Right Girl

by Ellie O'Neill

  Maybe it did. Maybe three little people could make enough noise, because we were making the right noise, because we were doing the right thing.

  ‘Done.’ Jay looked up and held my gaze then looked at Granddad.

  There wasn’t a sound. Our hearts beat in unison.

  My phone buzzed, breaking the silence. I had an email. I held it up and turned the screen to my accomplices.

  ‘We’ve done it. It’s out there.’

  Epilogue

  Six months later

  Well, we did a lot more than shut down Project Ananke. We shut down BBest. My fellow Project Ananke members, or Ananke Victims as we became known, were very vocal. I mean, people were fuming, I’m talking foaming at the mouths and shouting about evil doers. That was BBest, they became known as the Evil Doers. Pretty sinister, right? It happened immediately. It was instantaneous, and fuelled by venom. Before the email went out none of us had the power to question BBest, and then all of a sudden we gave ourselves permission. Cue the avalanche. The internet went wild, and stories started to emerge of how BBest had managed to keep a tight grip on us all from the little things to the big things. One woman talked about how she was allergic to dairy, but it kept popping up as her first preference, which she needed to take to keep her mortgage. There were the stories of people like me wearing jeans that were way too tight because BBest kept recommending them; bad haircuts; dodgy holiday destinations; and the trickier real-life situations that people found themselves in, like being stuck in jobs they hated – or worse, relationships.

  It transpired that most of the Ananke Victims had been chosen by BBest because of their profiles; we were test cases representative of the BBest customer base. Only a tiny handful had been put onto the program by a ‘concerned’ loved one. A woman had been enrolled by her husband and a son by his mother, both of whom worked at BBest. It appeared that I was in a very elite group.

  People felt that they had been manipulated and had not been protected by their government. A lot of anger was directed at the Irish Government. In the following weeks, nine hundred and fifty-nine cases of criminal and civil proceedings were launched against BBest and a similar number against the government by the Ananke Victims. There was talk of the Terrorism Act being disbanded, that it breached all kinds of human rights. The government has gone very quiet about it. I suspect that Granddad was one of the last to be arrested under it. He has put together a legal team ‘to ride the bastards’. He will not go away quietly.

  Unsurprisingly, RealTime was targeted. Posts on BBest were rabid. A tribunal was launched. An independent body was appointed by the European Parliament to scrutinise RealTime’s personal and business relationships, particularly with the Irish Government. The Luddites have handed over an incredible amount of incriminating material. The tribunal is expected to take a number of years. During that time, RealTime is free to travel and move around but all of his assets have been frozen and he cannot start any new businesses or run his existing ones. The rumour is that he’s holed up in a mansion in California.

  I didn’t sue. Well, I have a few years to make up my mind on that, but I am happy to stay out of the limelight and I am happy that it’s over.

  Jay’s work was flawless, and there has never been a hint of suspicion that the email leak came from our house off Merrion Square. Three unlikely revolutionaries have thankfully remained anonymous. We have drunk champagne and congratulated each other behind closed doors to the point of exhaustion because we overturned the mighty BBest. But honestly, I believe that BBest had reached a natural tipping point. There’s only so long evil can prosper and there’s only so high it can climb before the power of what is good and right overtakes it. The three of us pushed them off the track, but the power of the people pushed BBest off the roller coaster and out of the fun park.

  Within two weeks of the email going out, the app stopped working. And after three weeks, the icon disappeared off our phone screens. Just like that, BBest was gone. It was the strangest feeling. BBest had been my constant companion, day in, day out, hour by hour, for what felt like an eternity. It had slipped into my consciousness. And don’t get me wrong, I wanted it gone, I absolutely wanted it gone, but still I found myself almost grieving for it. I missed it. I caught myself glancing down at my phone, swiping through, searching without thinking, and then I’d remember, and I’d put my phone away and look up. I’ve started to look up – we all have. Now I make eye contact for longer than two seconds, and try to fully engage in conversations, not to constantly fact check and schedule on my phone. It is a big adjustment.

  So is decision making – I have had to retrain myself to think independently. What do I want to wear? What do I want to eat? How will I get to work? What will I do tonight? It’s exciting and it’s liberating. It was as if I was under a cloud and it rained a bit but now the sun has come out, and it’s shining just for me. I’m still using my phone, obviously, but I am more conscious of how I use it, and I’m not trapped by it. I’m living my life my way.

  On that note, and hopefully not to sound too much like an overworked twenty-two-year-old ex-Disney star en route to rehab, I took some time out to work on me. The me me. The real me. All that mess with Mason, the genuine trauma of being a spy or whatever it is I was, Granddad being in prison, Dad – well, just everything that happened. I needed a break, and I needed to remember who I was, or maybe to find out who I am. I needed some soul-searching time. So I packed a teeny tiny backpack with a couple of T-shirts, some shorts, sunscreen and a good pair of walking boots. And get this, I did not pack my phone – how’s that for liberated? I joined a three-week guided walk across the north of Spain. I walked day in, day out. And I saw the most stunning, jaw-dropping scenery and quaint stone villages. I ate creamy cheeses on fresh bread, and spicy sausage with red wine. I talked to a few of the other walkers, all broad smiles, flushed faces and Gore-Tex, but mainly I kept to myself. I cleared my head, and it was wonderful.

  Mam stepped in and ran the shop while I was gone. Turns out Sean is a bit of a whizz with flowers. They worked happily side by side: Mam handled the admin with Sean tending to the more creative side. As much as BBest was a nightmare, I can’t help but feel grateful to it for bringing those two together. Mam is all kinds of happy. She’s going to stay on working with me part time, because my business is booming. Blooming and booming. I love being a florist! I have always loved flowers, BBest just pointed out what I already knew and gave me the push that I needed. That’s the thing with BBest; there was a lot I liked, there was definitely a lot right about it. It’s a complicated affair.

  Mardi is doing well. Her bank loan, like mine, was transferred to a Swedish bank that stepped in to get people out of the BBest debt debacle. My repayments are roughly the same, as are Mardi’s. And the best news is that Mardi is back to herself. We are all delighted of course, and I, for one, regularly thank my lucky stars after how close we came to losing her. She no longer needed that anti-anxiety medication, and just recently started a market stall in the Powerscourt Townhouse in Dublin, showcasing Irish designers. She is going a bomb. Her customers are raving about being able to buy high-end pieces in a place with the feel of a market. Honestly, I feel like people are happy to be back out and pounding the pavement shopping again. There’s something social about hitting the high street.

  Dad and I are not so great. I think it’s going to take a lot longer than a few months to get us back on track. He may also be investigated by a tribunal for criminal behaviour. I try my best to be Zen-like and forgive but it is hard. He is still adamant that he was doing the right thing. It’s hard. But he’s my dad and I love him. And after all, love is all that matters.

  Speaking of love, have I told you about Mason and Cat? It’s not even cloud nine stuff, it’s more like cloud ninety-nine. When I came back from Spain, Cat came to me a bit tearful one evening as I was sprawled on the couch reading a Dan Brown thriller, eating pizza and drinking wine. She’d sobbed and I’d hugged her, a little confused, and waited
for her sobs to turn into sniffles to find out what was going on. ‘It’s just,’ she’d said, ‘I can’t help it, I don’t want to step over the girlfriend code and get involved but . . .’ sniff, sniff, sob, sob, you get the jist, ‘I have feelings for Mason.’

  Well, I whooped with delight. I got another glass and filled it with wine and we toasted their future happiness. And my God, are they happy. They are one of those couples who are constantly touching, their legs are snaked around each other, or their little fingers are linked, and he stares adoringly at her and brushes a tendril of hair back behind her ear. He helps her with her jacket and pulls her seat back for her. He waits patiently while she reapplies her lipstick. In short, he is the perfect boyfriend because she is the perfect girlfriend for him. They both lost their jobs when BBest closed down, and I felt bad about that; I know how hard they’d worked and that they were on trajectories for power careers. But they’ve turned that setback upside down, by building an app together; a sports app, for ultimate sports fans. With those two behind it, it will be good, I know it.

  Jay hasn’t been so lucky in love yet, but I know it’s just around the corner for him. He’s dating again, and he and Enzo have arranged to go for tapas next week. I have my fingers and toes crossed.

  During all my time of reflection and all the tumultuous change in my life, Patrick is still there. I can’t shake his soulful eyes. I can still feel his hand in mine and taste the tenderness in his kiss. I miss him. I miss what we could have had. Even the new and improved independent woman version of me misses him. I’ve told myself many a time that I don’t need a man, and I do believe it; I am complete as I am. My life is good. And then out of the blue, a little over three months since we last met, I was walking down Grafton Street when I caught my reflection in a shop window, and I looked good, and I looked happy, and I was walking tall, I was light and carefree. It dawned on me that I didn’t need a man, but I did need him. And almost involuntarily, it definitely wasn’t consciously because I don’t think conscious me would have had the guts to do it, I picked up my phone and called him. And he answered.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Patrick, it’s Freya, Freya Flannigan.’

  There was a sickening pause down the line. Finally he responded and I couldn’t tell if there was any emotion in his voice.

  ‘Freya.’

  ‘I was wondering if you would like to meet up.’

  Another eternity of a pause, only this time my stomach hurled itself across the street.

  ‘Okay. Tomorrow?’

  ‘Great, Merrion Square. I’ll meet you at the Oscar Wilde statue, say two o’clock?’

  ‘Okay.’

  And so here I stand fifteen minutes early, struggling to keep my nerves in check. Oscar Wilde is lounging on a rock behind me, willing me on with literary witticisms. There’s the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air. I notice a bee buzzing in and out of some flowers. I’m wringing my hands, compulsively checking my make-up in a little pocket mirror, and readjusting my blouse, praying I don’t have sweat patches, because the day is a lot warmer than I thought it was going to be, or maybe it’s only roasting hot because my heart is beating at about seventeen times its normal rhythm. I want to apologise to him, I want to make sure he knows the full story. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to collapse into him and drink in his scent and have him sweep me up in his arms and give me a wondrous kiss. Of course I want that, but that may not be how this plays out.

  There’s something that Granddad said that I have found great encouragement and strength from in these last few months: ‘If it’s meant for you it won’t pass you by’. If Patrick is my destiny, and I am his, the universe, the stars, the future me and the past me won’t let the present me lose him again. But if he’s not, then this is it. This is really goodbye.

  He is early too. I spy him first, he is walking sure- footedly through the gardens. I am confident that he would like to stop and admire the daffodils that are elegantly bowing down at his heels but he doesn’t. I take a moment to drink him in. I find the very ordinariness of his plain white T-shirt and blue jeans captivating, his broad shoulders and slim waist. How I would love to place my hand on his chest. Three months has been an eternity not to see him. His face is expressionless. I study his dark hair, his strong eyebrows and high cheekbones that I know probably have a few more freckles scattered across them during the summer months.

  He sees me, and for a brief second his face cracks into a joyful smile, and it’s there, I feel it’s there, we can do this. And then he shuts down, and by the time he has walked the few feet to me, his arms are crossed and his face has slipped once more into a neutral expression.

  I won’t shake his hand, I won’t kiss his cheek hello.

  ‘Hi,’ I manage to whisper.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘There’s a bench over there behind Oscar, maybe we could sit for a minute?’ I sound like a drugged mouse.

  We sit at opposite ends of the wooden bench. I am in direct sunshine and if I thought I could have been sweating before, I am under no illusions now. I can feel perspiration starting to drip down my back.

  Here I go. Crunch time.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about what happened. And I want you to know that I never set out to deliberately deceive you.’

  ‘Like when you told me you were single.’ His eyes look anywhere but at me. Oh God, he looks hurt.

  I feel extraordinarily uncomfortable. ‘Yes, technically that was a lie.’

  ‘It was all a lie, Freya.’ And now he looks at me, and I see more than a little heartbreak.

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I had been with Mason for about six months, and honestly we never clicked, we were going through the motions – you may not believe me, but it’s true. Our problem was that we were a ninety-three per cent match on BBest, and we felt that there had to be something between us, there had to be a great love there because BBest told us there was. We searched because you know . . . BBest. We believed in it, but we had nothing in common. And it never felt right, for me, in here.’ I bang my chest and blink back tears. ‘I felt completely trapped. I mean, my whole life was unfolding before me with him by my side, and being dictated to by an app. And then you came along.’

  At this point I do start to cry, just a few tears trickling down my cheeks. ‘You blew me away, Patrick, everything with you clicked for me. I was gripped. How could I let you slip through my fingers? How could I let you walk away? And yet I was so intricately bound up with Mason, I couldn’t see a way out.’

  I feel an overwhelming sense of shame. I stop to breathe and compose myself. There’s a golf ball rolling up and down my throat. ‘That day, in the café, I was trying to break up with Mason. It was the first time we were honestly talking to each other, agreeing that we were not a good match. That’s when you walked in and saw us holding hands.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Is that why you brought me here, to ask for my forgiveness for lying to me, and what? Invite me to your wedding?’ He sounded angry.

  ‘No, no. There’s more.’ I hadn’t intended telling him this, but if we are ever to get through this moment, I have to. ‘The Ananke project, I was in it.’

  His face registers shock.

  ‘That ninety-three per cent was fabricated, not that it matters.’ Oh, in for a penny. ‘It was me. I stopped Project Ananke. Well, there was a team of us, it’s a long story. Granddad was involved, but it was us, the leaked email came from my house just around the corner there.’ I wipe away my tears. ‘What happened with you was the straw that broke the camel’s back for me. I wanted you. I wanted to choose you, but BBest wouldn’t let me. It broke my heart.’

  Oh no, here come the tears again.

  ‘So you broke them?’ Patrick is looking at me, his jaw slack with surprise, trying to take in everything I’ve just told him.

  ‘I suppose you could say that, yeah.’

  ‘Jesus, Freya.’ He puts his head into his hands for a moment and then reeme
rges looking confused. ‘You did this?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean–’ and I kind of laugh, ‘–yeah.’

  ‘With Maurice?’

  I nod.

  ‘I was not expecting this. I was surprised to get your phone call, you know. After all this time, I just assumed you’d moved on.’

  I’m shaking my head and I hear myself whisper, ‘Never.’

  He focuses his gaze on me, and I look at his intelligent green eyes, his full mouth that is normally smiling but now looks pensive, his adorable dimple. And I stare, thinking I’d better commit all this to memory because I may never see him again.

  And then a ghost of a smile appears on his lips. ‘So you’re single?’

  ‘For real single. And not only am I single, I am free of the shackles of BBest.’ I raise my arms in the air joyously, waving them around like I have truly been emancipated and then quickly take them back down again, shoving my hands under my armpits. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit sweaty, it’s very hot here.’

  He throws his head back and laughs. ‘Do you want to go and get an ice cream?’

  Happiness explodes out of me like a confetti cannon. ‘Seriously? Are you sure? After everything I did?’

  ‘Especially after everything you did. Come on, you can fill me in on how you brought down the biggest company in the world so you could go on a second date with me.’ He grinned.

  ‘Don’t go getting big-headed now.’ I smile and the sun shines out of me.

  ‘Okay, okay. You are one amazing, brave and brilliant woman, Freya Flannigan, and I would be honoured if you would come for an ice cream with me.’

  I’m speechless. All I can do is smile hopelessly and watch as my heart tumbles towards him with desire and love.

  He stands up and holds his hand out.

  ‘You forgot sweaty,’ I say. ‘Amazing, brave, brilliant and sweaty.’

  And there’s that broad, warm, loving smile. I take his hand and we walk together. I feel the rattle in me stop, and I exhale and I think, finally, there you are.