I know.’
‘I mean, you said the guy was good-looking—’
‘I know.’
‘And you said he was a sweetheart and all—’
‘I know!’
‘And you’re telling me he just produced an airline ticket out of his pocket, just like that?’
‘I know …!’ I’m borderline hysterical now, scarcely able to believe it, even though it’s happening for real.
‘So how long are you going to …’
‘I’m back in work next week, so …’
‘Bloody hell,’ she says, slumping back against the pillows. ‘I never thought stuff like this happened in the real world. I mean, outside of Hollywood, where do you ever see this happening?’
I’m at my underwear drawer now, comfy granny knickers in one hand and highly uncomfortable thong in the other, the one that feels like dental floss surrounding your nether regions.
‘The black lacy ones,’ says Joy firmly. ‘You’ll definitely be needing them.’
*
And now it’s happening, I’m really here. For the second time in the space of just a few weeks I’m strapping myself into an Aer Lingus flight headed … where else, but New York?
Mike has barely left my side all this time. The minute we’re airborne and the drinks service starts, he even orders a snipe of champagne for us each, just to get the trip off to a good start.
‘Well, Holly Johnson,’ he says, clinking glasses with me. ‘I know you’re not a particular fan of Christmas, but I’m hoping I might be able to change your mind about the start of the New Year, at least.’
‘Yeah, but Christmas this year was …’ I start to tell him as he looks intently across at me, ‘… was special, Mike. So special. And I’ve you to thank for that. You and your family that is.’
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 30
