Книга - Meet Me In Manhattan

Meet Me In Manhattan
Claudia Carroll


In a New York minute, everything can change …Holly Johnson is at a crossroads in her life. She wants to make it as a real journalist, and she’s dreaming of falling in love.She’s so close to getting her break at work, and she’s met a very special guy. Well, she hasn’t actually met him … not yet. But everyone knows most relationships start online these days. And she’s on to a winner with this one. Isn’t she?But something is not quite right with Andy McCoy – and he’s about to learn you don’t mess with Holly Johnson. She decides to fly to New York to find the truth.Holly is about to get the shock of her life.What she finds in Manhattan swiftly turns into a nightmare.But maybe – just maybe – if Holly is true to herself, she can turn this nightmare into a dream come true …









Meet Me in Manhattan

Claudia Carroll










Copyright (#u0b063e2b-8bea-5050-915e-0bc9160561c6)


Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015

Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2015

Claudia Carroll asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007520909

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007520923

Version: 2015–24–02




Praise for the novels of Claudia Carroll (#u0b063e2b-8bea-5050-915e-0bc9160561c6)


‘An original, funny and poignant story … a very modern fairytale, full of Claudia’s trademark wit and humour’

Sheila O’Flanagan

‘Full of warmth, humour and emotion, this is a wonderfully written, unconventional love story that charms from the very first page. I adored it and didn’t want it to end. Read it – I guarantee you’ll love it’

Melissa Hill

‘It bubbles and sparkles like pink champagne. A hugely entertaining read’

Patricia Scanlan

‘An emotional roller-coaster ride … keeps the reader wondering until the very end’

Irish Independent

‘Claudia Carroll has done it again, with a heroine you just want fate to smile on’

Heat




Readers adore the novels of Claudia Carroll – here is a glimpse of just how much! (#u0b063e2b-8bea-5050-915e-0bc9160561c6)


‘I was holding my breath … the story really touched my heart’

‘Fun, breezy, and kept me guessing and oohing and aaahhhing until the end!’

‘Truly captivating’

‘Will lift your spirits’

‘If you love page-turning women’s fiction with depth then this book is for you!’

‘I so enjoyed this unusual story of friendships and love’

‘Very fresh and brilliantly plotted’

‘A total page-turner with companionship, fear, laughter, and a whole bunch of other emotions that will take you on a journey like no other’

‘Officially one of my favourite books of the year!’

‘Some sobs, but lots of laughter and joy’




Dedication (#u0b063e2b-8bea-5050-915e-0bc9160561c6)


This book is warmly dedicated to Susan McHugh, Sean Murphy, Luke and of course my gorgeous Godson, Oscar.

With love and thanks, always.


Table of Contents

Cover (#uaab3682e-a025-5764-8025-421c49a27141)

Title Page (#u342049b0-f898-56bd-a0c3-0bb30a404d17)

Copyright (#ua3ebd84c-52df-5f55-8881-c80e41d14f2c)

Praise for the Novels of Claudia Carroll (#u5810459b-655d-5bcc-920b-021c1d395da7)

Dedication (#uc3deff0a-2073-5842-9428-e5afc9a95d86)

Chapter One (#ubda2cbc4-7624-56b3-bce9-9cb1dafe0b85)



Chapter Two (#ud71f03f6-4a82-506c-aaa2-5c358f349e30)



Chapter Three (#ud8338944-b256-5bb4-9ff3-2d133a0f4fc9)



Chapter Four (#uf249ec62-ed97-52ac-bc54-211d932afc24)



Chapter Five (#u0931c3b2-a685-53cb-99a1-d4b0ad06f357)



Chapter Six (#uc9c34326-0a50-503a-af70-8f6013a3acaa)



Chapter Seven (#u9606b97d-9f53-50ad-a41d-696be453a8f9)



Chapter Eight (#u23c28db2-206a-527d-a66d-c3298ad94fae)



Chapter Nine (#ua121ef03-f1e2-5cbc-97b8-b69519dbecbf)



Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)



Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Dear Reader,

First of all, I wanted to say thank you so much for picking up Meet Me in Manhattan. This book has been an absolute labour of love for me, and I really hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it.

One of the things that my readers ask me all the time is; where do you get all the ideas for your books? From anywhere and everywhere is the answer really, but for Meet Me in Manhattan, that magical road to Damascus moment came when I stumbled on an article about the whole dating/catfish phenomenon. And it got me thinking, the whole plethora of internet dating sites has changed our whole dating culture unrecognisably in the past decade, hasn’t it? We’ve all heard the horror stories about what happens when online dating goes belly-up, and they’d terrify you into staying single, and living with nothing but cats for company, till you’re old enough for nursing homes.

So then I started thinking, suppose my heroine is in an online relationship with a guy who lives on a whole other continent? For instance, the States? Where, because of the logistics of it, they physically can’t meet up as often as they’d like? And then I thought, in that case where better to set this story than Manhattan?

The thing is, I’ve a bit of a life-long love affair going on with Manhattan. I’ve been going there ever since I was a teenager, when my Dad would run in the NYC marathons year after year and we’d all tag along to support him. I swear to God, at this stage, I could nearly teach a night class on the best discount stores and outlet malls in the Tri-State borough. (But then, I’m a gal whose three favourite words in the English language are ‘reduced to clear’.)

And so Meet Me in Manhattan started to take shape. I had a ball working on this and researching it was even better still, and I’m praying that you’ll all enjoy reading it. And if you’d like to get in touch, there’s nothing I’d love more than to hear from you. You’ll find me on Twitter @carrollclaudia (https://twitter.com/carrollclaudia) and on Facebook at ClaudiaCarrollBooks (https://www.facebook.com/Claudiacarrollbooks).

Hope you enjoy and happy reading!




xxxx




Chapter One (#u0b063e2b-8bea-5050-915e-0bc9160561c6)


Exactly 8 p.m. on a Saturday night and here I am. Sitting all alone at a table for two in Fade Street Social, only one of the swishiest restaurants in town, primped and preened to within an inch of my life.

Peppering with nervous tension of course, but we’ll come back to that.

It’s a perfect table too – if I’d planned it, I couldn’t have chosen any better. I’m right in the middle of the restaurant at a gorgeous table facing the door, so that every time it opens, I get a clear view of exactly who’s just arrived. And more importantly, so that when my date gets here, he can’t miss me.

Can he? I think, a tad anxiously.

No, course he can’t.

Now there’s the slight-ish concern that he hasn’t the first clue what I look like in the flesh, or I him. But then we did exchange photos via the Two’s Company website and although mine is a slight bit of a cheat – taken ten years ago at twilight and with the light behind me so as to minimize the wrinkles, and come on, who of us hasn’t done it? Point is though, if his photo is even halfway accurate, then I’m seriously onto a winner here.

Every time the door opens, my neck automatically pings upwards as I look hopefully over, but so far, there’s no sign of him or anyone who remotely resembles him. At least, not yet. But then it’s barely turned eight, I remind myself, and I was here early. We won’t split hairs over a few minutes minor delay.

Deep, calm, soothing breaths. The waiting will all be over soon.

Just about every stitch I’m standing up in tonight is borrowed; I’m shoehorned into my flatmate Joy’s ‘serial result’ LBD; a lacy Pippa Middleton-esque clingy number in Joy’s customary black, sexy in that it’s short-ish, yet still demure enough around the neckline to look like I’m not trying too hard.

Although ‘not trying too hard,’ is a bit of laugh considering a) I’ve spent the whole morning splashing out on a very spendy blow-dry, then b) I subsequently figured, sure, I’m going to all this bother anyway, why not go the whole hog and fork out for a new pair of high heels? (Which I’m wearing now; a pair of black wedges, an absolute steal from River Island.) Casual enough that this is just a regular, normal Saturday night out for me, and yet also giving me that crucial bit of height, because I’ve a vague memory of my date mentioning he was a six-footer, and the last thing I want is to end up looking like a little Munchkin beside him.

Thing is, I did sort of tweak the truth about my height and size a bit on the dating site. But then what’s a few inches when your online relationship has blossomed like ours has? And I don’t use the word blossomed lightly either.

By nature I’m cautious, wary and a bit mistrustful of people until I really get to know them properly. Yet ever since this whole online flirtation started up, he’s the one who’s been making all the running. And believe me, when you’ve been on your own for as long as I have, all of that full-on attentiveness can be powerfully seductive. Even tonight was at his insistence, not mine. He was the one who suggested it in the first place; he made the reservation and told me all I had to do was turn up.

So here I am. Waiting.

And waiting.

‘Something to drink from the bar, Ma’am?’ asks the waiter, a slightly over-solicitous guy who looks barely old enough to drink alcohol himself, never mind serve it.

I’m about to say no, figuring I don’t want to give off a boozy whiff when my date gets here, but then I decide feck it anyway. This is all just way too nerve-wracking to handle without a little glass of wine on hand. Isn’t it? Yeah, course it is. Nice glass of vino would just take the edge off. And get me into a lighter, brighter humour for that magical moment when he strolls through the door and we lock eyes for the very first time.

Which will, of course, be at any second now.

‘Ermm, a glass of house white would be lovely, thanks,’ I smile nervously at the waiter, who nods back at me.

‘Certainly Madam. I’ll be right back. And you’ll be a party of two tonight?’ he adds, throwing a pointed glance towards the empty chair opposite me.

‘Yes. My friend will be here shortly,’ I smile, trying to sound a lot more confident than I actually feel.

Another peek down at my phone. No text message, which isn’t out of the ordinary; after all, this guy just isn’t much of a texter. If he wants to get in touch, he calls, simple as that. I also notice that it’s now ten past eight. But then that’s still OK, I reason. After all, he’s not from Dublin. He’s staying out at the Radisson hotel by the airport, a good forty minutes by taxi from here. So maybe he miscalculated the time it would take for him to get here? Or else he’s having difficulty finding the place?

Rubbish, says the sane inner voice inside me. He’s a grown adult. If he has the wherewithal to arrange all of this, then he can chart his way here from the shagging airport hotel. And remember the only reason he went to the bother of booking that hotel tonight was so he and I could meet up in the first place. So I should just be patient and stop all this useless stressing and fretting. End of.

My wine arrives.

‘Would you care to look at the menu, while you’re waiting, Ma’am?’ baby-faced waiter asks politely. I could be imagining it, but did he just linger a wee bit too long on the ‘while you’re waiting’? Like he’s already made up his mind that I’ve been stood up?

Oh God, I think, instantly dismissing the thought. My nerves have just shot into overdrive and are making me hyper-antsy now, that’s all. Sure enough, one lovely glug of calming pinot grigio later and I feel more confident and in control.

This is going to be an unforgettable night. A magical night. A night that my date and I will hopefully talk about for a long, long to come.

The menu looks fabulous too. I manage to kill another good three minutes by deciding in advance what I’m going to have. Oysters to start with I instantly dismiss as a shite idea. After all, I don’t want him to think I’m only using them as an aphrodisiac and that I’ll just hop into bed with him on our very first date.

Mushroom risotto, I decide firmly. The perfect non-embarrass-yourself by stinking of garlic with spaghetti sauce dribbling out of your mouth, date meal.

If my date ever turns up, that is. I glance down at my phone for about the hundredth time since I first got here: 8.25pm. Which means he’s almost half an hour late by now. But he must be on his way, I reason, because if anything had happened then wouldn’t he just have called me to cancel and rearrange?

After all, this guy’s been calling my mobile day and night for weeks now. At this stage, his is literally the first voice I hear every morning, ringing to see how I am and to wish me luck with my day. Then last thing at night, when he’s still in the middle of his day, what with the time difference and everything, he’ll be sure to call me from an airport in some far-flung part of the globe just to hear my news, chat a bit about his and wish me goodnight.

It’s actually astonishing just how close we’ve grown and how intense things have got between us in a relatively short space of time; something that’s never happened to me before, but is completely wonderful when it does. Course I was ultra-wary at first; time and bitter experience having taught me never to jump two feet first into anything that starts off online. But what can I say? After a few weeks of full-on attentiveness, he eventually won me over. This, I remind myself, is what I’ve deep down been craving after years of dating eejits who did nothing but mess me around. All my life I’ve dreamt of being treated like a complete goddess and now, for once, I actually am. So why am I ruining on myself by fretting about a slight thirty … no … actually a thirty-two minute delay?

Of course he’s turning up!

The restaurant is really filling up fast and furious now, and there’s a queue of people at the bar, waiting on tables. Call me paranoid, but I’m starting to feel that there’s more than a few shifty looks in my direction, seeing as how I’m hogging a whole table for two right in the middle of the room, when so I’m clearly alone.

And waiting. Still waiting.

8.35 p.m.

‘May I get you a bread basket, Ma’am?’ the waiter asks politely, appearing right at my elbow from out of nowhere and making me jump.

‘Yes, thanks, that would be lovely,’ I smile, trying to sound a helluva lot brighter than I actually feel. Thing is, though, nerves have kept me from eating all day and I’m suddenly aware that I’m ravenous. And let’s face it, having a mouth full of half-masticated bread when he walks in is infinitely better than him having to listen to my rumbling stomach, followed by the sight of me eating like a jailbird on death row who’s just been granted her last meal.

I check the phone again. Nothing. And what’s even worse, I can’t call or text him because the thing is – I don’t actually have his number. He’s the one who rings me all the time and whenever he does, the number always comes up on my phone as ‘blocked.’ Ever since this whole thing first started, I’ve been priding myself on the fact that I’ve never had cause to ring him and now I’m bloody well kicking myself for not having the foresight to at least get a contact number for him before tonight.

But then I decide, isn’t it far better to be proactive and just do something about this instead?

So I whip out my phone and email.

User Name: lady_reporter

Member since August 2012

Hi, are you getting this? Just to say that I’m waiting in the restaurant, table right in the middle of the room … you can’t miss me! It’s just coming up to 8.45pm now, and I’m wondering what’s happened to you?

Call if/when you get this and in the meantime, looking forward to seeing you very shortly.

Holly.

Ok so now it’s 8.50 p.m. He’s almost a full hour late, which not only is starting to make me fear the worst, but also making me very, very tetchy. Then a sudden thought: he’s staying out at the Radisson airport hotel, isn’t he?

Approximately two seconds later, I’m googling their number and calling them. He’s jetlagged, is my reasoning. After all, he only just flew in from the States this morning. Of course that’s it! He’s bone tired from work, worn out with the time difference and more than likely crashed out on the bed. So it’s not that he forgot all about me, it’s just that he’s knackered and more than likely in a deep, jetlagged coma right now. Doesn’t that sound probable?

Absolutely.

‘Good evening, the Radisson airport hotel, how may I direct your call?’

‘Ermm, hi there. I’d like to speak to a guest of yours,’ I say, giving his full name.

‘Do you have a room number, Ma’am?’ comes a polite receptionist’s voice down the phone.

‘I’m afraid not. Can you check it out for me?’

‘I’m so sorry, Ma’am. I’m afraid we can’t give out that sort of information about our guests. It’s for privacy protection. I’m sure you understand.’

Shit.

‘OK,’ I say, trying hard to keep the exasperation out of my tone and not succeeding very well. ‘Well, in that case, can I at least leave a message? Can you ask him to call Holly Johnson as soon as he gets this?’

‘Thank you Ma’am, I’ll be sure to pass that on.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, thanks. He’s booked in to stay with you till first thing tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

I thank her – even though she was feck all use to me – and hang up. So now it’s coming up to 9 p.m. and I have to accept that I’m definitely in stood-up territory here. Plus, the queue of Saturday night diners has swollen practically out the door by now.

It’s also hard not to be aware that the pitying looks that were headed in my direction thirty minutes ago have now turned to full-on hostility; the fact that I’m now hogging a prime table with nothing but a bread basket, a glass of wine and an empty chair in front of me is doing me absolutely no favours.

And then, thank you God! My phone rings.

Him, it’s him, it has to be!

But it’s not.

It’s my flatmate Joy, checking in on me and making sure that wonder man didn’t turn out to be some midget with two ex-wives in Utah and halitosis.

‘You OK, love?’ she asks me worriedly. ‘Can you talk?’

I fill her in, making sure to cover my mouth and hiss into the phone so no one at the table either side of me can overhear.

‘Jesus, you mean he’s still not there yet?’ she splutters. ‘Almost a full hour late? Now you just listen to me, Holly. You’ve got to get the hell out of there. Right now. Hold your head high, don’t even think of making an excuse to the waiter, just ask for the bill and leave.’

‘But supposing …’

‘Suppose, my arse. I’m already here at the flat so just hurry home. Now do as I say, hang up the phone and go!’

So here’s what I remember happening next.

My face flushing hot with mortification as I paid for the wine, gathered up my bag and finally did the walk of shame all the way to the door. Another couple just glaring, then stomping icily past me to get to my table. Then battling my way through the throng gathered at the restaurant’s main entrance followed by the blessed relief of finally getting outside. The icy early December chill hitting me full in the face, as late-night Christmas shoppers trudged wearily past, all laden down with shopping bags. Smokers outside the restaurant all having a good gawp, practically with thought balloons coming out of their heads saying, ‘See her? That’s your woman whose date didn’t show. On a Saturday night.’

I remember a girl about my own age having a cigarette outside giving me a comforting pat on my shoulder as I passed her by. And oddly, that tiny gesture of solidarity went straight to my heart more than any words possibly could.

Then probably for the first time that whole shitty evening, the universe sent me a break. A taxi pulled up on the kerb and two minutes later I was zooming away, head pounding, heart walloping.

Completely and utterly crushed.

*

‘Bastard!’ Joy says, opening our hall door to me when I eventually do get home, giving me a warm, tight hug, bless her. Just a few quick things to know about Joy; she’s a glorious creature, six feet tall and stick-thin, in spite of the fact she eats about three times the amount I do. She’s got sharp bobbed jet-black hair and won’t go out the front door without wearing the thickest black eyeliner you’ve ever seen; works in a call centre for Apple and dresses from head to toe in black. She even wears black opaque tights during heat waves, which I find particularly worthy of note.

‘Bloody unforgiveable thing to do,’ she snaps, banging the hall door behind me so firmly that it rattles. ‘Now come on in, sit down and tell me everything.’

Five minutes later, I’m plonked in front of a roaring fire, kicking off my too-tight shoes while Joy attempts to get me to knock back a good, stiff glass of Sauvignon Blanc; the only acceptable cure according to her for any disappointment in life; heartbreak, loss, you name it. And believe me, over the past few years, the four walls of our tiny flat have pretty much seen it all. I just sit there numbly, cradling the stem of the wine glass and desperately trying to formulate my thoughts.

‘There could be a perfectly plausible excuse, you know,’ I say dully, rubbing my temples and trying to convince myself more than anything else.

‘Like what exactly?’ she says, raising an elegant jet-black eyebrow suspiciously.

‘Well, loads of things. I mean for starters, there might have been a flight delay. Or bad weather. Or awful turbulence that forced them to turn back to the States. For God’s sake, in his line of work, that kind of thing is an occupational hazard. There could even have been a terrorist attack on his flight, for all we know!’

‘If there were either storms, flight delays or terrorists hijacking a transatlantic flight then you can bet it would be plastered all over Sky News by now. And it most definitely isn’t. I checked the minute after I called you.’

I slump back against the sofa and take a big gulp of wine. But the old charm of drowning your sorrows just doesn’t seem to work this time. I know it and so does Joy.

‘You know what the worst part of this is?’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘That he’s made me feel like such a moron. After everything I’ve been through too; for God’s sake, I prided myself on being able to spot a messer online a mile off. That’s the killer here; I honestly thought this guy was genuine, that he was the real deal. But now he has me completely doubting my own judgment.’

‘He could have called you,’ Joy says a bit more gently. ‘No matter what happened, he could have picked up a bloody phone and got in touch. But did he even bother his arse? No. So I’m so sorry to burst your balloon, but this really is the end and you know right well my reasons for saying so. We’ve been over this enough times already; you don’t need to be told where I stand.’

‘I know,’ I say as hot, bitter tears start to sting my eyes, ‘but the thing is … I really did grow to trust him, Joy. And you of all people know how long it takes me to trust anyone.’

‘I know, love,’ she nods, giving my hand a sympathetic squeeze. ‘But the fact is you’ve already wasted enough time and headspace, not to mention one precious Saturday night, on this eejit. Enough is enough. Time to cut your losses and move on. You’re a smart girl, Holly, you know you’ve no choice here.’

I nod mutely, knowing damn well she’s telling the truth. For God’s sake, this guy has only been calling me for the past few weeks, hasn’t he? Day and night, non-stop. There were at least five phone calls alone just to confirm this evening and to double-check he’d booked the right restaurant online.

Whether I like it or not, the sad fact is that no matter what happened to him this evening, one thing is for sure: wherever you are, I think numbly, and whatever happened to you, you’ve got a helluva long way to crawl back from this one.




Chapter Two (#ulink_e712c6fe-75bf-5aa9-864c-e791836fd505)


Andy McCoy, that’s his name.Captain Andy McCoy if you don’t mind, a senior airline pilot with Delta, as it happens. Later on that night I fall into a troubled, broken sleep and at one point even have a nightmare that I’m a passenger on a flight he’s piloting that’s just about to crash. And of course, the last thing I hear is Andy’s panicky voice – that gorgeous, deep, resonant voice that I’ve come to know so well over the past few weeks – coming over the aircraft tannoy saying: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to attempt an emergency landing; please assume crash positions. Oh and if you’re the praying type, then right about now would sure be a heck of a good time to start.’

I wake just after 5 a.m. with a sharp jolt, then realize it was only an anxiety dream and that I’m actually safely tucked up in bed with the electric blanket turned up full. But after the usual thirty-second time lag before my conscious mind kicks into gear, reality sets in. And as regards last night in Fade Street Social, yup, that particular nightmare was fairly real alright.

Shock and crushing disappointment kept me numb for most of last night, but in the cold light of day the God-awful, humiliating reality slowly starts to set in.

Then the one thought there’s just no running away from, no matter how hard I try. I thought this could actually go somewhere. I thought this one had legs. I really, genuinely felt that for once I might just be able to have the first happy Christmas I’ve had since – well, since. Clearly not to be, though, and the disappointment is crushing.

Groggily coming to, I’m suddenly aware that my head is pounding. So stumbling like an aul one on a zimmer frame, I kick the duvet off and am just making for the bathroom when suddenly something lying innocently on my bedside table catches my eye.

My phone. I flung it there before I collapsed into bed last night; just switched it off and tossed it aside, figuring that if Andy thought all it would take was one of his late-night phone calls to set things to rights between us, then he could go and take a running jump with himself. But now I pick it up, twiddle around with it for a bit and am just about to shove it into a drawer and ignore it completely, when a sharp curiosity gets the better of me.

So I switch the phone back on.

Dear Jesus, seven missed calls. Every single one of them from him.

This better be good, this better be good, this better be good, I think, frantically clicking on voicemail.

‘Received at one-oh-three a.m.… ’ says that annoying automated women’s voice in a dull monotone.

‘Holly? Holly, are you there? It’s me, it’s Andy. I gotta explain what just happened. Don’t get a fright, but we just had a mid-air …’

I swear, just the very sound of his voice instantly raises my pulse rate. But the message is abruptly cut short just as I’m thinking a mid-air? A mid-air what exactly? But nothing more. So I stab impatiently at the phone’s voicemail button again.

‘Received at one-oh-four a.m.,’ drones the same automation’s voice down the phone again.

‘Holly,’ he goes on, sounding tensed and panicked now. ‘I hope you can hear me? I’m calling you from Newfoundland … I’m right here at St John’s Airport; don’t worry though, I’m OK and everything is absolutely fine … we just touched down here after an emergency landing.… ’

An emergency landing?

Shit! His phone cuts out again, so fingers trembling, I click straight onto the next voicemail.

‘Received at one-oh-five a.m.… ’ says the automatic voice and I find myself snarling, ‘oh will you shut up!’ back down the phone at her.

‘… Holly, are you even getting these messages? Look, I know it’s past one in the morning your time, but I had to get in touch as soon as we touched down to explain what happened. Because I can’t begin to apologize for leaving you high and dry like that. That’s just not who I am. I hope you know only something like a real, genuine emergency would keep me from being there to meet you last night …’

Bloody machine cuts him off again. So walloping sweaty fingers off the keys, I hit on the next voice message, hissing aloud, ‘What emergency? What the feck happened?’

‘Holly, me again,’ he says, over a whole load of background noise. Sirens? Ambulances?

‘I sure can’t begin to apologize for not getting to meet you tonight,’ he says, raising his voice to be heard over all the background fracas. ‘But here’s the thing. We were just about two hours out of Atlanta when we had a mid-air incident with a passenger who …’

Bloody well cut off again. A passenger who what? Caused a fight? An air-rage incident because they were pissed out of their head on duty-free? What?

I’m just about to turn on the telly, in case the story’s made it onto Sky News or BBC 24, but next thing there’s a ping down my phone and I realize there’s an email that’s been waiting for me all this time. And sure enough, it’s him again.

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Holly. It’s me. I’ve been calling and calling you, but your phone just keeps clicking straight onto voicemail.

I totally get it if you never want to see or hear from me again after my letting you down so badly last night. But I also hope you know there’s just no way in hell I’d ever do a thing like that without real good cause. And boy, did I have good cause last night.

Trouble started when we were just under two hours out of Atlanta, headed northeast over the Atlantic. Next thing, my senior flight steward came into the cockpit to say a passenger had suddenly been taken ill. Course I immediately asked if there was a doctor on board and not one, but two, came forward to examine this passenger.

So my co-pilot took over while I discussed what was happening with the medics. Both quickly agreed that the passenger, a middle-aged guy who was travelling alone, had most likely suffered a cardiac arrest and needed to be rushed to hospital ASAP.

Now we got all sorts of procedures in place for when incidents like this happen, so I got on the radio immediately and requested an emergency landing at the nearest international airport. Which given that we were headed east over the Atlantic, happened to be right here at St John’s, Newfoundland. Anyway, we touched down within thirty minutes of my putting out the emergency call and they had ambulances already waiting right on the tarmac to rush our patient to hospital just as fast as they could.

It was dramatic; it sure as hell was traumatic and it genuinely killed me not to be able to make our date last night, but I hope this goes some small way towards explaining the downside of a life in the sky.

I’ll try calling you at a more respectable time and if you don’t want to speak with me, then I’ll totally get it.

I’m being re-routed back home now. Like I always say, gotta fly.

Andy.

I go online and do a quick google of the international news in this morning’s online papers. I scroll down through countless pages and links and, lo and behold, there it is.

Buried up at the top of page seven in the Chronicle; a tiny breaking news feature about a Delta flight that had to be re-routed back to Newfoundland when a passenger unexpectedly took ill. Not only that, but it’s on both the Sky News app and the BBC app too.

Which means he was telling the truth then, the whole truth and nothing but.

So I climb back into bed, mind racing. And deep down, I think, almost a bit relieved. After all, as excuses go, this one’s a doozy.

Not long after I fall into a fitful, troubled sleep and keep flashing back to when this all first began.




Chapter Three (#ulink_2c4f46d5-f318-5eb4-beb5-d9bd1ff0ceb6)


Exactly three weeks ago.

Welcome to the Two’s Company Dating Website!

User Name: lady_reporter

Never easy to describe yourself, but here goes. Tall, slim, blue-eyed brunette. Loves eating out and staying in and mountaineering and sky diving and I know everyone says they’ve got the best job in the world on these sites, but I really, genuinely think I have.

I’m also a major foodie who adores cooking for friends/ baking/ all of the above. And with apologies in advance if I come over as a boasty boaster, but my friends do reckon my chocolate cherry cupcakes, something of a house specialty round here, are worthy of the Great British Bake Off.

So, anyone out there? Anyone at all?

I posted it out there and as you do, resolved not to check back in again for at least a good hour or so. But it was a quiet night with shag all to speak of on telly, so after exactly seventeen minutes I cracked. And there it was, just waiting for me.

8.07 p.m.

*New Message*

Hi, Lady Reporter, you have 1 new response!

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Hey there Lady Reporter,

Like your profile. Mountaineering? Skydiving? Wow. And you’re a foodie too? Snap. Message me back soon – if you’re not half way up Mount Kilimanjaro or about to do a parachute jump at two thousand feet, that is.

Now as we all know in man-language, ‘message me back soon,’ can mean anything from two hours to two weeks. However, all my time served at the online dating coalface had taught me that there’s almost an Alice in Wonderland/upside-down environment at play here, where the dating rules that apply in real-life are totally inverted. On sites like this one, the longer you play games and wait to respond to a guy who shows initial interest, the higher the likelihood he’ll have moved onto someone else by then.

So I struck while the iron was hot.

User Name: lady_reporter

A member since: August 2011.

Lovely to hear from you, but may I point out that’s only one personal fact about you whereas I told you loads?

Come on, fair is fair!

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Hi again, and please excuse me, I’m kinda new to this whole online dating thing. Ok, so a few more nuggets about me.

Fact two is that I’m loving the fact that you’re tall. I’m on the six foot side myself as it happens and way back in my college dating days, I inevitably found myself going for ladies who I at least could share eye contact with.

And another bit of personal info? Gotta say, I find this whole online dating thing pretty tough to get a handle on. Guess I’m old-fashioned, but if you ask me, personal contact trumps online messaging any day.

So what do you think, Lady Reporter?

Personal contact? I thought, re-reading it. Was this guy really hinting that we swap phone numbers at this early stage? Wow, unheard of! I decided to play it cautious though and left a dignified pause, the exact length of the first half of an episode of Modern Family, before replying.

User Name: lady_reporter

Sorry, but this is just a quick message, as I can’t really chat right now. Long story, but I’m at a critical stage with my pear and almond tart. Thing is, baking is almost like a fundamental switch-off mechanism for me. In fact I don’t sleep right without knowing my chocolate biscuit cake is in the fridge and setting right.

Anyway, we’ve swapped a few basic facts, which I reckon now means we get to ask each other slightly more personal questions.



1. So whereabouts are you based exactly?

2. And you never mentioned if you’re married/separated/divorced? Not to be overly nosey or anything, but I’m a great believer that directness – and of course total honesty online – really is the best way.


Pinger on the oven’s calling me, gotta dash.

Bye for now,

Lady_reporter.

Right. If nothing else, that was bound to fish him out, I reckoned. If this guy was married – and you’d be astonished how many of them there are out there openly masquerading as single – chances are he just wouldn’t respond and would skulk quietly off to go and hassle someone else. After all, you’ve got to protect yourself on these sites. Can’t be too careful, etc.

I finished watching Modern Family and was just about to go over to Netflix, when curiosity got the better of me. And whaddya know, to my astonishment he’d already replied.

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Excuse my lousy manners, Ma’am.

Ok, here goes. First up, I’m originally from Charleston, South Carolina, but right now, I’m based here in Atlanta, Georgia for work. You ever been to the Southern states? Best and most beautiful part of the US by a mile. And, just so you know, ladies like yourself who are into home cooking are generally held to be a deeply treasured species down here.

Second thing is that I’ve actually been married before. Amy and I had a wonderful, joyous ten years together, and I cherish that time as just about the happiest in my whole life. We got a son who lives here with me and his Grandma, and that little kid is the light of my life. Name of Logan. He’s six years old, cute as a button and smart as a whip. Yelling at me right now for spending too much time on my computer when he wants me to play Minecraft on his Xbox with him, so I guess that’s my cue to say over and out.

For now, at least.

You want to exchange photos and emails? Or maybe even real names? Seems kinda funny to keep referring to you as ‘Lady Reporter’.

Message me back real soon. Xxx

Photos and emails? Already? I blinked a bit in disbelief on account of how normally it can take days or even longer to get to this stage online. Ok, so this was clearly a ‘jump in two feet first’ kind of guy. So this time I left it a good hour before messaging him back, thinking safety first. Because you just never know online, do you?

User Name: lady_reporter

Me again.

So … you’re divorced? Separated? With shared custody of Logan?

With apologies if I come across as being a bit nosey. It’s just you really can’t be too careful these days, can you?

p.s. and just so you know, the entire screen of my iPad is now covered in flour, baking soda and apricot jam. And it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.

p.p.s. Logan sounds so adorable.

I hit the send key and waited. Six minutes this time, that’s exactly how long it took for him to get back to me.

A Very Good Sign.

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Please excuse me. Guess being single for so long kind of makes me forget my manners. Fact is, I’m a widower. My beautiful wife Amy passed away when Logan was just eighteen months old. Most painful thing of all is that even though I try my best to keep her memory alive for him, truth is he barely remembers her. But right now, he keeps on badgering me for a new Mom and ‘younger brothers and sisters, that he can boss around’.

Gotta tell you, the whole dating landscape has changed a lot since before I got married. This is my very first foray into the whole online dating thing so please bear with me if I come on a bit too strong. Just not used to the whole scene, that’s all. Be patient with me, Lady Reporter.

By the way, you still haven’t told me what you do for a living? You said you love your job, but you never told me what exactly that is? Though I’m guessing the clue is probably in your username.

OK. So it was at this point I started to sit up and really pay attention. He was a widower, which proved he wasn’t commitment-phobic or afraid of marriage, plus he had a kid, which clearly said ‘family man.’ Exactly the type statistically proven that goes on to remarry and live happily ever after. We once did a story on it at the radio station where I work and now I was thinking … could it be possible? On a lonely, ordinary, nothing-special Friday night, had I accidentally stumbled on the Holy Grail of online dating?

This time, I was back to him after just half an hour spent watching House of Cards.

User Name: lady_reporter

Oops! Sorry, serves me right for emailing and getting distracted by my salted caramel sauce at the same time.

To answer your question, I’m an investigative journalist on a current affairs show here in Dublin. It’s a very full schedule and it’s demanding, but even on the bad days, when it’s 5 a.m. and I’m shivering in sub-zero temperatures outside Mountjoy Prison covering some convicted drug baron’s release, I still wouldn’t swap it for anything.

Got to dash, need my two hands to use the Magimix.

I winced a bit at the sheer bare-facedness of the lie, because basically all the above is just a teeny bit of an exaggeration. An investigative reporter on a current affairs show? I only bleeding wish. In actual fact I’m a lowly researcher and while my dream is one day to work on TV news, the sad reality is that the only gig I can get these days is on an afternoon phone-in show; one of those caller-dependent programmes, where listeners ring in to give out about their social welfare being cut or else the price of the bin charges. And my job is to trawl through the papers and the internet in the hope that some good, juicy, contentious news item will jump out at me, which our presenter then invites callers to ring in on and pitch their two cents worth about.

But then I glanced back at my last post and thought shag it anyway. Besides, it wasn’t an out-and-out porker, just a tweaking and a slight embellishment of the truth, that was all. Huge difference. And everyone cheats the small stuff a wee bit online, don’t they? It’s a truth universally acknowledged that if a guy says he’s ‘chubby’ it means ‘morbidly obese.’ Similarly ‘fond of fun times’ means, ‘swinger.’ Oh, and ‘enjoys a few drinks’ means ‘would gladly suck the alcohol out of a deodorant bottle’.

Online it’s acceptable, I told myself. Everyone does it and the way I look on it, this is just how you level out the playing field. And I’m sure this guy is no different. So maybe he’s a little older than I’m assuming, or maybe he’s not six feet tall, like he claims. But when it comes down to it, these are all relatively minor concerns aren’t they?

Yet again, he was back to me almost instantly.

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Wow. Sure didn’t realize I was messaging a bona fide celebrity! What a fascinating job; sure as hell is more interesting than mine, I can tell you.

P.s. I’m guessing you got a real pretty first name.

And I’d sure love to know what it is.

User Name: lady_reporter

Holly. It’s Holly.

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

A real pleasure to meet you Holly from Ireland, even if it is only virtually. I’m Andy McCoy, at your service.

Really gotta go; Logan’s throwing a football into my face right now. Oh and I forgot to mention I’m a commercial pilot for the good people over at Delta Airlines. I fly the transatlantic route mostly and travel over and back to Ireland regularly. Shannon mostly, but Dublin too. Friendliest people in the world and boy, are the girls pretty.

Over and out ma’am, for the moment at least.

At your service,

(Captain) Andy McCoy.




Chapter Four (#ulink_6181ea1f-9776-522b-a4be-018c8d5b9c34)


‘Holly Johnson! You are one barefaced liar and you should be utterly ashamed of yourself!’

I was sitting at our tiny kitchen table for this ear-bashing from my flatmate Joy. It was not long after I first ‘met’ Andy online, and I was topping up our glasses with a bottle of Pinot Grigio that I’d bought us as a Friday night treat to have along with a bowl of pasta. And frankly I was starting to regret that I’d ever bothered confiding in Joy, who was sitting right opposite me, eyebrows knitted down crossly.

‘But doesn’t he sound just so lovely? Captain Andy McCoy,’ I distinctly remember trying to convince her. ‘And get of load of the profile picture he sent me … look! He’s got eyes exactly like Matthew McConaughey’.

‘You told him you could bake! Out and out pork pies, Holly. You even had the cheek to embellish it, by blathering on about getting flour and apricot jam all over your iPad, for feck’s sake.’

‘I know, but …’

‘… Listen to this for a big load of my arse! “Baking is my fundamental switch-off mechanism.” When we both know the only ‘baking’ you did last night was to shove your lean cuisine dinner for one into the microwave.’

‘Yeah, OK, so you and I may know that, but he doesn’t …’

‘… You never even go near the oven in this kitchen, unless you want to check the time on the clock. And as for that load of horse dung about “my chocolate cherry cupcakes are worthy of the Great British Bake Off?” That sounds like such a cheesy come on, if I ever heard one! Who do you think you are anyway, Nigella?’

‘… But the thing is, everyone knows it’s been statistically proven that guys are more attracted to women who can bake. I’ve been online dating for a scarily long time now and I know that much at least is true – so why not?’

‘… In fact, just for the laugh, I’d love you to show me where we keep our springform baking tin. And if you can tell me the difference between that and a Kugelhopf tin, then I’ll gladly hand you a tenner right now. Mother of God, you’ve even lied about your height! “Tall and slender?” Holly, you’re five foot three! You think you’re not going to get caught out in that one pretty quick? Suppose you ever meet up with this guy? What are you going to do, sprout an extra nine inches in the meantime?’

Thing was, I’d made the cardinal error of physically showing Joy all the backwards and forward messaging that went on between myself and Andy McCoy ever since that very first night and now she was reading it off my iPad and guffawing.

‘Oh and so now you’re a skydiver as well?’ she said dryly. ‘You, that has to take a Xanax and knock back a gin and tonic before you’ll even get on a Ryanair flight? And you also go mountaineering? Can this be the same Holly Johnson who gets vertigo even sitting on the top deck of a bus?’

‘And what’s so wrong about coming across as being an active type?’ I asked her in a small voice, flushing to my roots and wishing to God there was some other way to get off this deeply mortifying subject.

‘Nothing wrong with it, if it’s the truth,’ she said crisply, tossing geometrically sharp, jet-black bobbed hair over her shoulder. ‘But let’s face it, your idea of being active is to join a gym, pay a year’s subscription, then drop out after the first month.’

I was silenced here, mainly because this would be a fairly accurate assessment, but Joy still wasn’t done.

‘Come on, love,’ she said, waving her fork around with a lump of penne pasta wobbling dangerously on the edge of it, for added emphasis. ‘You’ve got to wise up a bit here. After all, you’re lying through your teeth here so how can you be certain that this Andy guy, whoever he is, isn’t doing exactly the same thing right back at you? And supposing he is? What’s your master plan then?’

‘Excuse me, for a start I’m always super-careful online,’ I told her stoutly, ‘and over time you just learn to develop an instinct for these things. OK, so maybe Andy is tweaking the odd minor detail about himself; so what? Everyone sexes their lives up a bit online, we’re all guilty of it. But it’s the big stuff that counts, and if Andy were lying through his teeth to me on that score, I’d know; I’d just feel it in the pit of my stomach.’

‘Oh you would, would you?’

‘Absolutely,’ I told her firmly. ‘And another thing; can I point out that he’s actually a widower with a little boy? So therefore, he’s been married before and isn’t afraid of commitment.’

‘Ha! Don’t make me laugh. There isn’t a man on this planet who isn’t afraid of commitment. And you can take that one to the bank.’

‘He’s a family man and that’s good enough for me,’ I told her, a bit primly. ‘After all, everyone knows that men who’ve committed before are by a mile the most likely to commit again. Plus, may I remind you he’s actually Captain Andy McCoy? Senior airline pilot with Delta, if you don’t mind. Now come on, even you have to admit; the job description alone is a serious turn-on.’

Then I drifted off a bit, just imagining what Andy looked like in that sexy uniform pilots wear, with the cap and the epaulets and the calm, authoritative voice saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking’. And of course, immediately blurring the image with that famous production still of Leonardo DiCaprio in Catch Me If You Can, all gussied up as a Pan Am pilot.

Thing is, by then things had got pretty intense between Andy and me. There was a genuine connection between us that was actually starting to feel pretty special. And it wasn’t just superficial crap about liking the same movies and TV shows and music; it was so much deeper. It was almost like he and I just seemed to think exactly the same way about things.

Day and night at that stage, he was sending me the most gorgeous, heart-warming messages and what else could I say? Having spent so long on my own, he’d started to win me over scarily fast. This was intoxicating stuff. Addictive. Impossible to let go of.

‘Yeah but just remember, you’ve only got his word for everything he’s telling you,’ Joy cautioned, tearing off a big lump of ciabatta bread and soaking up the dregs of arrabbiata sauce from round the edge of her pasta bowl.

‘And in the meantime, here’s you sitting in front of a screen painting a ridiculous fantasy portrait of yourself to a complete and utter stranger, who could have served time in Guantanamo Bay for all you know.’

‘He’s not in Guantanamo Bay …’

‘He could be on death row …’

‘He’s not on death row.’

‘Or he could be a woman. Jesus, he could turn out to be a woman on death row.’

‘He’s a pilot, not a jailbird!’

‘Only according to himself,’ she said just a bit too triumphantly for my liking.

‘Look,’ I tell her placatingly, ‘I’ve met my fair share of idiots online and trust me, by now I’ve learned to filter out all the liars and chancers from the genuine article. Plus the big advantage of online dating is that at least this way I get to meet fellas from the comfort of home, with no make-up on and three-day-old manky hair, if I feel like it. Which you have to admit is a fairly major bonus.’

But then Joy and I had been over this ground many, many times before and she knew exactly where I stood on this particular issue. Problem is, as I’d spelled out to her time and again, work was so all encompassing and time-consuming that at the end of another long day, I was too exhausted, not to mention stoney broke, to shoehorn myself into an LBD, lash on the Mac Bronzer and start trawling the town on the lookout for someone available, thinking maybemaybemaybe.

I had the energy for all that in my twenties thanks very much, but I’m at the grand old age of thirty-one now and whether Joy liked it or not, the fact remains that internet dating sites are to our generation what a Saturday night dance hall was to our grannies, circa 1960.

‘All I’m saying,’ I said firmly, ‘is that I’ve spent so long on these sites, I could practically teach a course in what to look out for, and equally what to run a mile from.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You absolutely certain about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Like you did with that git Steve last summer?’

Shit. I’m temporarily silenced here, and what’s more, Joy knows it. Steve, you see, was a guy I met online who described himself as a ‘special needs teacher, hugely committed to his work’. A major turn-on, I figured, and all was progressing very nicely thanks until he told me he was ‘available to meet weekdays only, between nine and five’.

And the reason? Because of his loyal and long-suffering wife back home who, he explained, he had to get back to, ‘so he could help out with the kids’. I’ll spare you the rest.

Seems Joy’s not done with me though.

‘And let’s not forget that theatre director bloke, what’s-his-face …’

‘Elliot,’ I say crisply, finishing the sentence for her. Quicker by far, I reckon, to let her just get the bloody lecture over and done with.

‘Elliot, that’s the one. Who blatantly told you who he was single, whereas—’

I sigh here, knowing right well what’s coming next.

‘—He was simultaneously dating five other women at the same time,’ she says. ‘I distinctly remember you saying he made you feel like …’

‘Like I was almost auditioning for the part of his girlfriend,’ I finish the sentence for her. It’s the sad truth too. In fact, when I finally confronted him, the eejit actually said to me, ‘But you should be flattered! Just think of it like this: I’m looking for a partner, and you’ve made it to the callback stage’.

Sweet suffering Jaysus, I only wish that were an exaggeration. But then that’s the one thing about having had a rough past romance-wise, I figure. It teaches you for the future. And with every mistake, you learn. You may well be humiliated, your heart might have been trampled on, but believe me, you learn.

‘So have you taken absolutely nothing from all this?’ said Joy, interrupting my thoughts.

‘OK, so you’ve made your point,’ I told her hotly, ‘but you’re wasting your time being so cynical right now, because this guy really does sound like the genuine article.’

I couldn’t quite catch her response, as it was mumbled between mouthfuls of ciabatta, but it sounded a lot like, ‘worse gobshite, you.’

‘And have you forgotten that this “Andy” lives in the States?’ she added, changing tack with her mouth still stuffed. ‘So what are you going to do? Hop on a plane and fly transatlantic every time you’re going out on a date with him? Oh yeah, ’cos I can really see that one working out, alright.’

‘So the fact that we live on different continents is certainly an obstacle, I’ll grant you that much. But then you read his messages; he commutes back and forth to Ireland all the time! Besides, I’ve spent my whole life dating guys who lived within a one hundred mile radius of here and where has it got me? Alone on a Friday night and with no plans for the weekend, that’s where.’

‘Well call me old-fashioned, but I think telling downright porkers to someone you’ve just met isn’t exactly getting off on the right foot, now is it?’ she muttered darkly into her glass of wine.

‘I mean, look at the whoppers you’ve fed the poor eejit about yourself for a start. All that shite about being an investigative reporter on telly who loves her job …’

‘I do love my job …’ I trail off, a bit weakly. Or rather, to be perfectly truthful, I used to.

‘You work as a freelance researcher on an afternoon radio show. And of course, it goes without saying that you’re bloody good at what you do and you work round the clock for them. But come on, half the time, that crowd at News FM don’t even pay you.’

I couldn’t even answer her back, mainly because it’s actually true. The radio show where I work, or more correctly that I used to work on full-time as a researcher, had kept me ticking over nicely and all was well until last summer when, because of drastic cutbacks at News FM, my hours got radically slashed back to just a handful a week. So just to make bloody sure I still cling tight to those, I’ve essentially been doing exactly what I always did; turning up at work same as ever and energetically pitching stories to my producer, except for approximately half of the salary I used to be on.

Now I’ve actively looked around for other full-time, better-paid research gigs – my ultimate dream is to work as a researcher on hard news stories, which is actually what I’m trained to do – current affairs is my passion; day and night, I’m on the Irish Times website, devouring the news. But sadly this just isn’t a good economic climate to be a freelance researcher in.

I didn’t mention this bit to Joy, though, but being online most of the day at least gave me a great opportunity to catch up on all my dating websites. Every cloud, and all that.

‘Just listen to me for a minute, love,’ said Joy, shoving her plate away, leaning back on the kitchen chair and rubbing her tummy like she just ate two Christmas dinners back-to-back. ‘Because I seriously think you need to wise up a bit. Stop jumping in feet first with guys you meet online and who you know absolutely nothing about.’

‘Ah come on Joy, you have to understand I’m just enjoying all the messaging and flirting with Andy so much! I think I really like him and come on, when is the last time you heard me say that about any guy? And December is around the corner. You of all people know just how tough that month always is for me, even though it’s been all of two years now. Is it so wrong that I don’t exactly relish the thoughts of facing into it all alone, same as I seem to do every other year?’

And for the first time all evening there’s silence.

But then I’d just played my trump card. The Christmas card. I know it and so does Joy. Long story and trust me, you don’t really want to know.

‘Oh hon, you’re not alone and you never will be,’ she eventually says, softening now. ‘Of course I know how rough December is for you. All I’m saying is … well, just look at you. You’re a gorgeous girl and a wonderful person and a fabulous friend. So why do you feel the need to embellish that and tell all these out-and-out lies about yourself? And all for what, to impress some stranger? Why can’t you just be yourself online? Trust me, any fella would be delighted to be with the real you, not this online façade called Holly Johnson.’

Anxious for a subject change, I leaned back against my chair, then segued off into an only-slightly-too-exaggerated yawn.

‘You know what, hon?’ I told her, sounding just a tad too high-pitched. ‘It’s been a long day at the end of a very long week. OK if we leave the washing up till tomorrow? I think I fancy an early night.’

‘You’re going to bed?’

‘Emm … yeah.’

‘What? Now? Before Graham Norton? You never miss Graham Norton on a Friday night.’

‘Ermm, well … is that a problem?’

‘Not if you’re telling me the truth, it’s not,’ she said, black kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed down to two suspicious slits.

‘Course I am!’ I insisted, hopping to my feet and even throwing in a few eye rubs for good measure.

‘And you’re categorically not going into your room to log on to your iPad right now? So you can check whether or not Captain Fantastic has got back to you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

Ahem. But approximately two minutes later, I was back online. And checking. And boy was it worth the wait.

Dear God, I distinctly remember thinking. Was it actually possible to feel like you’d finally met someone with serious potential after such a relatively short space of time? For all of half a second, I debated rushing back out to our living room to waft his latest emails right under Joy’s cynical nose, then realized it mightn’t go down particularly well. And instead, I got straight back to messaging Andy McCoy (Captain).




Chapter Five (#ulink_535f9ecc-b37b-51f1-b3df-98a578149010)


Just a few days after that, I was back in work at the first 8 a.m. pitching session of the week; a fun, intense two hours which basically involves the entire Afternoon Delight team sitting around News FM’s bright, airy boardroom, lobbing ideas back and forth at each other and hoping against hope that your story would somehow be the one that would turn into a grenade and catch fire.

It’s always one giant buzzing adrenaline rush and is by far my favourite part of the whole week. But then, as I’d learned from all my long years working there, there’s a sort of alchemy to a daytime phone-in show like ours. Often we’ll brainstorm an idea to death and leave the meeting convinced this would be a major talking point for the show, something that would really get the whole nation fired up, only for it to flop right on its ear and just fizzle away to nothing. Generally any topic that came under the banner headlines Anglo Irish shares, bank CEO’s inflated pensions, the Tea Party, or absolutely anything involving Angela Merkel.

And yet other times, one of us will chance on an improbably daft story buried deep in a tiny corner of page seventeen in the Chronicle; usually something gross, like how drinking your own wee can add on years to your life. So we often toss it into the show more as a gag item than anything else, and you can be bloody sure that’s the story that would have the phone lines hopping for the afternoon and eventually end up trending on Twitter. And if you ever manage to score a Twitter trend, it’s considered major brownie points for you round here, where your impact level on social media is seen as something of a barometer of success.

Anyway, that particular morning, there were seven of us all sitting round the giant oval table of News FM’s boardroom, surrounded by a picnic of Starbucks cups, muffins and half-eaten cheese bagels. A stunningly impressive boardroom by the way, with a panoramic view right over Grand Canal Quay, where a weak, wintry sun was making the water sparkle and dance in the early morning light.

‘So, anyone want to start the ball rolling?’ said Aggie, executive producer of the show and my direct boss, kicking off her high heels like she always does before settling down to business. She’s fabulous, Aggie; takes no nonsense and doesn’t sugarcoat things. One of those straight talking, ‘lean in’ women of the Sheryl Sandberg school, utterly unafraid to make tough calls and not in the least bothered about what other people think of her. For God’s sake, this is a woman who’s let her hair go completely white/grey. Voluntarily. Yet every one of us sitting round that table would think of her less as a boss and more of a friend, if that makes any sense. A boss-friend, if you will.

‘Oh you know what? I read a really juicy one over the weekend,’ Dermot piped up from right beside me. Dermot’s my best buddy round here; he’s about my own age, and like me was recently cut back from being a full-time researcher to just part-time. So he and I are in exactly the same boat and both of us continue to gamely pitch up to work on days we’re effectively not getting paid for. Except in Dermot’s case he really drives the point home by turning up on his freebie days in arse-clinging lycra and tight spandex gym tops. Subliminal message; ‘Just so you all know, I had to drag myself away from a treadmill for this.’

‘Go on,’ said Aggie, tapping a biro off the notepad in front of her.

‘Ok, so it’s about a new epidemic of false widow spiders that’s sweeping parts of the country,’ said Dermot, swinging back in his chair, arms folded, almost with a thought balloon coming out of his head saying, ‘Bloody well pay me for being here and I’ll fill you in some more.’

‘False widow spiders?’ said Aggie, to a few disgusted ‘eughhhs!’ from around the table.

‘Yeah, well apparently there was a women in Cork who had to be hospitalized because she was bitten by one,’ Dermot went on, undeterred. ‘So her doctors told her this was one of several cases that had presented over the last few days … and you know, the false widow uses humans as a host to hatch their eggs in, so it’s all pretty Alien when you think about it, really …’

‘Nah, forget it,’ said Aggie, cutting him off mid-sentence. ‘Sorry, but several cases does not an epidemic make.’

Another chorus of voices all clamoring to be heard while Sally, our red-haired, red-faced assistant producer almost banged the table for attention with her usual righteous ferocity.

‘Heart disease in women!’ she’s saying in her strident Belfast accent, but then Sally’s personal bugbear is any topic related to health, with particular reference to the general crappiness of the public health service down here in the Republic.

‘This new report shows that women are now thirty percent more likely to have a heart attack then men!’ she half growled, waving a piece of paper threateningly the way she always does, no matter what the story. We’re just all well used to her round here by now.

‘I’m sure you all read it over the weekend?’

‘Oh yeah, right. Glued to it, I was,’ said Dermot flatly. ‘Made for an unforgettable Saturday night in. My, my Sally, what an exciting life you must lead.’

‘And yet most women still remain more focused on their partner’s health than their own,’ Sally insisted, ignoring him, getting redder and hotter in the face and with a vein bulging out of her forehead that looks almost ready to replicate life. ‘This is the kind of story that a show like ours should be covering. Urgently!’

‘And we will, don’t you worry,’ said Aggie placatingly, but then she’d seen overheated performances like this countless times before and knew exactly how they should be handled. ‘It’s just that I’d like to kick-start the week with … let’s just say, something a little lighter, to hook in our listeners. So what else have we got, people?’

A chorus of ‘well, Christmas is just a few weeks away, what about …?’ and ‘Oh no, I’ve a gem right here … straight from the National Enquirer!’ followed, with everyone battling for the star prize of Aggie’s attention. But none of the pitches really hooked her, so when there was a moment of calm she took a glug out of the Starbucks mug in front of her and said ‘Holly? You’ve gone unusually quiet on me this morning. So come on, what have you brought to the table?’

Suddenly all eyes were focused my way and I was on.

I took a half a beat just to formulate my thoughts. And then decided feck it, might as well go for it. After all, this was the sole thought that had utterly consumed me over the past week so why not make the most of it?

‘Well …’ I began tentatively, addressing the room.

‘Shoot,’ said Aggie, pen poised on the pad in front of her.

‘Ok, so here’s what I was thinking,’ I said eyeballing her directly. ‘Given that the stigma which used to be attached to internet dating has now all but entirely worn off, how about we run a segment about …’

‘Oops! Can I just say something here?’ interrupted Maia, or as she’s known around here, Maia Mars Bars. Reason? Because as Dermot put it, ‘that one is just a bit too sweet to be wholesome’. One of those women who’s just a degree too over-charming to your face, but then you’ll hear it on good authority that she’s been bitching about you behind your back to other people on the team. She’s done it so often, and to so many of us, that we’re all well wise to her by now.

‘I’m so sorry to interrupt you mid-flow, Holly,’ she smiled angelically across the boardroom table at me, all shiny chestnut hair that I’d swear she adjusts entirely in accordance with how Kate Middleton is wearing hers this weather. ‘But we’ve done it already. Internet dating, that is. We ran with it only last October, in fact. I remember it distinctly because it was actually me who pitched it. So sorry, Holly.’

‘If you’d just let me finish?’ I smiled sweetly back at her. ‘I was about to say that this wouldn’t just be about hooking up with someone online. It’s more than that. Given that anyone can now access these dating sites and get chatting, messaging or even taking things to the next level …’

‘The next level?’ Dermot teased. ‘Ha! You should try Grindr. Where there is no “next level”.’

Dermot, like myself you see, would be a great advocate for online dating. Except in his case, the sites he’d be on would be more like Gaydar, Hotmen and the like. Which, according to him, are all about sex and instant hook-ups rather than long-term relationships, and all the better for it. I gave him a pretend-y slap on the wrist, but kept on going anyway, undeterred.

‘… Well what if you do meet The One, but he lives on the other side of the world? What then? OK, so you’ve got Skype and email and you can Snapchat all you like, but my question is … how easy or difficult is it to sustain a long-distance relationship with someone who you’ve only ever met virtually? After all, this kind of thing is changing our whole dating scene quite dramatically and I’m certain there must be plenty of couples out there who’ve been in that position and yet who’ve made it work, in spite of everything.’

‘Hmm,’ Aggie nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s certainly a new take on the whole dating thing, alright. Long-distance online relationships; pitfalls and advantages of. Go on,’ she said, eyeballing me beadily. ‘Keep talking.’

‘We could get callers on to chat about how they’ve built up a relationship, even though they’re divided by continents,’ I went on, encouraged that she hadn’t shut me down mid-flow. Not yet, at least. ‘Couples who say they met their soulmate online and refused to be put off by the fact that they lived in different countries. After all, if you’re going to limit the people you date online to just anyone who lives geographically close to you, then let’s face it, you’re fishing in a pretty shallow pool, aren’t you?’

‘You know what? That’s actually not a bad pitch,’ lovely Maggie from accounts with the Rebekah Brooks wild mane of hair chimed in from across the table. ‘Then we could maybe get people to phone in with stories of long-distance relationships which began online, but which didn’t necessarily run their course. In other words, we ask the question it is a case of absence makes the heart grow fonder, or out of sight, out of mind?’

‘It’s interesting alright,’ said Aggie, thoughtfully nodding away. ‘Plus I suppose we could always segue off to quiz listeners about how well they ever really get to know someone online. After all, you’ve nothing else to go on bar what the other person chooses to tell you about themselves. And vice versa, of course.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ I blurted out incredulously. ‘I think you can get a fantastic, three-dimensional picture of someone really clearly online! And take it from me, with a bit of practice, you soon learn to filter out the time wasters from the genuine article.’

There was a divided chorus of ‘that’s complete rubbish!’ mixed along with a few more supportive, ‘yeah, I’d certainly go along with that,’ till Aggie raised her voice and suddenly there was total silence again.

‘Just out of curiosity,’ she asked, taking in the whole room. ‘How many of us round this table have actually met someone online who doesn’t live geographically close to you?’

All of us instantly shot our hands upwards. That is, all of us barring Maia who just sat there smugly and muttered something about Hugo, her long-term boyfriend who she met back in college. (And who Dermot reckoned was secretly a cross-dresser. This based solely on the fact that he once caught him stepping out of Miss Fantasia’s. Chances were Dermot just invented the whole thing, as he frequently does, but still at the time, it was grade A office gossip.)

‘Ok,’ said Aggie, taking all this in with the confidence of someone who’s been happily married with kids for the past fifteen years and therefore well and truly out of the dating pool. ‘So what are the rules these days? The dos and don’ts? Because now I’m thinking maybe we could segue from long-distance dating to the whole etiquette that lies behind online dating these days.’

‘Well, for starters, there’s your profile photo,’ said Jayne, our production assistant, shoving aside the dry rice cake she’s just been nibbling on, her usual mid-morning snack, while the rest of us were wolfing into bagels. But then, bless the poor girl, Jayne’s been on a diet for about for as long as I’ve been working here and has yet to lose as much as single pound. ‘Oh God, but it all comes back to the photo, particularly with someone who lives overseas, because until you get to Skyping, that’s all you have to go on. Trust me; it’s make or break after that.’

‘Go on,’ said Aggie.

‘Rule of thumb is, you can’t bombard a guy with a whole holiday album full of them, no matter how skinny and tanned you happen to look. Three is the absolute max. Take it from one who knows.’

‘Preferably taken by a portrait photographer, with low- level lighting and professional hair and make-up on stand-by,’ Dermot chipped in, then as we all turn to look suspiciously at him he hastily added, ‘well, not that I’ve done that myself, but I may just know one or two people who have.’

‘Remember though, a full body shot is essential,’ Jayne tossed back, then added, ‘Sorry guys, but I didn’t lose two stone and go to Weight Watchers twice a week only to end up with a fatty. So is it too much to ask for a man who knows how to eliminate carbs?’

‘And maybe we could talk about how multi-dating is kind of frowned on in the real world, whereas online it’s actually considered quite OK,’ Maggie chipped in hopefully. ‘I mean, we all do it, don’t we? After all, the way I see it, this is really just a numbers game. More guys you’re talking to and messaging, the more likely you are to get a score.’

Nods from a lot of heads round the table and I smiled, but was very careful not to look like I’m agreeing.

Yeah, I thought to myself, a tad smugly. Multi-dating may be all very well and good. Right up until someone incredibly special like Andy McCoy comes into your life, and then? Trust me. All the other messers will completely fade into insignificance.

‘Avoid giving a physical comment on the other person’s photo though, because I always think it comes across as being too clichéd,’ said Jayne. But then she hastily qualified it by adding, ‘for instance, saying something like “wow, you’re hot!” can very often backfire on you. You think you’re being complimentary, but it could be interpreted as meaning you’re just up for sex and not an actual full-blown relationship.’

‘… But be sure to comment on their written profile though, just to show that you’ve really had a decent look at it. Saying things like “I notice that …” and “I see that you’re interested in …” are always a good way to go,’ Maggie offered helpfully.

‘… Oh yeah, and you have to completely blank out dating rules in the real world. Because they just don’t apply online. For starters, if he messages you, don’t play hard to get and wait two days to get back to him because by then, trust me, he’ll have gone on to meet at least ten other people. Far, far better just to be direct and respond immediately. Remember, you’ve got a lot of competition out there,’ added Jayne.

‘… But, having said that, if you’ve messaged someone twice and there’s still no response, then it’s definitely time to delete and move on …’

‘… I find it’s a good idea to take it offline as soon as you can. Because if there’s zero chemistry over the phone, then you can be certain there’ll be zero chemistry when you first meet.’

So now it’s like the floodgates have opened and everyone was battling it out for airtime, as the rules and advice came in thick and fast.

‘Oh God! Then the first meeting. Absolutely critical. Goes without saying that dinner is way too long, especially if he turns out to be nothing at all like how he described himself …’

‘Agreed!’ Lunch is far better I find, preferably on a workday, so you always have the excuse of having to skedaddle back to the office. Even if it’s not necessarily true. In fact, there’s this great dating site called ‘It’sJustLunch’ and I really think that if we’re going to segue from long- distance online dating to all these websites in general, it might be worth hooking them into the slot too …’.

‘… Lunch? Are you joking? A whole hour out of my day? For some random stranger? No, a coffee is your best bet, trust me. Preferably in a Starbucks, where there’s plenty of people surrounding you, just in case he turns out to be a complete weirdo or a whacko …’

‘But always let a friend know exactly where you are, and who you’re with beforehand. Then if everything turns out well, you can just slip off to the loo and text them anyway, just to let them know your body isn’t about to be dumped in the canal …’

‘… Ermm … if we could just move away from weirdos, whackos and getting dumped in the canal for a moment,’ I said to the room, thinking aloud more than anything else really. ‘Maybe then we could focus on if/when you get to that lovely stage of wanting to date each other exclusively. Because, if you ask me, at that point the etiquette is that you both take down your profiles and quit the site completely.’

‘Although if you do that and he doesn’t, then you’d better run a mile,’ groaned Jayne, rolling her eyes, like she was speaking from bitter experience. ‘And of course it goes without saying that if things don’t work out for you, then it’s an absolute no-no to dump him online or via email. I did that one time and the bastard forwarded my email round to all his friends. It was bloody mortifying.’

‘Although, I guess even if things don’t work out for you,’ said Maia, who’d been noticeably quiet throughout all this, ‘then bear in mind that this guy might end up being a useful business contact for you. Not that I’d know or anything,’ she added with a too-bright smile. ‘Hugo and I are always saying how lucky we are to be out of the whole dating piranha pond. We don’t know how you all do it, really.’

‘Because no-strings sex is always so wonderful,’ Dermot grinned cheekily back at her to more than a few suppressed smiles.

‘OK, OK,’ said Aggie, taking control again. ‘Looks like we’ve really tapped into something here. Holly, can you get working on it quick as you can? We’ll open with long-distance dating as our lead item and roll it out to include online dating tips from there. Now come on people, what else have you got for me?’

*

Come lunchtime, long after the meeting had broken, I was in our tiny staff canteen – which is effectively more of a broom cupboard really – helping myself to a watery instant coffee and a mouthful of ham and Swiss panini. Next thing Dermot sidled up beside me, all tight lycra gym gear and too-clingy Spandex, arms folded and with more than a suspicious glint in his eyes, like he was onto me.

‘Well Missy,’ he said, cornering me so I can’t make a quick escape. ‘All that impassioned stuff back there, about just how magical long-distance relationships can be?’

‘Hmm?’ I said, delighted to have the excuse of a full mouth so I couldn’t answer him properly.

‘Spoken right from the heart, I noticed. So is there anything you want to tell your Uncle Dermot? Come on then. It’s not like I don’t tell you everything.’

That wasn’t any kind of a compliment by the way, Dermot tells everyone absolutely everything, not just me. So I mumbled something about having to get back to my desk, but he just cut me off and physically blocked my path.

‘Come on, Holly, don’t hold out grade A gossip on me. You’ve spent the past year moaning that the only guys you seem to meet online are either married gits or else barefaced liars who describe themselves as looking like Bradley Cooper, but who turn out to be more like Shane McGowan in real life. The teeth included. Then you burst in here all glowing and full of the joys – on a bleeding Monday morning – and start waxing lyrical about love blossoming online?’

‘Sorry Dermot, really gotta get back to my desk …’

But he was standing right in front of me, way too big and protein-fed for me to possibly inch my way past.

‘Just off the top of my head … did you by any chance meet someone and you’re not telling me?’ he asked, eyebrows shooting upwards. ‘Do you have some secret little Christmas cracker on the go for yourself?’

‘Umm … possibly.’

‘Possibly means yes you do. Knew it! Knew you were acting weirder than normal this morning. And you never answered my calls yesterday to see if you fancied going to a movie; ergo, I’m guessing you spent most of your weekend stuck in front of a computer screen.’

I was slightly too mortified to admit the truth, but it’s like Dermot just comes with a kind of honing instinct for these things. Because, of course, he was one hundred percent right. For almost two full weeks now, it was just me and Captain Andy, messaging each other back and forth, day and night, at all hours of the day and night, and from airports at all four corners of the globe, just to ask about my day and to tell me all about his.

And it was bloody amazing and I really did believe this one might just have legs. But of course rule one was do not jinx it by telling everyone all about it, at least not until we’d actually met.

‘Let’s just say, watch this space,’ I told Dermot, with what I hoped was an enigmatic smile.

‘Dirty bitch,’ he grinned and I poked him back playfully.

‘Thanks for not quizzing me any more,’ I said gratefully, ‘for the moment at least. But don’t worry, if this does turn into anything significant, you’ll be the very first to know. It’s a long-distance thing, so there’s a lot for us to navigate our way around.’

He burst into a big, wide grin, then stepped aside from blocking the doorway, so I could squeeze my way past him.

‘Oh honey, long-distance online is the absolute best! There’s all the sexual build-up and anticipation before you get to meet and then when you do, it’s all the more wonderful because you know you’re never going to bump into each other in the vegetable aisle at Tesco’s. Plus, if you ever fancy cheating with someone closer to home, then how will he ever find out? You’re in a win-win, baby!’




Chapter Six (#ulink_03a4bb4f-1d4f-5694-adf0-d0e436de0e0b)


From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Well how are you this evening, Holly? Gotta tell you, I just love hearing all those great stories of yours about your day. Gee, your job sounds so pressured and demanding. Can’t believe you were in the Four Courts earlier reporting on a murder case. How cool is that? And knowing you, you’ll probably unwind by skydiving or else going off mountaineering at the weekend, for fun. Just awesome. Your whole life just sounds so glamorous and exotic. Sadly, unlike my own at this moment.

Right now, I’m stuck in terminal two at Hartsfield International Airport here in Atlanta, (busiest one in the world and boy, it sure does feel like it on days like this.) I’m shortly going to be pushing back for LAX; that’s sunny Los Angeles in California where, even though it’s December, I’m told it’s a humid twenty degrees outside.

Then tonight, I shuttle the return flight back here to Atlanta and, weather permitting, should be home to read Logan his bedtime story before tucking him in for the night.

To tell you the truth, Holly, days like this, my job sort of feels like I’m just a bus driver, except with a fancier uniform. Don’t get me wrong; I love the actual flying part, but the truth is, you get real tired of staying in yet another hotel room in yet another corner of the globe, missing my boy so much it hurts and wishing I could just settle down to a normal family life, without having to shuttle around so much. Ever feel that way?

Speaking of Logan, he was the one who took this latest photo I’m attaching for you, just like you asked. In case you were wondering at it being taken at a bit of a funny angle, that’s all. You gotta make some allowances; the kid is, after all, barely six years old.

I sure loved seeing your photo too, Holly. Last one you sent, you were kind of like a younger Sandra Bullock … you sure are one pretty lady. Send me on some more real soon, don’t keep me waiting now!

In the meantime, wishing you a great day.

Gotta fly. Literally.

Andy.

Oh Jesus I thought, looking away from my latop and trying not to panic. Did I really lay it on thick with all that shite about reporting live on a criminal investigation in the Four Courts?

Suppose Andy decides to Google Afternoon Delight? What exactly are you going to tell him then, my subconscious nagged at me.

But then I just sat back, took a look at his photo and thought feck it anyway. All the, ahem, tweaking of the truth and risk taking was totally justifiable in this case. And oh dear God, but you should have seen this latest pic. Because Andy wasn’t just gorgeous in it, he was beautiful. Classically broad-framed, light brown-ish hair with blue eyes and a shy, reserved sort of look to him. Kind of like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption, minus the prison buzz cut and the murder charge.

He was in full uniform in the photo too, looking so, so sexy that for a worrying minute I found myself thinking, what exactly was a guy like this doing on a dating website? After all, here was a gorgeous, single man who obviously has plenty of dosh. Surely someone like this could land any women he wanted?

I had a sudden, disquieting vision of tall, leggy airhostesses with exotic suntans stinking of duty free perfume, all hurling themselves at him, when next thing there was a mad pounding on my bedroom door and Joy burst in, dressed head to toe in her customary black, right down to the black Converse trainers she rarely takes off. But then Joy is one of the few women I know who’s absolutely comfortable to head out for a date night in flats and not give a shite either way.

‘Hi love, just wanted to ask you … Mother of God, what’s going on in here?’ she asked, taking in the boxes of old photos I’d just unearthed from on top of my wardrobe, so I could start sifting the wheat from the chaff, i.e. the ones where I wasn’t wearing my jeans way too high and more importantly, where my eyeliner didn’t make me look like a complete goth.

‘Ehh, long story, but basically if you could help me root out a photo where I don’t have a glass of wine clamped to my hand, I’d be eternally grateful.’

‘Why, exactly?’ she asked suspiciously.

I didn’t say anything, just threw a guilty little glance towards my laptop sitting innocently on my desk, then waited the two-second delay while the truth dawned on her.

‘Ah for feck’s sake, Holly,’ she groaned, ‘don’t tell me this is all in aid of Captain Fantastic?’

‘Well … ermm … possibly.’

‘Now you just listen to me love,’ she said, plonking herself down on the edge of the bed. ‘Because I’ve a far better suggestion for you. Instead of just sitting on your arse in front of a computer screen for the night, why not come out with myself and Krzysztof? We’re heading out to the movies and we were wondering if you’d join us? A few of Krzysztof’s mates from work are coming along too, so it’s bound to be a bit of fun. Well,’ she added, peeling one of the photos she’s sitting on off the bum of her jeans. ‘Certainly more fun than trawling through a bunch of photos from a decade ago, just so you can impress some virtual stranger.’

Joy herself by the way, is in a full-on relationship with this Krzysztof, who’s from Poland and who she met in our local Tesco’s about a year ago. He works in security there, all six feet four of him. So of course now, like most happily coupled-off women, she’s on a quest to get me matched up and as quickly as possible. Except given my recent history, on dates that don’t sail into my life courtesy of Plentymorefish.com, EliteSingles.ie, Guardiandating.com or else anotherfriend.ie. And don’t even get me started on dating apps like Tinder, Grouper and OKCupid. There just isn’t time.

‘Come on, what do you say?’ she insisted. ‘You know, Krzysztof has this lovely pal called Conrad who’s coming with us and I was hoping you two might hit it off.’

A pause while I chanced giving her a tiny shake of my head.

‘Would you kill me if I didn’t go out with you tonight?’

‘Oh God,’ she said, folding her arms and rolling her eyes to Heaven. ‘So you can just stay home emailing some complete stranger a whole continent away?’

Which of course only sent me on the defensive.

‘Ah come on, Joy, I’m just enjoying all the attention and flirtation so much! Who wouldn’t? Plus Christmas is only a few weeks off and you of all people know it can only be a good thing for me to have this great distraction on the go.’

Her whole expression changes, the way everyone’s does around me whenever the subject of Christmas comes up.

‘Oh hon,’ she says gently. ‘I know it’s a rough time for you, but …’

‘I mean, it’s not like I have a big family to go home to at Christmas, like you do …’

‘You’re welcome to stay with my family anytime,’ she said firmly. Same she does every year, bless her. ‘You know that goes without saying.’

‘Of course I do and I couldn’t be more grateful. But you’ve got to stop giving me a hard time just because I’m chasing after a bit of romance, this time of year. You know the reason why – you know everything there is to know – so come on now, would you really blame me?’

‘Well … when you put it like that … then I suppose not, no …’ she said, a bit doubtfully.

‘Plus, when it comes to men, the Olympics is more regular in my life than a proper boyfriend is, and then all of this love bombardment? Who wouldn’t cave, just like I have?’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘but still.’

‘And would you just have a read of some of his messages?’ I said, plonking her down into a desk chair in front of my laptop so I could scroll up all his emails.

And believe me, there were dozens of them by then; as though neither of us was able to put the brakes on this hypnotic little spell that had been woven between the pair of us. Emails from him just to say good morning, how are you today? Little short, snappy one-liners sent from this airport or that, telling me funny stories about grumpy passengers or flight delays.

And then my favourite emails of all: the ones where he chats all about Logan. The play dates Andy regularly takes him on, the fun they have on their father-son days out together and the lovely stories about how supportive Andy’s mother has been towards Logan ever since Andy was widowed, and how he couldn’t ever manage without her.

Melt-your-heart emails. Almost-know-them-off-by-heart-at-this-stage emails.

There’s silence as I watch Joy’s face while she scrolls down through them, one after another, waiting on her reaction. Because I challenge anyone without a heart of stone to read Andy’s own words and not just … melt.

A long, long, pause and eventually she leant back, arms folded and threw me that look.

‘OK,’ she eventually said. ‘Well I’ll give him this much at least. He sounds … likeable.’

‘That’s the best you can say? Likeable?’

‘Although I will add this small caveat. He does lay on the Southern accent a bit thick for my taste. All this, “write back real soon now!” And “gotta fly!” Don’t know why he doesn’t just throw in “y’all!” at the end of every sentence for good measure and start singing a few verses of Sweet Home Alabama while he’s at it. Jeez, you can practically smell the Southern Comfort off the screen.’

‘Oh, now you’re just nit picking. Besides, I like it. In fact, I can almost get a feel for what Andy sounds like, just from the way he expresses himself online.’

‘Yeah, but aren’t you at all concerned at the whopping great howlers you’re peddling him? You told him you were reporting on a murder trial live from the Four Courts?’

‘Yeah, I know but …’

‘You don’t need to do any of this, Holly. Any guy in his sane mind would adore you just as you are. So come on then, time to choose. Come to the movies with us or stay home? Real life or keep spinning make-believe illusions?’

I think we both already know my answer to that one though.

And, sure enough, the very minute she was out the door, wouldn’t you know it I was straight back online. Fingers trembling, I attached the most passable photo I had of myself, taken on my birthday all of, ahem, five years ago. I was in Paris with Joy at the time on a girlie weekend, and it’s just that the background to the photo looks so Parisian and cool. It was taken at night (hence far more forgiving lighting), and I’m sitting on the Pont Neuf with my feet dangling over it, while Joy screeched at me from behind the camera to pose like something out of a Fellini film. As it happens though, I’m just trying to sober up and not fall in.

I clicked ‘send.’ And then waited.

And waited.

Just past midnight and I was all snuggled up in bed, half dozing off, but with half an ear open, just in case. And then, thank you God, a blessed ping as a message came through to my phone.

Him. Andy. Back to me already.

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Well hey there Holly,

I sure hope this message isn’t waking you up from your beauty sleep? I know it’s the wee small hours over there in the Emerald Isle, but I just had to get in touch to say I got your photo, safe and sound.

And wow. I knew you were pretty, but honey, in this photo you’re a total knockout. A real belle, as we say down here. I’m just looking at you right now, swinging those long legs off the edge of a bridge in old Paree, and marveling at my good fortune in meeting a lovely, genuine lady like you. And I sure know it’s tough, all this messaging back and forth again and not actually getting to meet each other in real time, but that’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.

See, I just got my work roster for the next month, and as good fortune would have it, I’m flying on the ATL-DUB route right at the end of the week. That’s right honey, Atlanta to Dublin … I’m coming right to your hometown!

So I guess, here’s my question. Would you do me the great honour of having dinner with me? And if your answer is yes, then maybe you’d give me your phone number, so I can call you to arrange?

So that was pretty much it for me then. No more sleep for the rest of the night and come to think of it, for the whole rest of the week ahead.




Chapter Seven (#ulink_81632dd1-c93c-5b4f-b98a-42abe93f28b7)


The following day, I was back to work in a blurry haze from sleep deprivation, but was I complaining? Far from it. Instead, I almost skipped round our huge open-plan office, beaming and smiling at the world. I let all the small stuff that normally bugs the arse off me slide, and at once stage, even insisted on bringing back an americano for Maia Mars, seeing as how I was passing by Starbucks anyway.

‘Look at you, the Smitten Kitten,’ Dermot teased, perching on the edge of my desk and blocking my computer screen, so I’d no choice but to give him my undivided attention.

‘Well?’ he said probingly, but I just threw him a knowing smile and kept my mouth zipped.

‘Ask me what I’m doing this weekend. Go on, just ask me,’ I told him, all excited.

‘You’re meeting up with this mystery man? That’s fabulous news!’

‘Dinner,’ I told him proudly. ‘He wants to have dinner. Not just drinks where he can skedaddle off if he doesn’t like the look of me; full-on dinner. He’s even calling tonight to arrange it.’

‘I’ll even forgive your adolescent excitement. After all, there have been three popes and counting since the last time I even heard you use that sentence.’

It was an absolute gold star, red-letter of a day in work too. We went live on air with the idea I pitched about long-distance relationships and I’m not joking, the response to it was phenomenal. The segment was originally only intended to run for about fifteen minutes max, but we were so inundated with callers that it ended up stretching to a full hour, which, in a show like Afternoon Delight, is roughly the equivalent of striking a goldmine.

Throughout the show, all the gang in work kept coming up to me to say congratulations and even Aggie gave me a wink and said, ‘Great work, Holly. Keep this up and you’ll end up doing my job someday.’

Wow. Just wow.

And you want to have heard some of our callers’ love stories. Swear to God, it did me good just to listen in, and more than a few even reduced me to tears. One caller named Annie rang in to say she’d recently divorced and was living with three young kids all under the age of ten, while her ex was now shacked up with a newer, thinner ‘life partner,’ as he apparently refers to her.

‘I was in a complete slough of depression after my divorce,’ Annie told us, sounding shy and a bit wobbly, really speaking from the heart. ‘Even having to drop my kids off at my ex and the “life partner’s” fancy apartment for weekend visits was just killing me. Worst of all was the feeling that another woman – a complete stranger – was getting all this fun, quality time with my children, while I just spent weekend after weekend all alone by myself, with nothing but the telly for company.’

‘So what then?’ Noel Browne, our presenter, gently probed in that honey voice of his, like the expert he is in sniffing out a good story.

‘Well … there I was at my lowest ebb,’ she said, growing stronger and more confident by the second as her story came pouring out. ‘Then a pal suggested online dating to me. She very kindly told me that I was still only in my forties and that the romantic part of my life was far from over. Which was reassuring to say the least, and at the time, exactly what I needed to hear. But the problem was my confidence around men was on the floor after my divorce and I really did reach a point where I thought I’d never be happy again.’

‘So you signed up to a dating website?’

‘Yeah, I did. Terrified at first, because it was all so new to me. After all, I hadn’t been single and out there for the guts of twenty years and believe me, Noel, things have certainly changed since my day.’

‘But then someone special came along?’

‘After a few false starts, eventually, yeah. He’s a divorcé with kids, just like me. The only problem is that he lives in London and I’m here. But we got to messaging and emailing each other so frequently that eventually it was as though I felt I knew him inside out, without ever having met him. Does that make any sense?’

It certainly did to me I thought, nodding along as Annie chatted away.

‘Now I was a complete bag of nerves meeting for our first date,’ she told the nation live, ‘but I needn’t have worried, turned out he was every bit as petrified as I was. And we ended up having an absolute ball together. We’d so much it common; it was ridiculous! So of course from then on, there was no question of our not ending up together.’

‘But how do you make the whole long-distance thing work for you?’ Noel asked gently.

‘Well, that’s just it, you see. It’s not like work at all,’ she laughed and I swear I could practically hear the lightness breaking through in her voice. ‘The brightest part of my day is when he emails or calls me. We Skype first thing in the morning and last thing at night and it’s just fantastic. Then every other weekend, he’ll come and stay with me, and on the weekends when I don’t have the kids, I take a trip over to London. It’s magic and, trust me, the distance between us is absolutely nothing.’

‘I totally agree with your last caller!’ said Emily, who rang in hot on her heels. ‘I met my husband online and even though he works in Dubai now, the sparkle is still there. Our golden rule is we see each other once every six weeks and in the meantime, we probably chat more now than I ever do with anyone I know from home. Everyone said I was mental when we first got together, but like I always say, I’d rather a fabulous relationship with the man of my dreams who lives thousands of miles away, then a mediocre one with some fella from down the road who I met in some bloody local bar.’

And by that stage? I honestly felt like encoding that phrase onto my desk and making everyone come and admire it, just for luck.

And then there was Matthew, who called in to say that he too met his partner via a dating site. She lived in Edinburgh and neither of them could relocate so, as he put it, ‘we just make it work. And it’s fantastic. After all, I’d rather have two weekends a month of pure magic, then four full weeks of being nagged for leaving my underpants hanging off the back of the radiator.’

Took the words right out of my mouth.

After the show, Noel even sought me out to thank me personally; an event so rare round here that there was pin-drop silence all around the office while he and I had a stilted, professional chat.

But then Noel has one of those man-of-the-people, I-too-feel-your-pain personas that’s totally at odds with the real him. In reality, he’s actually a multi-millionaire on a massively inflated salary who lives on the Hill of Howth in a palatial mansion. In fact apart from a quick daily briefing with the team before we go on air, we only see him round here sporadically. He’s usually in and gone the minute the show wraps, then straight off to his far more glamorous job at Channel Six TV, where he presents a late-night current affairs programme. Which, as you’d guess, is a shouty mess of a show, involving yet more ranting, hammering on desks and basically doing whatever he can to inflame public opinion.

‘Good work, Holly,’ Noel said, towering over me and patting his over-large tummy, like he was ready for one of his legendary boozy, Michelin-starred lunches about now. ‘Long-distance online relationships. Whoever would have thought that would generate such a huge response?’

‘Ermm, well, thanks very much, Noel,’ I muttered, aware that half the office was having a good earwig in on us.

‘More of the same please,’ he added brusquely. ‘And if you keep this up, I might just have to poach you to come and freelance for me over at Channel Six.’

He was gone ten seconds later, leaving me standing there like a blowfish, just mouthing, ‘wow!’




Chapter Eight (#ulink_f935179a-4126-5b11-aec2-b777ecb7dedd)


So now it’s the morning after that hellhole of a night at the Fade Street Social restaurant and all the love bombardment from Andy really has started, full-on and furious.

The phone calls. First thing in the morning, last thing at night. Texts flying into my face throughout the whole day. Emails coming through to me constantly and that’s before the giant, oversized bouquet of flowers arrived. Pink stargazer lilies. With a note that read, ‘Forgive me for what happened, Holly. And give me a chance to explain, at least. Please.’

As for what my best buddies have to say about it all?

Joy: ‘Good riddance to Captain Fantastic, then. I know he had a perfectly valid excuse for standing you up, but I have to say half of me is relieved. All I can hope is that this’ll be a lesson to you to wrench yourself away from those bloody dating sites once and for all and stop lying your head off online. Just be yourself, Holly, and in time you’ll meet your perfect man, trust me.’

Dermot: ‘Oh please, if you heard some of the last minute call-off excuses I’ve heard over the past few years, you’d sit back and laugh. Honey, I’ve heard it all and believe me, this is nothing! So just get back online and start flirting with other guys and if Mr Wonderful suggests another date, then let him do all the organizing and arranging. If it suits you to turn up, fine and if not, the he gets a taste of his own medicine. Either way, it’s a win-win, babes.’

Mind you, I think I’d probably caved long before any of their well-intentioned Tweedle Dum – Tweedle Dee advice ever kicked in.

Truth is, I believe him, and what’s more there’s hard evidence to back him up. Andy’s a pilot after all, is my reasoning. And wasn’t this kind of carry-on all part and parcel of a pilot’s life? Yes, I’m sure it’s a rarity that there’s a ‘mid-air emergency’ and that a flight suddenly has to be re-routed to the nearest hospital, but still, there you go. And what’s so awful about giving someone the benefit of the doubt anyway? Is it so terrible to believe the good in people and not be so bloody cynical all the time?

Whether I like what happened last Saturday night or not, the fact is, if this is to move forward, then I have to accept that this guy’s whole professional life is at the whim of weather reports, flight schedules and of course the great unknown, passengers themselves.

‘So after my letting you down so badly like that last week, Holly,’ he drawls down the phone at me, during one of his umpteen phone calls this week alone, ‘Is there even the slightest chance you’d still be prepared to meet up with me again? To give me one more shot?’

One more shot. And why not, I ask myself. After all, it’s hardly like there’s another queue of eligible guys waiting to ask me out, now is there?

‘Sweet Jesus and the Orphans,’ says Joy exasperatedly when I tell her. ‘If you’d brains, you’d be dangerous.’

So it’s all arranged. Yet again. Or take two, as Andy refers to it. This Thursday night, he’s flying into Dublin (yet again), same deal, and yet again, he’s staying at the Radisson airport hotel where apparently Delta always overnight their crew, jammy feckers. He begged and pleaded to meet up at the same restaurant, but I was having absolutely none of it.

Once bitten, etc.

Anyway, this time the deal goes thusly; Andy is due to arrive into Dublin that morning, and will call me as soon as he ‘touches down’ to confirm. Then we’re due to meet in the Shelbourne bar right in the dead centre of town at 8 p.m. and it’s actually the perfect spot for me, as my plan is to just stride through the bar and if he’s there he’s there, if he isn’t he isn’t and I’ll just keep on walking.

Worst-case scenario, I’ll end up looking like a girl who’s zigzagging her way through a crowded bar scouting around for a pal who hasn’t shown yet. Public humiliation factor: zero.

Not that it’ll happen. Lightening doesn’t strike twice.

‘Holly,’ Andy reassured me over and over, ‘if I have to swim the Atlantic this Thursday night, I’ll be there in that bar at the Shelbourne hotel waiting for you. And that’s a good old Southern promise.’

What can I say? It’s less than two weeks and counting to Christmas.

And I need all the distraction I can get.

*

Second week in December now, the weather is lock-jaw cold and just trying to navigate my way up the quays to work in sub-zero temperatures is treacherous, with icy pavements and early-morning shoppers banging stuffed shopping bags off me at every turn. A school choir of carol singers are warbling out ‘Adeste Fideles’ and all I want to do is wallop my umbrella off each one of them for having the barefaced cheek to show Christmas cheer.

Even Starbucks is at it, with their special seasonal red coffee cups and ads all over the shop for eggnog latte. Not even they are immune to schmaltzy Christmassy music and, I swear, by the end of the twenty minute wait to get served, I really think I’d rather listen to human nails being scraped down a blackboard than one more chorus of, ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’. Staff are stressed off their heads and customers look completely strung out, which pretty much sums up what the holiday season is all about. If your name is Holly Johnson, that is.

And I know all this makes me out to be a terrible Bah Humbug altogether, but I’ve good reason to dread this time of year. A few of my pals have gently started asking me what my plans are; my married friend Sue has very kindly invited me for dinner with her husband and kids, while another old pal from college has asked me to spend the day with herself and her partner. Meanwhile Joy is on at me to join her family down in Limerick for the holidays, and although it’s a lovely offer and one I’m very grateful for, we both already know what my answer will be.

Instead, my plan is to do what I always do; get my head under the duvet on Christmas Eve and stay holed up in the flat till the 26th when, thank God, it’ll all be over for another twelve blissful months. And I’ll have done it and survived it and somehow lived to tell the tale, with any luck.

God bless my friends, though, that’s all I can say. I love that they’re concerned, I feel deeply blessed that they care so much. And I only hope that they’ll forgive me for pulling yet another Greta Garbo in just wanting to be alone. They know my reasons why. They know I don’t really have a choice.

Anyway, Dermot and I grab a sambo together at what passes for a lunch break in News FM (generally a snatched ten minutes at your desk trying not to get crumbs jammed into your computer keyboard). But I can tell by the way he goes eerily quiet on me that there’s something on his mind.

‘So,’ he eventually says, wiping a wobbly lump of coleslaw off his mouth. ‘C-Day approaches.’

‘Don’t remind me …’ I groan back at him.

‘… And this year, I have a plan concocted especially for you.’

‘Dermot, you don’t have to—’

‘Just hear me out, Missy. You can’t stay holed up all alone same as you do every year. So here’s what I’m proposing …’

‘Please … there’s really no need …’

‘No … trust me, I think you’ll actually like this one. Myself and a gang of mates are renting a cottage in the wilds of Donegal where the plan is we barricade ourselves in with a car boot stacked full of vodka and spend the whole holiday watching horror films on DVD. Starting with Rosemary’s Baby and working all the way up to Paranormal Activity, by way of A Zombie Ate My Boyfriend’s Brains. So come on now, what do you say?’

‘Oh Dermot, you’re so sweet to include me …’

‘Why do I sense a big, fat “but” coming?’

‘But tempting and all as A Zombie Ate My Boyfriend’s Brains sounds, I’d really be no company at all. I wouldn’t inflict myself on you. Besides, I’d really rather get through the whole day alone. I’m not ready to do any more right now, I’m so sorry. Not this year anyway.’

Dermot however is good at hearing rejection, claiming he gets enough practice at it in his sex life.

‘Offer’s always there if you change your mind,’ he says cheerily. ‘Just remember, this could be your one and only chance to see The House of the Devil on bootleg DVD.’

It’s like he and Joy are in cahoots though, because that very night when I get home, she’s already there ahead of me and I can just tell by the look on her face exactly what’s on her mind. Time for the Big Chat, that is. The same one I try my level best to dodge my way out of every other year.

‘Tick-tock,’ she says, even pausing Netflix on the telly as I burst in and clatter down Tesco shopping bags, while peeling off layers of all my winter paraphernalia; multi-weather brolly/handbag/coat/scarf etc. Everything you need to survive in a country like Ireland, where we effectively have two seasons; winter and winter minor.

I think the very fact that Joy has torn her head away from Netflix is warning enough that just there’s no dodging the Big Chat right now, try as I might. The giveaway being that she freeze-frames the telly on Breaking Bad, her all-time favourite US TV import at the moment. She’s an out-and-out Breaking Baddict and no matter who calls her in the middle of it, anyone from Krzysztof to her own Mammy, she’ll snarl at the phone and then at me, ‘Nobody calls me in the middle of Breaking Bad. NOBODY.’

I play for time by asking her whether or not she wants tea and a sticky bun, but she’s well wide to me after all this time.

‘Now we’ll have none of your diversionary tactics, Missy,’ she says tartly, getting up from the sofa and following me into the kitchen while I stick the kettle on. ‘Come on, Holly, you know right well Christmas is only ten days away and you’ve got to make some kind of a decision here. You can’t just bury yourself away again this year, like you always do. You’ve got to make plans.’

‘And so I already have,’ I tell her, busying myself whipping milk out of the fridge and unpacking groceries I stopped off for earlier.

‘You mean hide out here, all alone with nothing but the duvet, the telly and a bottle of Pinot Grigio for company? Same as last year?’

‘Can’t think of any better way to mark the worst day on the entire calendar can you?’ I ask, face reddening a bit by now.

But Joy’s having absolutely none of it.

‘Sweetheart,’ she says, softening a bit now. ‘I know. Believe me no one knows more than I do how Godawful it is for you. But staying here all alone, yet again? It’s just not good for you, it’s not healthy. I’d be worried about you.’

I shrug lightly and act like I’m tossing the whole thing aside, though I doubt strongly that she really does understand. No one possibly could. And with no offence to Joy who only means well, particularly no one like her could ever understand, with two hale and hearty parents, three sisters and two brothers to eat with and drink with and row with and love. Just like family are supposed to at Christmas.

Family.

‘I’m just saying,’ Joy goes on, eyes not leaving me, not even for a second. ‘You know you’re more than welcome to spend the holidays with my family, that goes without saying. My folks would be thrilled to have you, as would all the gang. And I know it’s always a bit boisterous and rowdy, but at least it’s better than being by yourself isn’t it?’

But that’s the thing though. And Joy knows it by now as well as I do myself.

‘Like it or not,’ I sigh, ‘I am all alone.’

There’s just the tiniest beat, like she’s weighing up whether or not she should say what’s really on her mind.

‘Not necessarily,’ she offers quietly.

‘Joy, please. Not this. Not again. And certainly not right now.’

‘I’m just saying, you can’t know that for definite.’

‘But I do know.’

‘You know I’d help you, if you ever decided to—’

‘Christmas,’ I interrupt her firmly, ‘is a time for family. If you’re lucky enough to be blessed with one, then good for you.’

‘But you could have … I mean you might still be able to find out exactly …’

‘Look. Whatever happened in the past, the fact is that now I’m alone.’

And the surest and safest way to get through C-Day, I’ve long learned, is to suffer it out, try and not inflict my company on anyone else and take comfort from the fact that in twenty-four short hours, 26th December will roll around and it’ll be all over for yet another year.

At least, that’s the plan.

*

Maybe it was the conversation with Joy and with Dermot earlier, but in bed that night, it was like the Ghost of Christmases Past came back to haunt me.

25th December, 1990.

Thank God we lived in a flat-roof bungalow, that’s all I can remember thinking when Mum got up to her annual festive ritual again. She did this, year in, year out and the seven-year-old me absolutely loved it, despite the whispers floating round the school playground.

‘… Everyone knows there’s no such thing as Santa Claus …’

‘But that’s not true! I’m telling you, I saw him last year! I waited up for him and about midnight, there he was, giant sack and all. He even took away the carrot stick I’d left out specially for Rudolf …’

‘Just listen to you, Holly Johnson. You’re off your head, that’s what’s wrong with you. Because there isn’t any Santa. It’s just your Mam and Dad doing it to try and get you to be good over Christmas. You should see what my parents do every year to keep us believing. Sure last Christmas, my Dad …’.

‘Shhh!’ I remember Sandy Curran, who we all used to nickname Sandy Currant Bun, hissing. Then an embarrassed silence while the penny dropped; that the words ‘dad’ or ‘parents’ were something not to be mentioned in front of me, as they all instantly remembered my own particular family situation. In fact, barring Jayne Byrne – a quiet-spoken girl in my class whose father had died the previous year, I was the only other girl who came from a single-parent family.

‘Sorry Holly,’ one girl grumbled reluctantly.

‘Yeah, me and all. I forgot.’

‘I didn’t mean to …’

‘It’s OK,’ I shrugged, realizing in the way that little girls of seven can, that my little family had been earmarked as different right from the get-go. Realizing it, though not having the first clue why.

‘Ho, ho, HO!!!’ was all I could hear from the roof of our little bungalow, in a woman’s impression of what a deep man’s baritone should be. Which were followed by footsteps but God bless Mum, because she was so svelte and petite, by absolutely no stretch of the imagination could anyone – even a seven-year-old – possibly confuse those footsteps with a rotund, fifteen-stone Santa Claus.

The trouble she went to just to keep Christmas magical for me, her only child. And I loved her for it, even though I hadn’t the heart to tell her all the disturbing rumours that had been circulating the playground ever since Halloween. Or about Beth, another girl in my class who was openly laughed at and ridiculed for ‘still believing’.

Then there were the snow prints on the living room carpet, leading a trail all the way from the chimney over to our Christmas tree and back again. To this day, I still don’t know how Mum even managed it. Papier mâché? Cotton wool? Back then, I was too young and thick to dig a bit deeper. And yet every Christmas morning without fail, there they’d be; real, live snow prints dotted all over our living room carpet.

Money was tight for Mum and yet still Santa never failed to deliver in style. A doll’s house that particular year, I remember. A little girl’s fantasy version of just what a proper Victorian doll’s house should be, right down to window boxes and plastic figurines in bonnets and corsets that you could move around inside.

‘You see?’ she said, beaming that wise, calm smile that’s imprinted on my mind to this very day. ‘Santa never forgets good children.’

It’s only looking back now that I realize how tough Mum must have had it really. She’d adopted me at forty-two, quite late-ish in her life, certainly for the nineteen eighties, a time when women in their forties rarely had kids and certainly didn’t go adopting on their own. It was an extraordinarily brave thing to take on, then as now, and until I arrived I think she never really thought it would actually happen. I was, as she used to joke, ‘her little surprise’.

Right from when I started pre-school, she was by far the oldest of all the mums waiting for us at the school gates. Not only that, but she was one of the few who worked full time too; all the others seemed to have husbands who were the main breadwinners. Back then, right bang in the middle of The Decade that Taste Forgot, I can still see all the younger mothers in shoulder pads with big hair and waaaay too much blusher all nattering excitedly about Talking Heads / Duran Duran / who was going to see Fatal Attraction that weekend.

And right there at the back, always at the back, Mum would be waiting quietly for me. More often than not, still in her nurse’s uniform of long blue trousers with a white top over it, navy woolly cardigan, flat, sensible shoes with her hair pulled back into a tiny bun. Neat as a pin, like always.

‘Is that your mammy or your granny?’ I remember one girl in my class innocently asking me. I never said a word to Mum about it, but I think she knew anyway. She knew by the way I hugged her tight that night and said, ‘I think you’re lovely … and not that old at all!’ She just knew, same way she always knew everything, mind reader that she was.

The subject of my birth parents was one she and I never went into, at least not until I was old enough to properly understand. Even though as a nosey kid I practically had the poor woman persecuted.

‘Molly in my class says you have to have a mother and a father to get born,’ I used to plague her, day and night, like a dog with a bone.

‘And Molly’s quite right,’ Mum would reply, briskly getting dinner ready, efficiently cleaning up any mess behind her as she went. Swear to God, our kitchen was cleaner than any hospital she’d ever worked in. You could have performed surgery right on our kitchen table, it was that sterile.

‘But then what happened to my real parents? Did they die? Like Jayne in school’s Dad did?’

‘Holly,’ she’d say calmly, barely looking up from the housework as if to reduce the enormity of where this conversation was headed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that family is family and that all families are different? Sometimes you have a mum and a dad who aren’t able to bring up a child by themselves and sometimes you have someone like me, who’s on her own, but who wanted nothing more than a little girl exactly like you.

I wanted a child like you so badly, then you came along and you were like a miracle for me. It was December when you first arrived and suddenly there you were. My own personal little Christmas miracle.’

‘But Mum …’

‘… What’s really important,’ she’d add, stopping to affectionately ruffle the top of my head, ‘is that in our little family, no child could possibly be more loved than you.’

‘But where did my real mum and dad go?’ I persisted, with all the stubbornness of childhood.

‘Sweetheart, they didn’t go anywhere and if you ever wanted to meet them, then when the time is right I’m sure we can. But here in our little family, there’s just the two of us; you and me. And if you ask me, we’re the best, happiest family you could ever ask for.’

Didn’t stop me from being utterly consumed with thoughts of my birth parents though, particularly when I was old enough to fully understand and Mum told me everything. All about my birth parents, how ridiculously young they were when I was born, my biological mother nineteen and still in college, while my father was younger still, just eighteen and barely out of school. She told me how they’d no choice but to put me up for adoption.

But then before what happened I’d happily have battered down the Adoption Authority’s offices to track down my birth parents, wherever they were now, wherever life had taken them.

Whereas after, I gave up even caring. The only family I’d ever had was gone, so what was the point, I figured. After all, I’d been lucky enough to have the best parent anyone could possibly have asked for.

And that, for me, was plenty.




Chapter Nine (#ulink_927ea5a5-9b65-5a35-aa39-4f6d050b2ca9)


D-Day. Thursday. Date night.

I’m in News FM, but as it’s one of my ‘turn up for work even though I’m not getting paid’ days, I’ve got a secret, cunning plan to slip out of here about 4ish, grab a lightning-quick blow-dry, then race home to try on about twelve different outfits before fecking them all in a big mound on the floor as soon as I hit on ‘the one.’

But after years of toiling away in the doldrums, wouldn’t you know it? That’s exactly the moment when my whole career suddenly decides to go stratospheric.

Afternoon Delight is just wrapping up for another day and I’m at my desk packing up so I can surreptitiously slip off unnoticed. Next thing I’m cast into shadow as our presenter Noel, all six feet three of him – the brandy and port gut included – is suddenly towering over me.

‘Hey there, Holly,’ he smiles fake-sincere, in that man-of-the-people-I-feel-your-pain way he goes on. ‘Not in a mad rush off somewhere, I hope?’

I jump a bit, but then it’s pretty unheard of for Noel to linger round as soon as we’re off air. Ordinarily, he just skedaddles out of here the very minute the red studio light clicks off, then heads off to glamorous TV land for his far more salubrious night job presenting Tonight With … at Channel Six. In fact, we’re doing really well if we see or hear from him before the next day’s pre-production meeting.

Not to mention that this is the second time he’s deigned to single me out in the last week alone.

‘Ermm, well actually …’ I begin to say, but it’s a waste of my time as he just cuts right over me anyway.

‘Thought not, good,’ he says. ‘In that case, you can walk me to my car. It’s high time you and I had a bit of a talk.’

That, by the way, sounded like more of an order than a polite request, so with a ‘what the f**k?’ cartoon caption coming out of my head and on numb autopilot, I trail along in his wake. Hard though not to be aware of a lot of raised eyebrows from round the office, particularly from Maia Mars, who’ll doubtless start spreading rumors that I’m now having a hot affair with the boss right under everyone else’s nose.

I’m still utterly at a loss to know what this is all about and the two of us are all alone in the lift, before Noel even acknowledges that I’m actually sharing the same airspace as him.

‘So then, Holly,’ he says just a touch patronizingly as he focuses on his own reflection in the steel metal lift door, then starts adjusting the thick clump of grey hair he’s so inordinately proud of from side to side. I can only guess to make it more camera friendly.

‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on your work lately you know, and I have to say I think you’re really doing a terrific job.’

‘Oh, well thanks, Noel,’ I somehow manage to stammer, still mystified but secretly thrilled.

‘That piece about long-distance online relationships last week? Pure gold,’ he goes on, still concentrating on his own reflection, like he’s about to be papped the minute he leaves the building. We reach the car park level on the lower basement floor and the lift doors obediently ping open for him.

‘Anyway, here’s the deal,’ he goes on, striding out of the lift and on through the icy cold car park, as I struggle two paces behind him madly trying to keep up. ‘I think you’re long overdue a trial run out at Channel Six by now. You’ve worked hard and it’ll be good for us to try you out as a freelance journalist in TV land as well. You deserve a shot; you’ve earned it. So what do you say?’

A weak, water-y ‘what?’ is all I can come out with, I’m so utterly flabbergasted.

Channel Six? Is that what he just said? A proper telly gig? And one that even pays me properly? Because this, well, this would be it then. This is a proper break for me. The big one, what I’ve been waiting for and working towards all this time.

‘Now I’m not in a position to offer you anything permanent, you do understand,’ Noel turns to caution me as we finally reach his car, an ostentatious boom-era seven series BMW with all the bells and whistles on it you’d expect. ‘So it goes without saying that you’d still keep on working here at News FM too.’

‘Of course,’ I tell him, ‘I’d never leave the station high and dry like that.’

‘Good, good. Because all I can offer you right now is a try-out as a freelance researcher, nothing more,’ he goes on, car door open, hopping inside to the cushiness of the cream leather driver’s seat. ‘So at most we’re talking maybe one evening’s work per week on Tonight With … . I’m afraid, budget wise, that’s as much as is on the table right now.’

‘Of course, I completely understand—’

‘I’ll monitor your progress closely and we’ll see how you get on from there.’

‘Ermm, well … that’s really great, Noel. And thanks.’

‘Human interest stories, that’s what you really excel in, Holly. Particularly stories that appeal to women. You know the kind of thing I’m after; you could do it in your sleep. You keep pitching good stuff and I promise I’ll keep broadcasting it.’

He closes the car door with an expensive clunk and zooms the tinted window down, so he can keep on talking.

‘So what do you say then? Can I count on you?’

‘Oh God, yes! Absolutely!’ I tell him delightedly, with my head swimming. ‘Of course I’m in! And thanks so much for the opportunity … I’m just so excited about all this.’

‘Good, good, good,’ he says, waving away my gushing gratitude. ‘So that’s all settled then. I’ll call my exec producer and tell him you’ll be part of the team on a freelance basis. He’ll organize a security pass for you and then you’re in.’

‘Fantastic!’

‘And, by the way, you start tonight.’

‘Sorry? What did you say? Tonight?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m a reporter down for this evening; out with the bloody flu, can you believe it? On the same day as the Government Budget? It’s one of the busiest days of the year for us, so it’s all hands to the pump. Anyway, I’ll see you in studio, you know where Channel Six is. About 5.30 p.m. Just make sure you’re not late.’

And like that, he’s gone. Leaving me with my jaw dangling approximately somewhere around my collarbone.

*

The aforesaid exec producer, an incredibly hassled sounding guy called Tony, calls me immediately afterwards. And so far, I think, so good. Tonight With … airs at 9 p.m., but the research team are needed in situ hours earlier, directly after the Budget’s been announced.

‘So … does that mean we’re free to leave at nine, as soon as the show goes live?’ I ask him, aware of just how bloody cheeky that sounds. On my very first day in a job where I should be trying to carve out my name, not skive off ASAP.

‘And why are you so anxious to rush off anyway?’ Tony asks dryly. ‘Prior engagement or something?’

‘No! Absolutely not,’ I lie, biting the words back and quickly reminding myself of just how much this gig means to me. ‘And I’m so sorry, for even bringing it up in the first place.’ Then just so he doesn’t mark me down as a complete skiver, I hastily throw in, ‘of course, it’s wonderful to get this chance to work with you all and I promise I won’t let you down.’

‘As it happens, I reckon I should be finished with you not that long after nine-ish,’ Tony sighs, ‘So I suppose you could slip off then, as long as nothing else comes up. But with live TV, you never know. It tends to be a bit of a rollercoaster.’

OK then, I think, taking a nice, soothing breath. This is do-able. It won’t be easy, but I may just be able to keep all the balls juggling in the air at once. Having my cake and eating it is still very much on the cards. I can take this amazing, unmissable opportunity and still get to make my date tonight too. It’ll be tight, but I can do it.

So I call the one and only number I managed to wheedle out of Andy a few nights ago, during one of our long, long, lazy night-time chats. The emergency number. The only-in-case-of number. The one that he was incredibly reluctant to give me, saying there really was no need as he’d always call me anyway. But I kept on at him and on at him till I eventually got the digits and I’m now bloody glad that I had the wit to do that much, at least.

I call the number and call it and keep on calling it, time and again. But it just keeps clicking through to an annoying voicemail in an American accent saying, ‘we’re sorry, but the customer you’re trying to reach may have their unit powered off. Please try later.’

Feckfeckfe‌ckfeckfeck.

So instead I email.

User Name: lady_reporter

Hi Andy, it’s me.

Look, there’s a bit of a problem this end, but I’m hoping it’s a surmountable one. A major work thing involving the Government Budget has suddenly landed on me and I may be a little late this evening to meet you for drinks. Like about an hour late. Or thereabouts.

Will you let me know if that’s OK? Tried calling but your phone is switched off.

So sorry about this. Will explain absolutely everything to you when we’re chatting, but trust me, as excuses for lateness go, this one’s a doozie.

Holly x

So it’s just coming up to 5 p.m. now and all going to schedule. I think, hope and pray that this might – just might – work.

In the interim, I scoot home and switch on the telly so I can see the Minister for Finance reading out the Budget live. Meanwhile I’m frantically changing into a pair of low-cut jeans and a tight black cashmere sweater; a borrow from Joy which she made me promise to do her laundry for a full week in return for. Throw in the high heels I bought for our last aborted date last week and I’m all set to go. Not too overdressed for work, and yet not too shabby – I hope – for dinner somewhere fancy with Andy afterwards.

5.15 p.m.

I’m really up against the clock now and I’ve still got a scary amount of preparation work to do if I’m to be ready to work on an actual live hard-hitting TV show. So, with no choice in the matter, I splurge out on a cab to get me to Channel Six in Donnybrook where Tonight With … is shot. It’s a fifteen minute journey, so I use the time to read what the news app on my phone is saying about the Budget, trying to brief myself a little bit better on the whole thing. It’s only when that’s done I get a chance to check my emails again.

Bingo. Oh thank you, God! Andy got my message and he’s here, he’s actually here! In Ireland … we’re sharing the same landmass … finally!

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Well Holly, aren’t you gonna welcome me to the Emerald Isle? Got here not long ago and I’m all checked into my hotel. Loving being here and looking forward to a stroll down Grafton Street later on – that’s your main shopping precinct, right?

No biggie at all about your being an hour late, honey. Your Government Budget sounds like real hot news. Still though, you’re well worth waiting for. Sorry about missing your phone calls; my cell phone died on me, so I’m just juicing it up a little right now.

Have a great day, good luck with your work thing, and I’ll see you in the Shelbourne bar later,

Ax

Major sigh of relief! He got my message and it’s all absolutely fine. Which is wonderful beyond words. Means if the delay stretches out a bit longer, the way these things sometimes do with any live show, I’m covered. I can just call or email, tell him I’m on my way and there’s no problem whatsoever. Is there? Course not.





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