One Hundred Names
Cecelia Ahern

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

This edition published by Harper 2016

Copyright © Cecelia Ahern 2012

Cover design by Heike Schüssler © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Cecelia Ahern 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: 9780007350483

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN: 9780007510917

Version: 2017-08-14

Praise for Cecelia Ahern

‘Cecelia Ahern’s novels are like a box of emeralds … they are, one and all, dazzling gems’

Adriana Trigiani, author of The Shoemaker’s Wife

‘Beautiful and unexpected … both thought-provoking and life-affirming’

Sunday Express

‘Intricate and emotional … really completely lovely’

Grazia

‘A wry, dark drama’

Daily Mail

‘Life-affirming, warm and wise’

Good Housekeeping

‘Cecelia Ahern is an undisputed master when it comes to writing about relationships … Moving, real and exquisitely crafted.’

Heat

‘Exceptional … both heartbreaking and uplifting’

Daily Express

‘Both moving and thought-provoking’

Irish Independent

‘An exquisitely crafted and poignant tale about finding the beauty that lies within the ordinary. Make space for it in your life’

Heat

‘An unusual and satisfying novel’

Woman

‘Ahern cleverly and thoughtfully turns the tables, providing thought-provoking life lessons.’

Sunday Express

‘An intriguing, heartfelt novel, which makes you think about the value of life’

Glamour

‘Insightful and true’

Irish Independent

‘Ahern demonstrates a sure and subtle understanding of the human condition and the pleasures and pains in relationships’

Barry Forshaw

‘Utterly irresistible … I devoured it in one sitting’

Marian Keyes

‘The legendary Ahern will keep you guessing … a classic’

Company

Dedicated to my uncle Robert (Hoppy) Ellis. We love you, and miss you, and thank you for all the memories.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Cecelia Ahern

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cecelia Ahern

About the Publisher

Chapter One

She was nicknamed The Graveyard. Any secret, any piece of confidential information, personal or otherwise, that went in never, ever came back out. You knew you were safe; you knew you would never be judged or, if you were it would be silently, so you’d never know. She was perfectly named with a birth name that meant consistency and fortitude, and she was appropriately nicknamed; she was solid, permanent and steady, stoic but oddly comforting. Which is why visiting her in this place was all the more agonising. And it was agonising, not just mentally challenging; Kitty felt a physical pain in her chest, more specifically in her heart, that began with the thought of having to go, grew with the reality of actually being there, and then worsened with the knowledge that it wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t a false alarm, this was life in its rawest form. A life that had been challenged, and would subsequently be lost, to death.

Kitty made her way through the private hospital, taking the stairs when she could take elevators, making deliberate wrong turns, graciously allowing others to walk before her at every opportunity, particularly if they were patients moving at a snail’s pace with walking frames or wheeling intravenous lines on poles. She was aware of the stares, which were a result of the current crisis she was in, and the fact she had at times walked in circles around the ward. She was attentive to any bit of conversation that any random person wished to have with her, anything and everything that she could do to postpone arriving at Constance’s room. Eventually her delaying tactics could continue no longer as she reached a dead end: a semicircle with four doors. Three doors were open, the occupants of the rooms and their visitors visible from where Kitty stood, though she didn’t need to look inside. Without even seeing the numbers, she knew which room contained her friend and mentor. She was grateful to the closed door for the final delay she had been granted.

She knocked lightly, not fully committing to it, wanting to make the effort to visit but truly hoping she wouldn’t be heard, so she could walk away, so she could always say she’d tried, so she could rest easily, guilt free. The tiny part of her that still clung to rationality knew that this wasn’t realistic, that it wasn’t right. Her heart was pounding, her shoes were squeaking on the floor as she moved from foot to foot, and she felt weak from the smell. She hated that hospital smell. A wave of nausea rushed through her and she breathed deeply and prayed for composure, for the supposed benefits of adulthood to finally kick in so she could get through this moment.

While Kitty was in the process of looking at her feet and taking deep breaths, the door opened and she was faced, unprepared, with a nurse and a shockingly deteriorated Constance. She blinked once, twice, and knew on the third time that she ought to be pretending, that it would not help Constance to see her visitor’s true reaction to her appearance. So she tried to think of something to say and words failed her. There was nothing funny, nothing mundane, nothing even nothing, that she could think of to say to the friend she’d known for ten years.

‘I’ve never seen her before in my life,’ Constance said, her French accent audible despite her living in Ireland for over thirty years. Surprisingly, her voice was still strong and solid, assured and unwavering, as she had always been. ‘Call security and have her removed from the premises immediately.’

The nurse smiled, opened the door wider and then returned to Constance’s side.

‘I can come back,’ Kitty finally said. She turned away but found herself faced with more hospital paraphernalia and so turned again, searching for something normal, something ordinary and everyday that she could focus on that would fool her mind into thinking she wasn’t there in a hospital, with that smell, with her terminally ill friend.

‘I’m almost finished there. I’ll just take your temperature,’ the nurse said, placing a thermometer in Constance’s ear.

‘Come. Sit.’ Constance motioned to the chair beside her bed.

Kitty couldn’t look her in the eye. She knew it was rude, but her eyes kept moving away as though pulled by magnetic force to things that weren’t sick and didn’t remind her of people that were sick, so she busied herself with the gifts in her arms.

‘I brought you flowers.’ She looked around for somewhere to put them.

Constance hated flowers. She always left them to die in their vase whenever anybody attempted to bribe her, apologise to her or simply brighten her office. Despite knowing that, buying them had been a part of Kitty’s procrastination, particularly as there had been an enticing queue before her.

‘Oh dear,’ the nurse said. ‘Security should have told you that flowers aren’t allowed in the ward.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s not a problem, I’ll get rid of them.’ Kitty tried to hide her relief as she stood up to make her escape.

‘I’ll take them,’ the nurse said. ‘I’ll leave them at reception for you so you can take them home. No point in a beautiful bouquet like that going to waste.’

‘At least I brought cupcakes.’ Kitty took a box from her bag.

The nurse and Constance looked at one another again.

‘You’re joking. No cupcakes either?’

‘The chef prefers patients to eat food which has come only from his kitchen.’

Kitty handed the contraband to the nurse.

‘You can take them home too,’ she laughed, studying the thermometer. ‘You’re fine,’ she smiled at Constance. They shared a knowing look before she left, as if those two words meant something entirely different – they must have done – because she wasn’t fine. She was eaten away by cancer. Her hair had begun to grow back, but sprouted in uneven patterns around her head, her protruding chest bones were visible above the shapeless hospital gown and she had wires and tubes connected to both arms, which were thin and bruised from injections and tube insertions.

‘I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the cocaine in my bag,’ Kitty said just as the door closed behind the nurse, and they heard her laugh heartily from the corridor. ‘I know you hate flowers but I panicked. I was going to bring you gold nail varnish, incense and a mirror, because I thought it would be funny.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Constance’s eyes were still a sparkling blue and if Kitty could concentrate on just them, so full of life, she could almost forget the emaciated frame. Almost, but not quite.

‘Because then I realised it wasn’t funny.’

‘I would have laughed.’

‘I’ll bring them next time.’

‘It won’t be so funny then. I’ve already heard the joke. My dear …’ She reached for Kitty and they clasped hands tightly on the bed. Kitty couldn’t look at Constance’s hands, they were so sore and thin. ‘It is so good to see you.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘It took you a while.’

‘The traffic …’ Kitty began and then gave up joking. She was over a month late.

There was a silence and Kitty realised it was a pause for her to explain why she hadn’t visited.

‘I hate hospitals.’

‘I know you do. Noscomephobia,’ said Constance.

‘What’s that?’

‘Fear of hospitals.’

‘I didn’t know there was a word for it.’

‘There’s a word for everything. I haven’t been able to poop for two weeks; they call it anismus.’

‘I should do a story on that,’ Kitty said, her mind drifting.

‘You will not. My rectal inertia is between you, me, Bob and the nice woman I allow to look at my bottom.’

‘I meant a piece on phobia of hospitals. That would make a good story.’

‘Tell me why.’

‘Imagine I found somebody who is really sick and they can’t get treatment.’

‘So they medicate at home. Big deal.’

‘Or what about a woman in labour? She’s pacing up and down on the street outside but she just can’t bring herself to go through the doors of the hospital.’

‘So she has the baby in an ambulance or at home or on the street.’ Constance shrugged. ‘I once did a story on a woman who gave birth whilst in hiding in Kosovo. She was all by herself and it was her first child. They weren’t found until two weeks after, perfectly healthy and happy together. Women in Africa have their babies while working the fields, then they go straight back to work. Tribal women dance their babies out. The Western world goes about childbirth the wrong way around,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively in the air, despite having no children herself. ‘I wrote an article on that before.’

‘A doctor who can’t go to work …’ Kitty continued to push her idea.

‘That’s ridiculous. He should lose his licence.’

Kitty laughed. ‘Thanks for your honesty, as usual.’ Then her smile faded and she concentrated on Constance’s hand wrapped around hers. ‘Or how about a selfish woman whose best friend is sick and she wouldn’t visit her?’

‘But you’re here now and I’m happy to see you.’

Kitty swallowed. ‘You haven’t mentioned anything about it.’

‘About what?’

‘You know what.’

‘I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.’

‘I don’t really.’

‘Well, then.’

They sat in silence.

‘I’m being torn apart in the newspapers, the radio, everywhere,’ Kitty said, bringing it up anyway.

‘I haven’t seen any papers.’

Kitty ignored the pile of papers on the windowsill. ‘Everywhere I go, all week, everyone is looking at me, pointing, whispering as if I’m the scarlet woman.’

‘That is the price of being in the limelight. You are a TV star now.’

‘I’m not a TV star, I’m an idiot who made a fool of herself on TV. There’s a distinct difference.’

Constance shrugged again as if it wasn’t a big deal.

‘You never wanted me to work on the show in the first place. Why don’t you just say “I told you so” and get it over with?’

‘They are not words that I use. They do nothing productive.’

Kitty removed her hand from Constance’s and asked quietly, ‘Do I still have a job?’

‘Haven’t you spoken to Pete?’ She looked angry with her duty editor.

‘I have. But I need to hear it from you. It’s more important that I hear it from you.’

‘Etcetera’s stance on hiring you as a reporter has not changed,’ Constance said firmly.

‘Thank you,’ Kitty whispered.

‘I supported you doing Thirty Minutes because I know that you’re a good reporter and you have it in you to be a great reporter. We all make mistakes, some bigger than others, but none of us is perfect. We use these times to become better reporters and, more importantly, better people. When you came to be interviewed by me ten years ago do you remember the story you tried to sell to me?’

Kitty laughed and cringed. ‘No,’ she lied.

‘Of course you do. Well, if you won’t say it, I will. I asked you if you were to write a story for me then and there about absolutely anything, what would it be?’

‘We really don’t have to go through this again. I was there, remember?’ Kitty blushed.

‘And you said,’ Constance continued as though Kitty had never spoken, ‘that you had heard of a caterpillar that could not turn into a butterfly …’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’

‘And you would like to examine how it would feel to be denied such a beautiful thing. You would like to know how it feels for the caterpillar to watch other caterpillars transform while all the time knowing he would never have that opportunity. Our interview was on the day of a US presidential election, and on the day a cruise liner sank with four thousand five hundred people aboard. Of the twelve interviewees I saw that day, you were the only person who did not mention anything about politics, about the ship, or about wanting to spend a day with Nelson Mandela, for that matter. What concerned you most was this poor little caterpillar.’

Kitty smiled. ‘Yeah, well, I was just out of college. I think I still had too much weed in my system.’

‘No,’ Constance whispered, reaching out for Kitty’s hand again. ‘You were the only person who truly told me in that interview that you weren’t afraid to fly, that in fact you were afraid that you wouldn’t.’

Kitty swallowed hard, close to tears. She certainly hadn’t flown yet and was, she felt, further from it than ever.

‘Some people say that you shouldn’t operate from a place of fear,’ Constance went on, ‘but if there is no fear, how is there a challenge? Often that is when I’ve done my best work, because I have embraced the fear and challenged myself. I saw this young girl who was afraid she wouldn’t fly and I thought – a-ha – she is the girl for us. And that is what Etcetera is about. Sure, we cover politics but we cover the people behind the politics. We want them for their emotional journeys, not just so we can hear their policies but so we can hear the reason for their policies. What happened to make them believe in this, what happened to make them feel this way? Yes, we sometimes talk about diets, but not organic this and wholewheat that, but of why and who. We are all about people, about feeling, about emotions. We may sell fewer but we mean more, though that is merely my opinion, of course. Etcetera will continue to publish your stories, Kitty, as long as you are writing what is true to you and definitely not what somebody else is telling you will make a good story. Nobody can pretend to know what people want to read or hear or see. People rarely know it themselves; they only know it after the fact. That is what creating something original is all about. Finding the new, not rehashing the old and feeding a market.’ She raised her eyebrows.

‘It was my story,’ Kitty said quietly. ‘I can’t blame anyone else.’

‘There are more people involved in telling a story than the writer, and you know that. If you had come to me with this story, well, I would not have covered it, but hypothetically, if I had, I would have pulled it before it was too late. There were signs and someone above you should have been able to see them, but if you want to take the entire blame, well then, you ask yourself why you wanted to tell that story so badly.’

Kitty wasn’t sure if she was meant to answer then and there but Constance gathered her energy and continued: ‘I once interviewed a man who seemed increasingly amused by my questions. When I asked him what he found so entertaining, he told me that he found the questions an interviewer asked revealed much more about the interviewer than any of his answers revealed about himself. During our interview he learned far more about me than I about him. I found that interesting and he was right, on that occasion at least. I think that the story one covers often reveals more about the person writing it than perhaps the story is revealing itself. Journalism classes teach us that one must extract oneself from the story in order to report without bias, but often we need to be in the story in order to understand, to connect, to help the audience identify or else it has no heart; it could be a robot telling the story, for all anyone cares. And that does not mean injecting opinion into the pieces, Kitty, for that bothers me too. I don’t like it when reporters use a story to tell us how they feel. Who cares what one person thinks? A nation? A genre? A sex? That interests me more. I mean inject understanding in all aspects of the story, show the audience that there is feeling behind the words.’

Kitty didn’t want to have to think about what covering that story said about her – she never wanted to have to think or talk about it again – but that was impossible because her network was being sued and she was a day away from going into a libel court. Her head was pounding, she was tired of thinking about it, tired of analysing what on earth had happened, but she suddenly felt the need to repent, to apologise for everything she had ever done wrong just to feel worthy again.

‘I have a confession.’

‘I love confessions.’

‘You know, when you gave me the job, I was so excited, the first story I wanted to write for you was the caterpillar story.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course I couldn’t interview a caterpillar, but I wanted it to form the basis of a story about people who couldn’t fly when they really wanted to, what it meant to be held back, to have your wings clipped.’ Kitty looked at her friend fading away in the bed, big eyes staring up at her, and she fought the urge to cry. She was sure Constance understood exactly what she meant. ‘I started researching the story … I’m sorry …’ She held her hand to her mouth and tried to compose herself but she couldn’t, and the tears fell. ‘It turned out I was wrong. The caterpillar I told you about, the Oleander, it turns out it does fly after all. It just turns into a moth.’ Kitty felt ridiculous for crying at that point but she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t the caterpillar’s predicament that made her sad but the fact her research then as now had been appalling, something that had got her into serious trouble this time. ‘The network have suspended me.’

‘They’ve done you a favour. Wait for it to settle and you can resume telling your stories.’

‘I don’t know what stories to tell any more. I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong again.’

‘You won’t get it wrong, Kitty. You know, telling a story – or, as I like to say, seeking the truth – is not necessarily to go on a mission all guns blazing in order to reveal a lie. Neither is it to be particularly ground-breaking. It is simply to get to the heart of what is real.’

Kitty nodded and sniffed. ‘I’m sorry, this visit wasn’t supposed to be about me. I’m so sorry.’ She bent over in her chair and placed her head on the bed, embarrassed that Constance was seeing her like this, embarrassed to be behaving this way when her friend was so sick and had more important things to worry about.

‘Shush now,’ Constance said soothingly, running her hand gently through Kitty’s hair. ‘That is an even better ending than I originally wished for. Our poor caterpillar got to fly after all.’

When Kitty lifted her head, Constance suddenly appeared exhausted.

‘Are you okay? Should I call a nurse?’

‘No … no. It comes on suddenly,’ she said, her eyelids heavy and fluttering. ‘I’ll have a short nap and I’ll be all right again. I don’t want you to go. There is so much for us to talk about. Such as Glen,’ she smiled weakly.

Kitty faked a smile in return. ‘Yes. You sleep,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be right here.’

Constance could always read her expressions, could dismantle her lies in seconds. ‘I didn’t like him much anyway.’

Within seconds Constance’s eyes fluttered closed.

Kitty sat on the windowsill in Constance’s hospital room, looking down at the people passing below, trying to figure out the route home where the fewest people would see her. A flow of French snapped her out of her trance and she turned to Constance in surprise. Apart from when Constance swore, in all the ten years she had known her, Kitty had never heard her speak French.

‘What did you say?’

Constance seemed momentarily confused. She cleared her throat and gathered herself. ‘You look far away.’

‘I was thinking.’

‘I shall alert the authorities at once.’

‘I have a question I’ve always wanted to ask you.’ Kitty moved to the chair beside Constance’s bed.

‘Oh, yes? Why didn’t Bob and I have children?’ She sat up in the bed and reached for her water. She sucked the tiniest amount from a straw.

‘No, know-it-all. You’ve killed every plant you’ve ever owned, I can’t imagine what you’d have been like with a child. No, I wanted to ask you, is there any story you wish you’d written but for whatever reason never wrote?’

Constance lit up at the question. ‘Oh, that is a good question. A story in itself perhaps.’ She raised her eyebrows at Kitty. ‘A piece where you interview retired writers about the story that got away, ha? What do you think? I should talk to Pete about that. Or perhaps we should contact retired writers and ask them to write the story that they never wrote, especially for the magazine. People like Oisín O’Ceallaigh and Olivia Wallace. Give them their opportunity to tell it. It could be a special edition.’

Kitty laughed. ‘Do you ever stop?’

There was a light knock on the door and Constance’s husband, Bob, entered. He looked tired but as soon as he laid eyes on Constance, he softened.

‘Hello, darling. Ah, hello, Kitty. Nice of you to join us.’

‘Traffic,’ Kitty said, awkwardly.

‘I know the feeling,’ he smiled, coming around and kissing her on the head. ‘It often slows me down too, but better late than never, eh?’ He looked at Constance, her face all twisted up in concentration. ‘Are you trying to poo, my love?’

Kitty laughed.

‘Kitty asked me what story have I always wanted to write but never have.’

‘Ah. You’re not supposed to make her think, the doctors said so,’ he joked. ‘But that’s a good question. Let me guess. Is it that time during the oil spillage when you had the exclusive interview with the penguin who saw everything?’

‘I did not have an exclusive with the penguin,’ Constance laughed, then winced with pain.

Kitty became nervous but Bob, used to it, continued.

‘Oh, it was the whale then. The whale who saw everything. Told everyone who so much as inched near him about what he saw.’

‘It was the captain of the ship,’ she threw at Bob, but lovingly.

‘Why didn’t you interview him?’ Kitty asked, arrested by their love for one another.

‘My flight got delayed,’ she said, fixing her bedcovers.

‘She couldn’t find her passport,’ Bob outed her. ‘You know what the flat is like, the Dead Sea Scrolls could be in there, for all we know. The passports have since found their home in the toaster, lest we forget again. Anyway, so she missed her flight and instead of Constance’s great exclusive, the captain spoke to someone else who we shall not name.’ He turned to Kitty and whispered, ‘Dan Cummings.’

‘Oh, you’ve done it, you’ve killed me now,’ Constance said dramatically, pretending to die.

Kitty covered her face in her hands, feeling it wrong to laugh.

‘Ah, finally we are rid of her,’ Bob teased gently. ‘So what is the answer, my love? I’m intrigued.’

‘Do you really not know this?’ Kitty asked Bob. He shook his head and they watched Constance thinking, which really was an amusing sight.

‘Ah,’ she said suddenly, eyes lighting up, ‘I’ve got it. It’s rather a recent idea, actually, something I thought of last year before … well, it was somewhat of an experiment but it has occupied my mind since I’ve been here.’

Kitty moved in closer to listen.

Constance enjoyed making Bob and Kitty wait.

‘Possibly one of my greatest.’

Kitty groaned impatiently.

‘I’ll tell you what, the file is at home. In my office. Teresa will let you in if she’s not too busy watching Jeremy Kyle. It’s filed under N. Titled “Names”. You get it for me and bring it back and I’ll tell you about it.’

‘No!’ Kitty laughed. ‘You know how impatient I am. Please don’t make me wait.’

‘If I tell you now, you might never come back.’

‘I promise I will.’

Constance smiled. ‘Okay, you get the file, and I’ll tell you the story.’

‘It’s a deal.’

They shook on it.

Chapter Two

Choosing the quieter back roads, and feeling like a rat scuttling along in the gutter, Kitty cycled home feeling exhausted. Initially on a high after spending time with a friend, she was back to feeling hopeless again now the reality of what lay ahead for both of them had sunk in.

Thirty Minutes, the television show Kitty had started working on the previous year, the show with which she had received her big break and which had then ironically broken her, had viewing figures of half a million, which was impressive for a country with a population of five million, but not enough for Kitty to become the next Katie Couric. Now, thanks to her disastrous story, she found herself suspended from reporting on the network and in court to face a charge of libel. The story had aired four months previously, in January, but it was the impending court case, merely a day away now, that had made headlines. Her face, her mistake, and her name were now known to many more than half a million people.

She knew she would be quickly forgotten in the minds of the public, but that her professional name would suffer in the long run; it had already been destroyed. She knew she was lucky that Etcetera, the magazine Constance had founded and edited, was continuing to employ her, though the only reason she had a job was because Constance was her biggest supporter. She didn’t have many of those right now, and though Bob was deputy editor and a good friend she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d keep her job without Constance there to throw her weight around. Kitty dreaded the day that her mentor wouldn’t be in her life, never mind her professional life. Constance had been there for her since the beginning, had guided her, had advised her and had also given her the freedom to find her own voice and make her own decisions, which meant that Kitty owned her successes, but also meant her name was stamped all over every single one of her mistakes, a fact that was glaringly evident now.

Her phone vibrated again in her pocket and she ignored it as she had been doing all week. Journalists had been calling her since news of the case going to trial had broken, people she had considered friends were close to harassing her just to get a quote. They’d all chosen different tactics. Some came straight out with asking for a quote, others had gone for the sympathy vote: ‘You know how it is, Kitty, the stress we’re under here. The boss knows we’re friends, he expects me to have something.’ Others had randomly and spontaneously invited her out for dinner, for drinks, to their parents’ anniversary parties and their grandfathers’ eighty-fifth birthdays without mentioning the issue at all. She hadn’t met or spoken with any of them but she was learning a lot and slowly crossing them off her Christmas card list. There was only one person who hadn’t called her yet and that was her friend Steve. They had studied journalism together in college and had remained friends since then. His one desire had been to cover sport but the closest he’d got to that so far was covering footballers’ private lives in tabloid newspapers. It had been he who had suggested she go for the job at Etcetera. He’d picked up a copy of the magazine in a doctor’s waiting room while she’d gone for the morning-after pill after their one and only dalliance, which had resulted in the realisation they were destined only ever to be simply friends.

Thinking about Steve and her constantly ringing mobile gave her a sixth sense and she stopped cycling and reached for her phone. It was him. She actually debated not answering. She actually doubted him. The consequences of the Thirty Minutes story had played havoc with whom she could and could not trust. She answered the phone.

‘No comment,’ she snapped.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said, no comment. You can tell your boss that you haven’t spoken to me, that we fell out, in fact we may be about to because I can’t believe you have the nerve to call me up and abuse our friendship in this way.’

‘Are you smoking crack?’

‘What? No. Hold on, is this part of the story? Because if they’re now saying I’m a drug addict then they can—’

‘Kitty, shut up. I’ll tell my boss that you, Kitty Logan, who he’s never heard of anyway, has no comment to make on Victoria Beckham’s new line because that is about the only thing that I am allowed to talk about to anybody today. Not the impending match between Carlow and Monaghan, which is critical because Carlow hasn’t been in an All-Ireland final since 1936 and Monaghan hasn’t been in a final since 1930, but nobody cares about that. Not in my office. No. All we care about is whether V.B.’s new range is a hit or miss, or hot or not, or two other words that mean the opposite but which rhyme, something I’m currently supposed to be inventing but I can’t.’ He finished his rant and Kitty couldn’t help it, she started laughing, the first proper laugh she’d had all week.

‘Well, I’m glad one of us thinks it’s funny.’

‘I thought you were allowed to write football stories now.’

‘She’s married to David Beckham, so apparently that qualifies it as a football story. Apart from needing help with the ridiculous piece I have to write, I was calling to make sure you weren’t decaying inside your flat.’

‘Well, you were right. I was rotting away in the flat but I had to leave to visit Constance. I’m going back there now to continue where I left off.’

‘Good, I’ll see you soon. I’m outside your door. Oh, and, Kitty,’ his tone turned serious, ‘I suggest you bring some bleach and a good scrubbing brush.’

Kitty’s stomach churned.

‘Journo Scumbag Bitch’ was what Kitty found spray-painted across her door when she eventually made it to the top of the stairs with her bicycle in her arms. The studio flat was in Fairview, Dublin and the proximity to the city meant that she could cycle, sometimes walk, into the city. The fact that it was above a dry-cleaners made it affordable.

‘Maybe you should move,’ Steve said as they got down on their knees and started scrubbing the door.

‘No way. I can’t afford anywhere else. Unless you know of any available apartments above dry-cleaners.’

‘That’s a requirement for you?’

‘When I open any of my windows day or night, I am showered in dry-cleaning chemicals called tetrachloroethene, also known as tetrachloroethylene, perchloroethylene, PCE or, most commonly, PERC. Ever heard of it?’

Steve shook his head and sprayed more bleach on the door.

‘It’s used to dry-clean clothes as well as degrease metal parts. It’s considered a probable carcinogen by the World Health Organization. Tests showed that short-term exposure of eight hours or less to seven hundred thousand micrograms per cubic metre of air causes central nervous system symptoms such as dizziness, sleepiness, headaches, lightheadedness and poor balance. The red is difficult to get off, isn’t it?’

‘You do the green, I’ll do the red.’

They switched places.

‘Exposure to three hundred and fifty thousand micrograms for four hours affects the nerves of the visual system.’ Kitty dipped her sponge into her bucket of water and continued scrubbing the door. ‘Long-term exposure on dry-cleaner workers indicates biochemical changes in blood and urine. PERC can travel through floor, ceiling and wall materials, and there was a study on fourteen healthy adults living in apartments near dry-cleaners that showed their behaviour tests were lower than the average score of unexposed people.’

‘So that’s what’s wrong with you. I take it from that verbal diarrhoea that you did a story about PERC.’

‘Not quite. I researched it, then I told the landlord downstairs that I was doing a story on it and that I’d circulate it to all the neighbours and I’d tell their staff about the effects of working with PERC, so he reduced the rent by one hundred euro.’

Steve looked at her, shocked. ‘They could just have got another tenant.’

‘I told them I’d tell the next tenant and every other tenant they found. They panicked.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re …’

‘Smart?’ she smiled.

‘A journo scumbag bitch,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should stop cleaning this now, they’re right.’ He continued looking at her as if he suddenly didn’t recognise her.

‘Hey! They’re the ones using PERC!’

‘Then move somewhere else.’

‘It would be too expensive.’

‘Kitty, you can’t just threaten people like that. You can’t use your job to get what you want. That’s called bullying, you know.’

‘Oooh.’ She rolled her eyes, but dropped the sponge into the bucket in frustration and opened the door to the flat. She left the door open, sat at the kitchen table and waited for him to follow her. She bit into one of the cupcakes she’d brought back home. Steve closed the door behind him but he didn’t sit down.

‘Is there something you want to get off your chest, Steve?’

‘I came by to make sure that you were feeling okay about the trial tomorrow, but the more you talk, the more I can’t help but not feel sorry for you.’

The cupcake felt like a rock in her mouth. She swallowed it quickly. And then, finally, it came.

‘You accused a well-respected PE teacher, who is married, with a young family, of sexually abusing two students and fathering a child. On television. In front of the entire country. And you were wrong.’

She looked at him, her eyes stinging. Her heart hurt from the way he was speaking to her, and though she knew she had been wrong, she had made a mistake, she still didn’t feel that she deserved to be spoken to like that.

‘I know all of this, I know what I did,’ she said more confidently than she felt.

‘And are you sorry?’

‘Of course I’m bloody sorry,’ she exploded. ‘My career is destroyed. Absolutely nobody will ever hire me again. I’ve cost the network who knows what, if he wins his case, which he probably will, and God knows how much in legal fees, and their reputation. I’m over.’ Feeling unnerved, Kitty watched her usually calm friend struggle with his composure.

‘You see, this is what bugs me, Kitty.’

‘What?’

‘Your tone, you’re so … flippant about it all.’

‘Flippant? I’m panicking here, Steve!’

‘Panicking for yourself. For “Katherine Logan, TV journalist”,’ he said, using his fingers as inverted commas.

‘Not just that,’ she swallowed. ‘I’m really worried about my job on Etcetera too. There’s a lot at stake, Steve.’

He laughed to himself but it wasn’t a happy sound. ‘That’s exactly what I mean, you’ve just done it again. All I’ve heard from you is how your name, your reputation and your profession are ruined. It’s all about you. When I hear of you doing stupid things like threatening your landlord with a story, then it bothers me. You bother me.’ He stopped pacing back and forth and fixed his eyes on her. ‘You have for the past year.’

‘The past year? Oh, okay, I think somebody has definitely been hanging on to a few issues,’ she replied, shocked. ‘I made a mistake in my story. The thing about the apartment? That was harmless! Hold on, I remember you pretending to find a pubic hair in your burger on the very last bite just so you could get another one for free. And you did too. That poor manager, you embarrassed him so much in front of the other customers, he had no choice.’

‘I was eighteen,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re thirty-two.’

‘Thirty-three. You missed my last birthday,’ she added childishly. ‘It’s the way I am; I find stories in everything.’

‘Stories to use people.’

‘Steve!’

‘They used to be good stories, Kitty. Positive. A story for the sake of telling a good story. Not about exposing people, or setting people up.’

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t aware that your story about Victoria Beckham’s new line was going to change the world,’ she said cattily.

‘What I’m saying is, I used to like reading them, hearing about them. Now you’re just …’

‘Now I’m what?’ Her eyes filled.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No, please, please tell me what I am because I’ve only been hearing it on every single news station, reading it on internet sites and graffitied on my own front door for the last week, and I’d really like to know what my best friend thinks of me because that would just be the icing on the cake,’ she yelled.

He sighed and looked away.

There was a long silence.

‘How am I supposed to fix this, Steve?’ she finally asked. ‘What do I do to make you and the rest of the world not hate me?’

‘Have you spoken to the guy?’

‘Colin Maguire? No way. We’re about to begin a court case. If I go anywhere near him I’ll get into even more trouble. We made an apology to him at the start of Thirty Minutes, when it was discovered he wasn’t the father. We gave it priority to the show.’

‘Do you think that will make him feel better?’

She shrugged.

‘Kitty, if you did to me what you did to him, I would do a lot worse than they’ve done to your door. I would want to kill you,’ he said sternly.

Kitty’s eyes widened. ‘Steve, don’t scare me like that.’

‘This is what you’re not understanding, Kitty. This is not about your career. Or your good name. This is not about you. This is about him.’

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, struggling. ‘Maybe if I can explain what happened … The two women were so credible, Steve. Their stories matched up, the dates, the times, everything was so … real. Believe me, I followed it up over and over. I didn’t just run with it straight off. It took me six months. The producer was behind me, the editor, I wasn’t the only person who did this. And it wasn’t just about him. Did you even see it? It was about the number of paedophiles and sex offenders in Ireland who occupy roles in schools and other jobs with direct contact to children who have been reported and who have been charged with the crime of abusing students in their care.’

‘Apart from him. He was completely innocent.’

‘Okay! Apart from him,’ she said, frustrated. ‘All the other stuff I covered was perfectly accurate! Nobody ever says anything about that!’

‘Because that’s your job, to be accurate. You shouldn’t be congratulated for it.’

‘Any other journalist in that room would have done the same thing, but the letter came to me.’

‘It went to you for a reason. Those women set you up and they used you to set him up. You were covering bullshit stories so they knew you’d want to jump on this straight away, have your moment of glory.’

‘It wasn’t about me having my moment of glory.’

‘Wasn’t it? All I know is I’ve never seen you as excited as the day you got the job on the show. And you were doing a story about tea, Kitty. If Constance asked you to do a story about tea, you’d tell her to go and jump. Television made you excited.’

She tried to pretend it wasn’t true but she couldn’t. He was right. Thirty Minutes was made up of one large investigative story – the big one, the story everybody wanted to work on – and the remainder of the show was padded with smaller, local, not so ground-breaking pieces. Her first story had been to look into why consumers chose the brand of tea they bought. Numerous trips to tea factories, sweeping shots of supermarket tea aisles, and visits to morning community tea events led her to find that people simply followed the same brand their parents drank. It was a generational thing. It had been four minutes and fifty seconds long and Kitty believed she had a cutting-edge piece of art on her hands. Four months along in the job, when she received the letter, addressed to her, from the two women making claims against Colin Maguire, she had instantly, vehemently believed them, and she had worked with them and helped build a case against him. She had got lost in the drama, the excitement, the atmosphere of the TV studio offices, her opportunity to move from sweet harmless stories to the big time, and in her search for the truth had told a lie, a dangerous lie, and had ruined a man’s life.

Steve was looking around the flat.

‘What now?’ she asked, completely drained.

‘Where’s Glen?’

‘At work.’

‘Does he usually take his coffee machine to work?’

She turned round to look at the counter, confused, but her phone interrupted them.

‘My mum. Shit.’

‘Have you spoken to them lately?’

Kitty swallowed and shook her head.

‘Answer it,’ he said, refusing to leave until she had answered.

‘Hello?’ She exaggerated the word for effect and then Steve was gone.

‘Katherine, is that you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Katherine …’ Her mother broke down in tears. ‘Katherine, you’ve no idea …’ She could barely get the words out.

‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ Kitty sat up, panicked. ‘Is it Dad? Is everyone okay?’

‘Oh, Katherine,’ Mrs Logan sobbed. ‘I can’t take it any more. We are just so embarrassed down here. How could you do it? How could you do that to that poor man?’

Kitty sat back and prepared for the onslaught. It was then she noticed Glen’s plasma TV had disappeared too and, on further inspection, so had the clothes in his wardrobe.

Chapter Three

A week later, after what felt like the longest seven days of her life, Kitty awoke in a sweat from a nightmare. She lay with the bedcovers in a tangled mess around her, and her heart beating wildly. She was afraid to look around the room, but as the nightmare faded from her memory she gained courage and sat up. She couldn’t breathe. She pushed open her bedroom window and drank in deep breaths of air, but the steam pouring from the vents of the twenty-four-hour dry-cleaners was inhaled directly into her lungs. She coughed, slammed the window shut and made her way to the fridge where she stood naked before the open door in an effort to cool down. She was not ready for tomorrow. She was nowhere near equipped for tomorrow at all.

‘Colin Maguire suffered irreparable damage to his reputation, his life was utterly altered and he was removed from his home and community as a result of the January tenth episode of Thirty Minutes. Katherine Logan confronted Mr Maguire outside his place of work and accused him of sexually abusing two teenage girls and fathering one child. Despite his repeated denials and an offer to take a paternity test, the programme was broadcast. Katherine Logan, Donal Smith and Paul Montgomery’s careless actions and unprofessional behaviour had a devastating impact on Mr Maguire’s life.’

Kitty sat in court alongside Thirty Minutes producer, Paul, and editor, Donal, as they listened to the lengthy terms of the four hundred thousand euro settlement for compensatory damage and aggravated damage. It took exactly seventeen minutes to read. With each word, each accusation, Kitty hated herself a little more. Near her, Colin Maguire and his family – his wife, his parents, his brothers and sisters – and everyone in his community who had come out to support him were staring at her, their eyes searing into her back. She felt their hatred, she felt their anger, but more than anything she felt Colin’s hurt. He would barely lift his head, his eyes cast downward, his chin firmly lodged on his chest. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a year.

The Thirty Minutes team and their legal advisors left the courthouse, swiftly pushing through the mill of photographers and cameras, some from their own network, which were shoved in Kitty’s face as though she were one of the criminals she regularly saw leaving this very building on the news. The men walked so quickly she could barely keep up but she didn’t want to run. Her sanity depended on surviving that moment. She did not want to put a foot wrong now after making so many mistakes to get them there. She kept her head down and then, thinking it made her look guilty, she lifted it again. Chin up, take your punishment, and walk, she repeated to herself, trying to keep her tears at bay. The flash bulbs dizzied her and she was forced to look down at the pavement again. The act of walking suddenly felt unnatural, like a mechanical movement that took great effort. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to swing her left arm with her right foot and not the other way around. She focused on not smiling, but didn’t want to look upset. She knew these photos would be around for ever, she knew this footage would be played over and over, then would sit in the archives for reporters to root through. She knew because she did it every day. She didn’t want to look cold, but she didn’t want people to think immediately that she was guilty. People didn’t always listen to the narrative, they just looked at the pictures. She wanted to look innocent but sorry. That was it, contrite. She tried to maintain her pride and dignity when inside she felt she had neither left, and all the while people were shouting at her. Mr Maguire’s supporters had quickly exited the courtroom and spilled onto the street to give interviews to the press, and to heckle the Thirty Minutes team. She could hear them behind her hurling abuse and insults, and the journalists who were looking for a comment were trying to raise their voices above the tirades. The cars going by on Inns Quay slowed to watch the commotion, to see who was being surrounded by the media, literally being pressed by the press. Squashed and squeezed, drained and demoralised, everything being taken out of her, Kitty reflected that this was what she had done to Colin Maguire, as the reporters bumped against her, trying to keep up with her pace. Kitty kept on walking, one foot in front of the other; it was all she could do. Chin up, don’t smile, don’t cry, don’t fall, walk.

Once they’d entered their solicitor’s nearby offices and had escaped the reporters, Kitty dropped her bag to the floor, leaned her forehead against the cold wall and took deep breaths.

‘Jesus,’ she gasped, feeling her entire body flush with heat.

‘Are you okay?’ Donal asked gently.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry about this.’

She felt a light pat on her back and was grateful for his support. She had caused this and he was perfectly entitled to have a go at her.

‘This is absolutely ridiculous,’ Paul raged to the solicitor in the next room, pacing before his desk. ‘Four hundred thousand euro, plus his legal fees. This is nothing like you said it would be.’

‘I said it might—’

‘Don’t you dare backtrack now,’ he yelled. ‘This is appalling. How could they do this to us? We’ve already apologised. Publicly. At the start of our show on February the eighth. Four hundred and fifty thousand people saw that we apologised, that we acknowledged he was not guilty, millions more saw it on the internet and God knows how many more after today. You know, I bet we were set up from the start. Those two women, I bet they and Colin Maguire are in on it together, and they’re getting a cut of that money. I wouldn’t be surprised. Nothing would surprise me now. Jesus. Four hundred thousand. How am I supposed to explain this to the Director-General?’

Kitty removed her forehead from where it was resting against the cool wall of the corridor and stood at the door of the solicitor’s office. ‘We deserved it, Paul.’

There was a silence and she heard Donal’s intake of breath behind her. Paul spun round and stared at her as if she was nothing, which was a certain amount more than she felt right then.

‘We ruined Colin Maguire’s life. We deserved to hear every single word they said in there. We shouldn’t have made such an enormous mistake and now we have to take responsibility for our actions.’

‘Our actions? No. Your actions. You ruined his life, I was just the idiot who assumed you had done your job properly and had actually done your research. I knew we never should have given you this story. Mark my words, the network will never hire you again, do you hear me, Kitty? You don’t know the first thing about covering a bloody story,’ he yelled.

Kitty nodded and backed away. ‘’Bye, Donal,’ she said quietly.

He nodded, and she left the building through the back exit.

She was afraid to return to her flat for two reasons. She wasn’t sure if the court’s decision would fuel the attacks on her home or if they would die down now that Colin had been further vindicated and financially awarded. The other reason was that she was afraid to be alone. She didn’t know what to do; she couldn’t spend another moment thinking about this, beating herself up about it, but she didn’t feel it was right not to either. She deserved to be punished, she needed to wait out this feeling of absolute shame. She retrieved her bicycle from the backstreets of the Four Courts and headed in the direction of Constance’s home. Paul may have accused her of not having the first clue how to cover a story but she knew someone who did know, and perhaps it was time to start learning again.

Constance and Bob’s home was a basement apartment in a three-storey Edwardian house in Ballsbridge, the rest of which housed the magazine. The basement flat had over the years become an extended office, which they shared and lived in together and had done so for twenty-five years. The kitchen, never used as they ate out almost every night, was hidden beneath the clutter of memorabilia and items they had collected on their extensive travels. Every surface was littered with an eclectic mix of art: ebony carvings next to happy Buddhas and Venetian glass naked ladies, African and Venetian masks placed on old teddy bears’ heads, and on the wall Chinese etchings and landscape paintings hung beside Bob’s favourite satirical comic strips. The entire place felt like them. It had personality, it was fun, it was alive. Teresa, the housekeeper, had worked for Constance and Bob for twenty-five years and was now into her seventies. She didn’t appear to do anything more than light dusting and watch The Jeremy Kyle Show, but Constance, who wasn’t one for caring about a tidy home anyway, couldn’t find it in her heart to let her go. Teresa was more than familiar with Kitty and so immediately welcomed her into the flat without question and returned to her armchair with a cup of tea to watch a man and a woman screaming at each other over a lie detector test that hadn’t gone in anybody’s favour. Kitty was thankful Teresa never watched the news and was completely unaware of the week’s drama, sparing her an inquisition. She went into Constance and Bob’s office.

Their desks were directly opposite one another and equally piled high with what appeared to be rubbish, but which was probably vital paperwork. Above Constance’s desk were nude photographs of women in 1930s France, draped in provocative poses. She had put them there for Bob’s viewing pleasure and in return he had placed African art of naked men above his desk for her. The floors were as cluttered as the surfaces, with rug after Persian rug of busy patterns overlapping one another, so that it was difficult not to trip on the lumps and bumps. As well as the continuation of art from the rest of the flat, there were dozens of porcelain cats in various positions on the floor all along the room. Kitty knew that Constance hated them, real ones and the porcelain kind, but they had been her mother’s and when she passed away Constance had insisted on giving them a home. The room was so busy Kitty wondered how on earth they could concentrate at all, but they could and they were mighty successful at it. Constance had moved from Paris to Dublin to annoy her wealthy father and study English Literature in Trinity College. There she edited the college paper and her first job was writing for the Society section of the Irish Times, where she met Robert McDonald. Bob was ten years older than she, and was the Times’s business affairs correspondent. When she eventually tired of being told what to do, which never took long, Constance decided to frustrate her father furthermore by leaving her respectable job with Ireland’s major broadsheet and instead start her own publication. Bob came along with her, and after cutting their teeth on various magazines, they set up Etcetera twelve years ago, their most successful venture yet. It wasn’t the highest selling magazine in Ireland, as it failed to divulge tips on how to remove cellulite or how to get the perfect bikini body, but it was widely respected in the industry. To write for Etcetera was considered an honour, a great step on the ladder to success. Constance was a straight-talking no-nonsense editor with an impeccable eye for a story and for talent; Etcetera was where many of the country’s successful writers had started out.

Kitty went to the filing cabinet and was immediately impressed by the neat system that Constance had developed. It was nothing like the rest of her home: every single article that had been written for Etcetera or any other magazine Constance had run, articles she had written for other publications and all ideas she’d had in the past and for the future were neatly filed on cards in alphabetical order. Kitty was unable to ignore her inherent nosiness and so read as many as she could before getting to N. And there it was, a simple brown manila envelope filed under ‘Names’. It was sealed, and though she knew she shouldn’t break the deal she had made with Constance, she couldn’t contain her impatience and so sat down at Constance’s desk to open it. Teresa appeared at the door and Kitty jumped like a naughty schoolgirl caught smoking. She dropped the envelope on the desk and then laughed at herself.

‘Have you seen her yet?’ Teresa asked.

‘Yes, last week. I couldn’t see her this week because I had this thing to attend,’ she said, feeling guilty that the court case had once again kept her from seeing Constance. She knew she should have made the effort but the daily grind at the Four Courts left her feeling drained, self-pitiful, introspective and, quite frankly, rather defensive and snappy. She didn’t think it was fair to bring that energy to Constance’s bedside.

‘I imagine she looks desperate. My Frank died from cancer. He had it in his lungs. He smoked forty a day but still, no one deserves what he went through. He was the same age as Constance. Fifty-four,’ Teresa tutted. ‘Would you believe I’ve spent almost as many years without him as I had with him?’ She shook her head again. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? It tastes a bit metallic. I found coins in the teapot. They used it as their piggy bank. Bob told me to take them to the bank. Seventy-six euro and twenty-five cent they had in there.’

Kitty laughed at their eccentricity and declined the offer of the metallic tea. Excited finally to have the envelope with Constance’s idea in her possession, and overcoming the urge to open the envelope, Kitty called Bob straight away to arrange a visit. Three of her calls rang out to his voicemail, and then when she was tired of waiting and was en route to the hospital on her bicycle, she felt her phone vibrate. She spoke into her headset.

‘Hi, Bob. I’m just making my way over, hope that’s okay. I have the idea Constance was going to tell us about. I can’t wait any longer.’

‘It’s not a good time,’ Bob replied, his stress evident even above the sound of the traffic around Kitty. ‘She’s, er, she’s had a bad turn.’

Kitty stopped cycling suddenly and a fellow cyclist almost ran into the back of her and swore her out of it. She lifted her bike out of the cycle lane and onto the pavement.

‘What happened?’

‘I didn’t want to say anything to you – you’ve had a rough enough week as it is and I was hoping she would improve – but she’s … she’s gone downhill since you saw her. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, she couldn’t recognise me for the past two days, she was confused, hallucinating, speaking mostly in French. Today she’s, well, she’s in a coma, Kitty …’ His voice cracked.

‘Do you want me to be there with you?’ Kitty asked, feeling panic inside and genuinely with all of her heart wanting to be there, in that place, with that smell, with him, by Constance’s side.

‘No, no, you’re busy, I’m okay.’

‘I’m not, Bob. I’ve nothing to … I’ve got nothing, okay? I want to be there. Let me, please?’

Kitty hung up and cycled as though her life depended on it, which in a way, it did.

‘Hi, Steve, it’s me. I was just thinking of you and, well, I had a few things to say about what we last talked about. So here goes. “Rad or Bad”. “Rad” is short for “radical”, but cool kids shorten it for even cooler effect. It’s a bit surfer dude language, though, so it’s probably a bit dated. Then there’s “Cool or Fool”, or to make it a bit more modern you could say “Cool or Tool”. And finally my favourite, and probably yours too as it brings in a football angle – “Score or Whore”. Hope your boss likes them and I hope it’s not too late. Okay, well, you’re obviously not in, or you are and you’re listening to this thinking I’m drunk or … I don’t know what you’re thinking. I’ll go now. Oh, and one last thing. Constance passed away. Tonight. And, em, God, I’m so sorry to be crying on your answering machine but … I don’t quite know what to do. Okay. Thanks for listening. ’Bye.’

Chapter Four

Though Kitty hadn’t spent much time with Constance over the past few months, she had instinctively known she was there. There was a difference when somebody died. Their absence was felt, at every second of every day. Kitty would think of a question and would suddenly go to call Constance for the answer. She would think of an amusing story she would want to share with her or, more frustratingly, she would remember a half-finished conversation she would want to complete or a question that had somehow gone unanswered. Because Constance wasn’t there Kitty wanted her more than ever, and she tortured herself over her lack of visits to the hospital and for not calling her more regularly, not just when Constance was sick but throughout her life. There were events Kitty could have invited her to, nights out they could have shared together; there was so much time wasted not spending it together. But in the end, she knew that if they were to relive their friendship all over again, they would do it exactly the same way. Constance hadn’t needed Kitty in her life any more frequently than Kitty had been there.

Not having work to engross herself in, or a boyfriend to help distract her and show her the joys and beauty of her own life, or a functional family that lived in the same county or possessed the abilities to be understanding and show compassion, Kitty felt more alone than ever. The only place she felt she wanted to be was at the offices of Etcetera. Being there was like being with Constance, who had been the beating heart of that magazine. It was founded by her, made up of her ideologies, inspired by her, and by simply holding an issue of the magazine in her hands, Kitty felt that in some way Constance still lived on. Kitty supposed it was like seeing the child of someone who had passed away; their looks, their mannerisms, their little quirks were passed down.

As soon as she entered the office Kitty felt the pang of loss she had been running from. It hit her like an icy breeze, like a slap in her face that took her breath away. Her eyes immediately filled up.

‘Oh, I know,’ Rebecca, the art director, said, catching sight of Kitty frozen at the door. ‘You’re not the only one who’s done that.’ She went to her and hugged her warmly, took her coat off and helped her move from the spot. ‘Come on in, they’re all in Pete’s office, brainstorming.’

Pete’s office. Calling it that immediately riled Kitty, and though it had absolutely nothing to do with Pete, she momentarily despised him, as if he alone had conspired with God to obliterate her friend. As duty editor he had taken over while Constance was ill, and Cheryl Dunne, an ambitious young woman not much older than Kitty, was acting deputy editor, while Bob spent the past months full time with Constance. Because of Pete and Cheryl’s presence, the place felt different. Pete and Cheryl had found their own routine and natural rhythm, and while it seemed everybody else had learned to fall into step with that rhythm, Kitty had been struggling.

It was nine months since Constance had been at the helm of Etcetera, six months since she had stepped inside the offices at all, and in that time it was clear to see that the stories Kitty had written were not exactly her best. They were by no means below par or else Pete wouldn’t have published them and Constance, who had been keeping a close eye on everything even until the end, would have dragged Kitty into the hospital kicking and screaming to put her in her place. She had been good at doing that. As well as wanting her magazine to be the greatest on the shelves, she never wanted anybody to fail to meet their potential. To her that was the greatest error of all.

Knowing that, after Constance’s funeral Kitty had retreated to her flat, not to lick her wounds but to further pour salt on them by poring over her stories, trying to figure out where she had gone wrong, where she needed to go in the future, what her strengths and weaknesses were. As soon as she read her stories from the past six months she could see that they lacked sparkle. As much as she hated to admit it, and she never would to anybody out loud, there was almost a robotic painting-by-numbers feel to her writing. They were informative, emotional and possessed style and a little flair, and they met the standards of the magazine on all levels by covering similar themes with different angles – with a monthly magazine, having a unique angle to an already covered story was top priority – but, rereading them, Kitty felt a stale taste in her mouth. After the disastrous experience with Thirty Minutes she was aware that nothing she had ever written and would probably ever write again would please her as it once had. She knew she was deliberately finding flaw with everything about herself, and finding very little to celebrate. She second-guessed everything she said and did but, despite her self-doubt, she knew she was right about the deterioration of her writing.

Constance’s method of motivation during brainstorming was not for everyone. It had been perfect for Kitty, but while she knew Pete and Cheryl appreciated Constance’s methods, she also knew they couldn’t wait to leave the office so they could return to their own sources of inspiration: other magazines, newspapers, internet sites and twenty-four-hour news networks to see what was new, current and hot. Constance’s method was always about looking within for the answers. She had asked her staff to look at themselves for stories: what was moving them at that particular moment, what was challenging them, what were the issues not of the day in the world but of the day in their hearts and minds; mumbo jumbo to people like Pete and Cheryl. Constance always believed those subjects would make stronger stories. Instead of writing for the market, she wanted them to write for themselves. It was only then, she believed, that the readers would connect. She wanted her writers not just to be informative and stylish but she encouraged the artist within them to come out. How stories were decided on varied between Constance telling specific people to write particular stories that she knew they were suited to, or which would challenge them, and also by listening to ideas. She was very much an advocate of hearing people’s ideas.

And that’s what the problem was – Kitty had finally nailed it. In the six months of Etcetera stories that Kitty had pored over, she now realised she hadn’t written a single article that had been an idea of her own. Each story had been proposed by Pete or Cheryl or by somebody else who had enough on their own plate and was unable to write it. She hadn’t noticed it happening because she hadn’t minded. She hadn’t noticed or minded because she had been working on Thirty Minutes and each story she had covered for that show had been a story she had been told to cover. In a way, her method of storytelling for Thirty Minutes had trickled over into her writing. The stories on the show were stories that hadn’t meant anything to her, stories that hadn’t moved her, stories she hadn’t tried to understand on any deeper level because there wasn’t enough time, the filming conditions were suddenly right or not right, they’d lost a few minutes because of another story gaining momentum, they had an interview, they didn’t have an interview, they had to fill a cancelled interview with something else, and she felt she was switching herself on and off like a tap. It was a less creative style of working for her; it was mechanical, her days were spent on her toes and less in her mind. For six months Kitty hadn’t had an original thought of her own and in the week it took her to discover that, it terrified her so much she couldn’t even think of anything when she tried. Now the final conversation she had had with Constance in hospital was making more sense to her. When Constance had accused Kitty of writing a story because she was told it was interesting and not because she felt it, she had thought Constance had been referring to her stories on Thirty Minutes, but perhaps she had been talking about her articles for Etcetera. In fact now Kitty was sure of it.

Kitty walked towards the boardroom off Constance’s office, feeling vulnerable after her recent humiliation, knowing she hadn’t an original thought or idea in her head, completely alone without Constance and Bob’s support. Though there had been many monthly brainstorming sessions since Constance had left the office there had been none that could not be overruled by her, and so with Pete in the hot seat, and Bob still not present, this was the first of its kind. Kitty opened the door and everyone in the room looked up at her.

‘Hi.’

‘Kitty,’ Pete said, sounding surprised in a not-so-good way. ‘We didn’t expect to see you here this week. Bob said he gave you the week off.’ And it sounded like he’d rather not have seen her this week either, or perhaps she was just being paranoid.

‘He did,’ Kitty explained, standing at the back of the room as all the chairs had been taken, ‘but I just couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.’ She received sad and sympathetic looks from a few around her.

‘Okay. Well. We were talking about next month’s edition, which is going to be a tribute to Constance.’

Kitty’s eyes welled. ‘That’s a beautiful idea.’

‘So …’ he clapped his hands and Kitty jumped. ‘Ideas. I suggest an eight-to-twelve-page look at Constance’s journey, stories that she’s written for Etcetera and other publications throughout her career. A look back on her greatest exposés, the writers she helped discover, for example an interview with Tom Sullivan would be good, all about how she helped him find and develop his voice. Dara, I want you to interview Tom; I talked to him at the funeral and he’s already agreed to it. Niamh, I want you to cover the other writers living and dead: who she found, how she found them, what they wrote, what they went on to write and so on.’

Dara and Niamh nodded and made notes.

Pete began dishing out pieces to the others around the table and Kitty couldn’t help but think that it all felt rather wrong. Constance would hate this edition, not just because it was all about her, but because it was rehashing old material. She looked around at the others for their reactions but they were all concentrating hard, busy scribbling down Pete’s orders in their notepads. And that’s what they felt like: orders, nothing gentle or inspiring, nothing to try to coax out further ideas from the people sitting around the table. No questions about personal stories or memories about a woman they all deeply respected, just information from his own head on what he thought was a good idea. Kitty appreciated that it was difficult for Pete having to do this at all and she hadn’t an original idea in her head to offer, so she kept her mouth shut.

‘Okay, so that’s that sorted out. Let’s talk about the rest of the magazine. Conal, how’s that piece on China in South Africa coming along?’

They began talking about the rest of the magazine, Constance’s tribute piece already over. That made Kitty angry.

‘Uh, Pete?’

He looked at her.

‘I don’t know, Pete. That all seems a bit … old?’ Not a popular thing to say when people were discussing their work. Some tutted and shifted in their chairs. ‘What I mean is, the Constance tribute. Constance hated republishing old articles.’

‘We’re not just doing that, Kitty. If you’d been listening properly you’d have heard that. And we have to look back, that’s what a tribute piece does.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Kitty said, trying not to annoy anybody. ‘But Constance said it was like using used toilet paper, remember?’ She laughed. Nobody else did. ‘She wouldn’t want to just keep looking back. She’d want something new, something that looked forward, something celebratory.’

‘Like what?’ Pete asked, and Kitty froze.

‘I don’t know.’

Someone sighed heavily.

‘Kitty, this twelve-page spread is to celebrate Constance. We have the rest of the magazine to create new stories,’ Pete said, trying to sound patient but instead sounding like a patronising father at the edge of his tether. ‘If you don’t have any ideas to offer then I’m going to move on.’

She thought long and hard, while all eyes were bearing down on her. Instead of coming up with ideas, all she could think was that she couldn’t think of anything. She hadn’t been able to think of anything for six months, so she surely wouldn’t start now. Eventually people began to look away, feeling embarrassed for her, but Pete kept the spotlight on her, as if to prove a point. She wanted him to move on; why wasn’t he moving on? Her cheeks burned and she looked down to avoid meeting anyone’s eye, feeling that she couldn’t possibly sink any lower.

‘I don’t know,’ she eventually said, quietly.

Pete moved on but Kitty couldn’t concentrate on a word he said thereafter. She felt as though she had let Constance down – she was sure she had let herself down, and though it still hurt, she was used to that now. She kept wondering what exactly Constance would want. If she was in this room, what story would she want to tell …? That’s when Kitty thought of it.

‘I’ve got it,’ she blurted out, interrupting Sarah’s feedback on how her story on contrasting nail varnish sales increases in a recession with lipstick sales during the Second World War was shaping up.

‘Kitty, Sarah is talking.’ Others looked at her annoyed.

She shrunk lower in her chair and waited for Sarah to finish. When she had, Pete moved on to Trevor. She sat through two more ideas pitches, neither of which Pete would probably use, and then finally he looked back at her.

‘The last time I spoke to Constance she had an idea that she wanted to run by you. I don’t know if she did or not. It was just over a week ago.’ When she had been living and breathing.

‘No. I haven’t spoken to her for a month.’

‘Okay. Well, she wanted to tell you an idea she had and that was a piece about asking retired writers, if they had the opportunity to write the story they always wanted to write, what would it be?’

Pete looked around the table and he could see that people looked interested.

‘Writers like Oisín O’Ceallaigh and Olivia Wallace,’ Kitty continued.

‘Oisín is eighty years old and lives on the Aran Islands. He hasn’t written a word for anyone for ten years and hasn’t written anything in the English language for twenty.’

‘They’re the people she mentioned.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ Kitty replied, cheeks burning again at being repeatedly questioned.

‘And are these interview pieces about their stories or are we asking them to write their actual stories?’

‘First she said I should interview them—’

‘She said you should interview them,’ Pete interrupted.

‘Yes …’ She paused, unsure what the problem was. ‘But then she said you could ask the writers to write the stories they always wanted to write.’

‘Commission them?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Writers of that standard, that’s a costly piece.’

‘Well, it’s a tribute to Constance, so maybe they’d offer their time for free. If it’s a story they’ve always wanted to write, perhaps that’s payment enough. It will be cathartic.’

Pete looked doubtful. ‘How did this conversation come about?’

Everyone looked from Pete to Kitty.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘I’m trying to find a link between this idea you have and it being a tribute to Constance.’

‘It was one of her final feature ideas.’

‘But was it? Or was it yours?’

Everyone looked uncomfortable and shifted in their chairs.

‘Are you accusing me of using this tribute piece so that I can use one of my own ideas?’ Kitty had wanted it to sound bigger than him, superior, to make him seem small, but instead her voice came out battered and meek, and she sounded as if she was doing exactly what she was accused of.

‘Why don’t we call this meeting off for now and everyone can get back to their desks?’ Cheryl added in the awkward silence.

Everyone quickly exited the room, glad to be away from the awkwardness. Pete remained standing at the head of the table, two hands spread on the surface, leaning over. Cheryl remained, too, at the table, which annoyed Kitty.

‘Kitty, I’m not trying to be smart here but I want this to be authentically Constance. I know you knew her more personally than the rest of us but you’re talking about a conversation you both had alone. I want to make sure it was something Constance really wanted to do.’

Kitty swallowed and suddenly doubted herself. What had once been a crystal-clear memory of the conversation now seemed fuzzy. ‘I can’t tell you if it was something she really wanted to do, Pete.’

‘Come on, Kitty,’ he laughed with frustration. ‘Make up your mind, will you?’

‘All I know is that I asked her what story she had always wanted to write but never did. She liked the question and said that it would be a good idea for a feature, that I should do a piece where I asked retired writers about the story they’d always wanted to write or, better yet, asked them to write the piece. She said she would talk to you about it.’

‘She didn’t.’

Silence.

‘It’s a good idea, Pete,’ Cheryl said quietly, and Kitty was momentarily glad she’d stayed.

Pete tapped his pen on the table while he thought. ‘Did she tell you her idea?’

‘No.’

He didn’t believe her. She swallowed.

‘She told me to find it in her office, bring it back to her at the hospital and she’d explain, but when I brought it back to the hospital it was too late.’ Kitty’s eyes filled and she looked down. She hoped then for a bit of humanity but none came.

‘Did you open it?’ Pete asked.

‘No.’

He didn’t believe her again.

‘I didn’t open it,’ Kitty said firmly, her anger rising.

‘Where is it now?’

‘Bob has it.’

Pete went quiet.

‘What are you thinking?’ Cheryl asked.

‘I’m thinking it would be a great feature and tribute if we had Constance’s story that she always wanted to write, to tie in with the other writers’ pieces. If Bob gives us the story, you could write it,’ he said to Cheryl.

Kitty felt angry at Pete for handing the story over to Cheryl.

‘Maybe Bob would prefer to write it,’ Kitty suggested.

‘We’ll give Bob first preference.’

‘I have it here.’ Bob’s voice came from the adjoining room.

‘Bob.’ Pete straightened up. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’

Bob entered the room. He looked tired. ‘I wasn’t going to come in but then I realised there was nowhere else I’d rather be,’ he repeated Kitty’s line, which told Kitty he’d been there since the beginning and had heard it all. ‘I needed to get something from Constance’s office – her address book, God knows where she’s put it – and I couldn’t help but overhear talk about covering her story.’ Bob smiled. ‘Pete, I think that’s a marvellous idea. Well done.’

‘Would you like to write it?’ Pete asked.

‘No. No. I’m too close to it.’

‘What is the story?’ Pete asked.

‘I have no idea,’ Bob shrugged. ‘The envelope is sealed, it’s never been opened.’

Kitty was vindicated. She tried not to leap up and punch the air.

‘Okay,’ Pete looked at Cheryl, pleased with himself, and about to do the honours on her behalf but Bob sensed that and interrupted.

‘I’d like Kitty to write it.’

Pete and Cheryl were surprised.

‘I think she’s better suited,’ he explained gently, as ever thoughtful and apologetic to Cheryl.

Cheryl tried to look accepting.

‘Even though you don’t know what it’s about,’ Pete said, defending his number one.

‘Yes. Even though,’ Bob replied, handing the envelope to Kitty.

They all looked at her in suspense. Kitty carefully opened the envelope. A single sheet lay inside. She slid it out and was faced with a list of one hundred names.

Chapter Five

1  Sarah McGowan

2  Ambrose Nolan

3  Eva Wu

4  Jedrek Vysotski

5  Bartle Faulkner

6  Bridget Murphy

7  Mary-Rose Godfrey

8  Bernadette Toomy

9  Raymond Cosgrave

10  Olive Byrne

11  Marion Brennan

12  Julio Quintero

13  Maureen Rabbit

14  Patrick Quinn

15  Gloria Flannery

16  Susan Flood

17  Kieran Kidd

18  Anthony Kershaw

19  Janice O’Meara

20  Angela O’Neill

21  Eugene Cullen

22  Evelyn Meagher

23  Barry Meegan

24  Aiden Traynor

25  Seamus Tully

26  Diana Zukov

27  Bin Yang

28  Gabriela Zat

29  Barbara Tomlin

30  Benjamin Toland

31  Anthony Spencer

32  Aidan Somerville

33  Patrick Leahy

34  Cyril Lee

35  Kelly Marshall

36  Josephine Fowler

37  Colette Burrows

38  Ann Kimmage

39  Dermot Murphy

40  Sharon Vickers

41  George Wallace

42  Michael O’Fagain

43  Lisa Dwyer

44  Danny Flannery

45  Karen Flood

46  Máire O’Muireagáin

47  Barry O’Shea

48  Frank O’Rourke

49  Claire Shanley

50  Kevin Sharkey

51  Carmel Reilly

52  Russell Todd

53  Heather Spencer

54  Ingrid Smith

55  Ken Sheeran

56  Margaret McCarthy

57  Janet Martin

58  John O’Shea

59  Catherine Sheppard

60  Magdalena Ludwiczak

61  Declan Keogh

62  Siobhán Kennedy

63  Dudley Foster

64  Denis MacCauley

65  Nigel Meaney

66  Thomas Masterson

67  Archie Hamilton

68  Damien Rafferty

69  Ian Sheridan

70  Gordon Phelan

71  Marie Perrem

72  Emma Pierce

73  Eileen Foley

74  Liam Greene

75  Aoife Graham

76  Sinéad Hennessey

77  Andrew Perkins

78  Patricia Shelley

79  Peter O’Carroll

80  Seán Maguire

81  Michael Sheils

82  Alan Waldron

83  Carmel Wagner

84  Jonathan Treacy

85  Lee Reehill

86  Pauric Naughton

87  Ben Gleeson

88  Darlene Gochoco

89  Desmond Hand

90  Jim Duffy

91  Maurice Lucas

92  Denise McBride

93  Jos Merrigan

94  Frank Jones

95  Gwen Megarry

96  Vida Tonacao

97  Alan Shanahan

98  Orla Foley

99  Simon Fitzgerald

100  Katrina Mooney

There was no summary, synopsis or anything to explain who these people were or what the story was. Kitty looked in the envelope for more but there was nothing.

‘What does it say?’ Pete asked, no longer able to stand the silence.

‘It’s a list of names,’ Kitty replied.

The names had been typed and were numbered along the left-hand side from one to one hundred.

‘Are the names familiar?’ Pete asked, stretching his body so far over the table he was practically crawling on it.

Kitty shook her head, feeling a failure again. ‘Maybe you guys will recognise them.’ She slid the page down the table and the other three jumped on it like lions on a piece of fresh meat. They placed it in the centre of the table in front of Pete and huddled round it. Kitty watched their faces, hoping for some signs of recognition but when they finally lifted their heads, looking as confused as she had, she sank back in her chair both relieved and confused. Should she know what the names meant? Had she and Constance had a conversation about it before? Was there a hidden message?

‘What else is in the envelope?’ Pete asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Let me see.’

He doubted her again, and she in turn doubted herself, despite looking inside it twice. Quickly seeing there was no further information he tossed the envelope back on the table and Kitty dived for it and held it protectively as if he had thrown a baby.

‘Did she keep notes?’ Pete asked Bob. ‘In a book or on file? Maybe there’s something in the office.’

‘If there is, it will be downstairs,’ Bob said, looking at the names again. ‘My dear Constance, what on earth were you up to?’

Kitty couldn’t help but laugh. Constance would love seeing them all huddled round, scratching their heads.

‘It’s hardly funny, Kitty,’ Pete said. ‘The feature won’t make much sense if we don’t have a story from Constance.’

‘I disagree,’ she said, surprised. ‘It’s the last piece Constance suggested for the magazine.’

‘I’d still prefer to include Constance’s story,’ Pete said stubbornly. ‘It’s what I want the other stories to revolve around. If we don’t have Constance’s story, I’m not sure about the idea at all.’

‘But Constance’s story is just a list of names,’ Kitty said, losing confidence in herself. She didn’t want the entire tribute piece to rest on her ability to piece together what on earth this list meant. There wasn’t enough time, and the time that they did have happened to be the worst time of Kitty’s life. She was feeling far from inspired and her self-belief was at an all-time low. ‘There’s nothing to explain where Constance was going with it or how she was feeling about it.’

‘Well then, Cheryl will do it,’ Pete said quickly, taking them all by surprise. ‘She’ll figure it out.’ He snapped his folder shut and straightened up.

‘With all due respect, I think Kitty should do it,’ Bob said.

‘But she just said she didn’t think she could.’

‘She just needs a little encouragement, Pete,’ Bob said, a little firmer then. ‘It’s a daunting task.’

‘Fine,’ Pete said suddenly. ‘We have two weeks until we go to print. Kitty, keep me up to date with how you’re getting on. I’d like daily feedback.’

‘Daily?’ she asked, surprised.

‘Yep.’ He gathered his things and made for Constance’s, his, office.

With Pete’s demand for daily updates, Kitty knew that her suspension from the television network, the vandalism to her flat, her relationship breakdown and the court case loss had just scratched the surface, and now the real repercussions of Thirty Minutes were beginning.

Kitty reluctantly sat behind Constance’s desk in her home office, her hands up in the air as though she was being shot at, afraid to touch anything, afraid to ruin the order of how Constance had placed things, knowing they would never find their way back to their rightful place without their rightful owner to fix them. Last week she had loved the feeling of being there but now she felt like an intruder. Bob had given her free rein in the office; there was nothing she couldn’t read, no territory she wasn’t allowed to examine. The previous Kitty – the Kitty who had Constance in her life and who hadn’t a court ruling against her for irresponsible journalism – would have jumped at the chance to be meddlesome and would have read everything she could get her hands on, whether it was related to the story or not, but now it was different.

She spent the afternoon doing fruitless but time-consuming searches through the filing cabinet, trying to see if any other paperwork matched up to the one hundred names. It was pointless because she had no idea what the names meant and how they could be linked to anything else. She Googled the names but nothing of interest came up; everything led her down deceiving paths.

By the end of day two, after an embarrassing meeting with Pete in which she had nothing to report, she returned home to find her flat with red-paint-splashed toilet paper hanging in strands across the front door as if to mimic a crime scene.

Despite going to bed without an ounce of hope and a blocked toilet from when she’d tried to flush away all the toilet paper at once, she managed to wake up somehow feeling vibrant and full of possibilities. A new day meant a new start to her search. She could do it. This was her moment to redeem herself, to make Constance proud. Her final thought of the night had been that the people on the list could be absolutely anyone – and where else do you find people who could be anyone? Not bothering to get dressed, she retrieved the phone directory and sat at the table in her pants.

She had made various photocopies of Constance’s list, not wanting to damage the original, which she had placed back in Constance’s filing cabinet. Kitty’s own copy was now covered in thoughts, questions, cartoon squiggles and shapes and so she took a fresh copy, a new notepad, the phone book, a fresh mug of coffee – instant, as Glen had taken his coffee machine and fresh coffee beans – took a deep breath and prepared herself. She heard a key in the door and it suddenly opened and she was faced with Glen. Her hands went straight to her naked chest. Then, feeling vulnerable, she folded her legs, opened the phone directory and covered herself more.

‘Sorry,’ Glen said, still frozen at the door, key in hand, staring at her. ‘I thought you’d be at work.’

‘Do you have to keep staring at me?’

‘Sorry.’ He blinked, looked away, then turned his back. ‘Do you want me to leave?’

‘Too late for that, isn’t it?’ she snapped, marching to her wardrobe.

‘Oh, here we go,’ he said, politeness leaving his voice. The door banged and he followed her into the bedroom.

‘I’m not dressed yet.’

‘Do you know what, Kitty, I’ve seen it all before and I really couldn’t care less.’ He didn’t glance at her as he rooted in her drawers.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘None of your business.’

‘It’s my flat, of course it’s my business.’

‘And I’ve paid my half of this month’s rent, so technically it’s mine too.’

‘If you tell me what it is, I can help,’ she said, watching him root. ‘Because I’d really like for you to take your hands off my knickers.’

He finally retrieved a watch from her underwear drawer and strapped it around his wrist.

‘How long has that been there?’

‘Always.’

‘Oh.’

How much more hadn’t she known about him? That’s what they were both thinking: how much more didn’t they know about each other? They were silent for a moment, and then he looked around the room again, more gently this time, placing shoes, CDs and other miscellaneous items he’d left behind into a black bin liner. Kitty couldn’t watch and went to sit at the kitchen table again.

‘Thanks for telling me you were leaving,’ she said as he passed her and made his way around the kitchen. He took the oven gloves, the oven gloves. ‘It was very gentlemanly of you.’

‘You knew that I was leaving.’

‘How the hell did I know that?’

‘How many arguments did we have, Kitty? How many times did I tell you exactly how I felt? How many more arguments did you want to have?’

‘None, of course.’

‘Exactly!’

‘But this wasn’t quite the outcome I was hoping for.’

He seemed surprised. ‘I thought you weren’t happy. You said you weren’t happy.’

‘I wasn’t having a happy time. I didn’t think that … anyway, it doesn’t matter now, does it?’ She was surprised to feel hope in her heart, hope that he would say, of course it matters, let’s fix this … but instead he left a long silence.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I decided to work from home.’

‘Did the magazine fire you?’ he asked, disbelieving her.

‘No,’ she snapped, tired of being second-guessed. ‘They didn’t fire me. It may surprise you to know that some people still believe in me.’ Which wasn’t entirely true with the way Pete was treating her.

Glen sighed, then walked to the door, bin liner over his shoulder. She looked back down at the directory. Her eyes jumped from one name to the next, unable to concentrate while he was there.

‘Sorry to hear about Constance.’

Emotion flooded her and she couldn’t speak.

‘I was at the funeral, in case you hadn’t heard.’

‘Sally told me.’ She wiped her eyes roughly, annoyed that she was crying.

‘Are you okay?’

Kitty blocked her face with her hands. It was too humiliating to have him stand there while she cried, when before he would have comforted her. She cried about that and she cried for Constance. And she cried about everything else in between. ‘Please go,’ she sobbed.

She heard the door softly close.

With dry eyes Kitty started afresh. She went to the first name on the list, Sarah McGowan. She turned to the McGowan pages in the directory. There were hundreds of McGowans in total. Eighty Mr and Mrs McGowans, twenty S McGowans, eight Sarah McGowans, which meant she would at least have to attempt to call them all if the twenty-eight specific S’s didn’t work out for her.

She began by ringing the Sarahs. The first call was answered immediately.

‘Hello, can I please speak to Sarah McGowan?’

‘This is she.’

‘My name is Katherine Logan and I’m calling from Etcetera magazine.’

She left a pause to see if there was any recognition.

‘I don’t want to take part in any surveys, thank you.’

‘No, no, this isn’t about a survey. I’m calling on behalf of our editor, Constance Dubois. I believe she may have been in contact with you regarding a story.’

She hadn’t been. Nor had she been with six other S’s she had contacted, while two calls rang out and she left a message for another two. Kitty started on the other McGowans in the directory, hoping Sarah was listed as a Mrs Somebody Else McGowan. Ten calls weren’t answered and she made a note to call them back. There were no Sarahs in the first eight Mr and Mrs’ homes she called; on the ninth there was, but at three months old baby Sarah was not the subject of Constance’s story, Kitty quickly learned. Twenty McGowans left, not to mention ninety-nine other names on the list with at least one hundred of each name to call. A possible ten thousand more phonecalls awaited her, unless she began with the more obscure names. Kitty didn’t doubt that she could do it – nothing bored her about research – but there were two factors working against her: time and money. She simply couldn’t afford to make all of these calls.

She abandoned her work-from-home strategy and returned to the office at lunchtime. It was busy with everyone working flat out to meet their new deadline for Constance’s tribute section as well as researching and writing stories for future issues.

Rebecca, the art director, came out of Pete’s office pulling a face. ‘He’s in a mood today. Good luck.’

An unfamiliar woman was sitting in Kitty’s usual desk, which wasn’t all that rare as they had many freelance writers in the editorial section who came and went from the office. Kitty stood in the centre of the room looking for a free desk and when that proved fruitless she looked for a free phone. Pete opened the door and called her into his office.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Looking for a desk. I have a mountain of calls to make, do you think you could get somebody’s phone for me for the day? And who is that lady at my desk?’

‘You on to something?’

‘I’m going to contact the names directly to see if Constance was speaking to them. Who is that lady at my desk?’

‘How can you contact them?’

‘From the phone directory,’ she said, trying not to show that she was well aware it was a stupid idea.

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how many people are on the list?’

‘One hundred. Who is the lady at my desk?’

‘One hundred? Jesus, Kitty, that will take for ever.’

‘I’ve already worked my way through most of the first name.’

‘And? Any luck?’

‘Not yet.’

He stared at her angrily.

‘Her name is “McGowan”; it might as well be “Smith” in this country. I’ve made about one hundred calls already. Pete, what do you expect me to do? There’s no other way. I started by Googling them all and Archie Hamilton is either a clown available for kids’ parties, he works at Davy’s stockbrokers, he died ten years ago or he went to prison five years ago for assault. Which one do you think I should just guess it is?’

He sighed. ‘Look, you can’t work here.’

‘Why not?’ She looked out the window, then pointedly back at her desk.

‘That’s Bernie Mulligan. I’ve asked her to write a story in your place in this month’s issue. The Cox Brothers called, along with a few other of our major advertisers. They’ve come under severe pressure to pull this month’s advertising.’

‘Why?’

Silence.

‘Oh. Because of me.’

‘They’ve been put under pressure for months but after the court case now they feel that they can’t support the magazine without it been seen to at least reprimand you in some way.’

‘But the television network have already suspended me. It has nothing to do with Etcetera.’

‘Somebody is stirring trouble for them.’

‘Colin Maguire’s crowd,’ she said. ‘They’re doing whatever they can to destroy me.’

‘We don’t know it’s them,’ he said, but with very little energy and belief behind it. He ran his hand through his hair. It was so glossy and perfect it fell straight back into place and reminded Kitty of a Head & Shoulders commercial. For the first time, she noticed he was actually quite handsome.

‘So you’re suspending me.’

‘No … I’m asking you not to work in the office for the next three weeks while I try to convince them.’

‘But what about Constance’s story?’

He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

‘That’s why you didn’t want me to write it, isn’t it? That’s why you asked Cheryl.’

‘My hands are tied, Kitty. They’re our biggest advertisers. We lose them, it’s suicide and I can’t afford to let that happen.’

‘Does Bob know?’

‘No, and you’re not to tell him either. He doesn’t need this on his plate. That’s why Cheryl and I are here.’

‘I want to work on the story,’ Kitty said. She suddenly very much needed to do this story. It was all she had.

‘If they do as they say then we can’t publish your name,’ he said, appearing tired. ‘I don’t see a way round it.’

Kitty suddenly liked this side of him. He seemed human, not like his usual bulldog self. ‘I was thinking of writing under Kitty Logan from now on. You know, drop Katherine. Nobody but my mother calls me it anyway …’ She swallowed. Katherine Logan carried such weight, she felt embarrassed saying it aloud, self-conscious when she phoned up the names on the list, paranoid about their reaction and what they must be thinking but not saying. She was ashamed of her own name. Kitty could be her fresh start.

Pete looked at her rather pityingly.

‘Or even better,’ she fought off his pity and brightened as a new idea sprung to her mind, ‘we put Constance’s name to it. It’s her final story.’

‘We can’t do that, Kitty, not if it’s your story.’ He seemed surprised, but in a good way, impressed that she was suggesting not putting her name to her own hard work. He softened. ‘We’ll work something out. Just keep on working on it. Can’t you work from home?’

‘I can’t … I can’t afford to make that many calls.’

He sighed and leaned over his desk, hands flat on the surface like in the boardroom. He had a muscular back and, to her very great surprise, Kitty felt a crush developing. She just wanted to reach out and help massage the tension from his shoulders.

‘Okay,’ he said gently. ‘Use your home phone and bill the office.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But, Kitty, you’ll have to figure out another way to do this than working your way through the phone directory.’

‘Yeah. I know.’

As Kitty was making her way downstairs, she noticed that the bird house in the front garden had a ‘Junk Mail’ sign and was overflowing with leaflets. She thought about Glen, hiding his watch in her underwear drawer. Bob and Constance hid things in bizarre places; surely the key to Constance’s story lay somewhere inside that flat. She knocked on the door.

Teresa answered. ‘He’s having a lie-down, love.’

‘I need to use Constance’s desk. I need your help. I need to find the telephone directory.’

Teresa laughed. ‘Well, good luck with that. You know I found the phone in the laundry basket the other day? Bob said it was ringing too loudly.’

They looked around the flat.

‘Money in the teapot, passports in the toaster, junk mail in the bird house – where on earth would Constance put a directory?’ Kitty asked.

‘It’s probably in the loo, she probably used it to wipe her bum,’ Teresa said, shuffling off back to the kitchen where Kitty could hear the washing machine in action. Kitty was pleased to see that at least Teresa had upped her duties from light dusting and was looking after Bob now.

Left to her own devices, Kitty began looking around the flat for the phonebook, checking in the most obvious places and then straining her mind to think of the bizarre. She kneeled on the floor in Bob and Constance’s office, on a sheepskin shagpile rug that was out of place next to its Persian neighbour, and examined the low coffee table on which sat the phone. She didn’t know why but she felt compelled to look underneath the table, and there they were. Instead of on four table legs, the wooden surface stood on four pillars of phonebooks and Golden Pages, each five books thick, and going back over the last ten years. Kitty laughed and Teresa appeared at the door to see what she’d discovered. Seeing Kitty lift the wooden slab off the directories, Teresa rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hide her amusement before she wandered back down the corridor to the kitchen. Kitty flicked through the latest directory but there was nothing new. Then she studied last year’s. She went straight to McGowan, and as soon as she reached the page she almost leaped for joy. It was highlighted in pink. She flicked to the second name on the list, Ambrose Nolan, and to her delight found that it too had been highlighted. Pulling out the list from her folder, she went through every single name and squealed happily to find each appeared highlighted in the directory. A lucky break at last. She punched the air in celebration and accidentally toppled a lamp. It wobbled dangerously and a small red leather address book came falling to the floor, the one Bob had been searching for. Kitty laughed, hugged the directory to her and lifted her head to the sky.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

Chapter Six

So now Kitty had all the names, the addresses and the phone numbers. Everyone lived in Ireland, and her wild-goose chase was limited to one country. She was so close to Constance’s story she could practically smell the ink on the freshly published magazine. With a deadline of only a week and a half to go, and with one hundred people to meet, Kitty was surprised at her lack of eagerness to begin contacting them immediately. As she looked at the phone directory, her eyes kept being pulled to search for one name, and that wasn’t even on Constance’s list.

Kitty took the 123 bus to O’Connell Street and then the 140 to Finglas. One hour after setting out on her journey, and constantly going over her words in her head, she arrived at her destination and she still didn’t even know what to say. She stood across the green from Colin Maguire’s house while kids raced around her on their bikes, almost knocking her over as if she wasn’t even there. She suddenly wished she wasn’t. At that hour the streets were busy with mothers and their children coming and going, but none seemed to take any notice of a stranger’s presence. Not yet. She was sure it would be only a matter a time before one of the children alerted its mother to a strange woman lurking at the green. The green was a one-hundred-metre stretch of grass with a diagonal pathway going through it from one exit to another, surrounded by a small knee-high wall. She wasn’t protected by anything, she was completely exposed, and all that stood between her and Colin’s house was distance and her own terror.

As she looked around at the neighbours, she took in their faces, wondering if they had been at the courthouse, if they had been the ones shouting at her, if they were the people who came to her door with spray paint and toilet paper while she slept inside or while she slipped out to work. Were they watching her all the time as she was watching them now? With a hat pulled low over her face, she watched Colin Maguire’s house and tried to decide whether to approach and, if so, what to say.

Sorry. Sorry for ruining your life. Sorry you were suspended from your job, sorry you were rejected from your community. Sorry that, for whatever reason, I’m sure related in some way to the story, you’ve had to put your house on the market. Sorry your marriage has suffered as a consequence. Sorry for putting your job in jeopardy. Sorry for embarrassing your family and destroying personal relationships. I know you mustn’t think that I understand, that I’m a heartless bitch who couldn’t possibly understand, but I do. Believe me, I do. I understand because I’m going through it too. That’s what she wanted to say but she knew it was an apology that was full of self-sympathy and she needed to be selfless. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to be so because she felt she was suffering so much. It was her fault, yes it was, but they were both suffering, and whoever loved him and was trying to protect him was causing her misery to continue.

She studied the house, which had a ‘For Sale’ notice in the garden. There was no sign of his children, no bikes in the garden, no toys on the windowsill, the car was still in the drive. It was Colin’s car. She remembered chasing him to it after school with a camera in his face, his look bewildered and confused. She had thought he was a criminal then. She had been so sure he was, but to think of the things she’d said to him made her ashamed now. She wondered if the car in the driveway meant that he hadn’t gone back to work yet. She assumed his job was still open to him now that his name was well and truly cleared. Or perhaps the stigma was too great for him to return.

Sorry.

Colin was thirty-eight years old. He started working in the Finglas Community Secondary School, for twelve- to eighteen-year-olds, as soon as he finished college at the age of twenty-four. He was popular with the students, to his detriment, often a regular at the end-of-year debutante balls, a supportive young teacher they didn’t consider a proper teacher as he failed to dish out homework, and punishments other than press-ups while forced to sing the latest songs in the charts. He was the teacher whom students felt they could go to when in need, and as a reward for his popularity was made class tutor on many occasions, unusual for a physical education teacher in that particular school. When he turned down the advances of sixteen-year-old Tanya O’Brien, he suffered the consequences ten years later. For whatever reasons, choosing to direct her personal unhappiness at him, Tanya talked her old school friend Tracey O’Neill into becoming her accomplice. Tracey had truly believed that Tanya was abused and that her ten-year-old son was in fact Colin’s son. Apart from wanting to support her friend, having been convinced that two people with identical stories would strengthen her case, Tracey also believed there would be a monetary reward for Tanya’s trauma, with magazines keen to tell her story and possibly even television appearances to talk about the abuse she’d suffered. Tanya had shown her friend examples of previous abuse cases in which the victims were paid by the media. One evil young woman and the other bored and twisted had come together to target an overambitious one. Kitty was young and coming up the ranks. They’d known she would be hungry. And she was. She gobbled up their lies and came at them for seconds, talking the editor and producer of Thirty Minutes into allowing her to follow the story up, convincing herself that exposing this pervert was all for the greater good of society.

The front door of Colin’s house opened and he appeared. Head still down as she had last seen him in the courthouse, his chin on his chest. Kitty’s heart hammered wildly and she realised she couldn’t do it. She turned and walked away quickly, hat low over her face, feeling once again an interloper in Colin’s life.

Not one of her voicemails was returned. Those she had called hadn’t answered, or weren’t home, messages were to be passed on but she couldn’t be sure if they would be. Besides, increasingly people screened their calls and refused to answer if they didn’t recognise a number or it was withheld. Kitty decided that the best way to approach this story was not to contact all one hundred names via the telephone but to try a face-to-face approach.

On day one of her personal visits she went to Sarah McGowan’s address in Lucan, a ground-floor red-brick block of flats built in the seventies, which looked like it belonged in a retirement community. The balcony door opened beside her at the front door to the flats and a woman in her twenties in a nurse’s uniform stepped out.

‘Are you Sarah McGowan?’

The girl looked her up and down. Made a decision. ‘She moved out six months ago.’

Kitty couldn’t hide her disappointment.

‘No jobs for her here,’ the nurse shrugged, ‘which I understand, but she was supposed to give me three months’ notice. Which she didn’t.’

‘Where did she move to?’ Kitty asked hopefully.

‘Australia.’

‘Australia!’

‘Victoria, I think. Or at least that’s where she went first. She had friends out there working on a watermelon farm. They got her a job picking watermelons.’ The nurse rolled her eyes.

‘I don’t know, that sounds kind of fun,’ Kitty said, thinking picking watermelons on the other side of the world would be quite the remedy for her situation right now.

‘For a qualified accountant?’

Kitty took her point. ‘Do you have her new number?’

The nurse shook her head. ‘We weren’t exactly friends. She set up a forwarding address with the Post Office and I sold her crap on eBay. The least she could do for me.’

‘Do you know her friends or family?’

The girl gave Kitty a look that answered everything.

‘Thanks for your help.’ Kitty backed away, knowing there was nothing more she’d get from this girl.

‘Hey, are you that woman?’

Kitty stopped. ‘Depends which woman you mean.’

‘The TV woman. From Thirty Minutes.’

Kitty paused. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘You left a message on my phone.’

It didn’t warrant a response.

‘I’ve never seen your show. I just know you from the court case.’

Kitty’s smile faded.

The girl seemed to think about it. ‘She’s a good girl, you know. Sarah. Despite what I’ve said about her. Don’t do anything horrible on her.’

‘I won’t.’ Kitty swallowed and made her way out of the quiet apartment complex. Perhaps she would use the name Kitty in future after all.

On the bus to her next destination, Kitty tried to ignore the parting words of the previous exchange by making notes in her notepad.

Story Theory: People who’ve had to move abroad.

Recession story?

Kitty hoped that wasn’t the case. She’d had enough of those stories – the media was inundated with the subject – and unless the situation was unique, she knew Constance had believed the same.

She stared out of the bus window. She had hoped to follow the list in the exact order Constance had catalogued the names, but as Kitty was cold calling door to door, and hadn’t use of a car, she had decided to start with the Dublin addresses first. Sixth on the list, but second on Kitty’s, was Bridget Murphy.

Number 42 was a terraced house in Beaumont, with nothing in particular to distinguish it from the line of identical pebble-dash houses on that row, opposite it, or around the maze that made up the estate. In an effort to inject colour into the estate some homeowners had painted their houses, though they clearly hadn’t pulled together. There were clashing lemons and oranges, snot greens beside mint greens, pretty pinks beside unpainted murky pebble dash. The house number was displayed as a novelty happy-faced sticker on the wheelie bins out by the front gate, the driveway was littered with abandoned toys and bikes, but there was no car inside the gates or outside on the path. It was 5.30 p.m., people were returning from work and the evening was already closing in. Next door an old woman was sitting at her front door on a kitchen chair catching the last of the evening sun. She was wearing a knee-length skirt, thick tights on her bumpy bandaged legs, and tartan slippers on her feet. She watched Kitty closely and nodded at her when she caught her eye.

Kitty rang the doorbell to Bridget Murphy’s house and stepped down from the doorstep.

‘They’re having their dinner,’ the old woman said. On Kitty’s displaced interest in her, she continued, ‘Chicken curry. They always have it on Thursdays. I can smell it in my house every week.’ She ruffled up her nose.

Kitty laughed. ‘You’re not a fan of chicken curry?’

‘Not of hers, I’m not,’ she said, looking away from the house as if the very sight of it offended her. ‘They won’t hear you out here, they’re a noisy lot.’

Kitty could hear that from where she stood. It sounded like there was an army of squealing kids dropping knives and clanging glasses. She didn’t want to be rude by ringing again, particularly as she was disturbing a family dinner and she had the old woman as her audience.

‘I’d ring again if I were you,’ the neighbour said.

Happy to receive permission, Kitty pressed the doorbell again.

‘Who are you looking for anyway? Him or her? Because he’s not in, doesn’t get home until seven most days. A banker.’ She rolled up her nose again.

‘I’m here to see Bridget.’

The old woman frowned. ‘Bridget Murphy?’

Kitty checked her notepad again even though she had memorised practically the entire list, but she did that now, checked everything twenty times and then still wasn’t sure.

‘Bridget doesn’t live there any more,’ the old woman said just as the front door opened and a flushed-looking mother of the army stared at a confused Kitty.

‘Oh. Hello,’ Kitty said.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so. I’m looking for Bridget Murphy but I’ve just learned that she might not live here any longer.’

‘She doesn’t,’ the old woman said. ‘I told you that. I already told her that, Mary.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the mother said, ignoring the old lady.

‘See?’

‘Do you know how I could contact Bridget?’

‘I don’t know Bridget at all. We bought the house last year but perhaps Agnes here could help.’

Kitty apologised for disturbing her dinner, the door closed and they heard Mary’s ironic shout for silence rattle through the building.

She turned to Agnes. Kitty guessed Agnes knew the business of most people on the street. A journalist’s dream. She contemplated climbing over the knee-high wall that separated them but decided Agnes might consider it rude so she walked down the path, out the gate, in at Agnes’s gate and up the path again.

Agnes looked at her oddly. ‘You could have just climbed over the wall.’

‘Do you know where Bridget lives?’

‘We lived next door to each other for forty years. She’s a great woman. A bunch of selfish good-for-nothings her children turned out to be. To hear them talk you’d think they think they’re royalty. Far from how they were reared, I’ll tell you that. She had a fall is all,’ she said angrily. ‘She tripped. Who doesn’t take a tumble now and then? But oh no, it was off to the nursing home for poor Birdie just so that lot could sell that house and spend the money on another skiing holiday.’ She grumbled to herself, her mouth moving up and down angrily, her false teeth sloshing around inside.

‘Do you know which nursing home she’s in?’

‘St Margaret’s in Oldtown,’ she said, sounding angry at the whole of Oldtown.

‘Have you visited her?’

‘Me? No. The furthest I can get is the shop at the end of the road and then I have to figure out how to get back,’ she laughed, a wheezy sound that resulted in a cough.

‘Do you think she’d see me?’

Agnes looked at her then. ‘I know your face.’

‘Yes,’ Kitty said, not proudly this time.

‘You did the show about the tea.’

‘Yes, I did,’ Kitty brightened up.

‘I drink Barry’s,’ she said. ‘So did my mother. And her mother.’

Kitty nodded solemnly. ‘A good choice, I believe.’

Agnes’s eyes narrowed as she made a decision. ‘Tell her Agnes said you were all right. And that I was asking after her. We go way back, me and her.’ She looked off into the distance again, reflective. ‘You can tell her I’m still here.’

When Kitty was leaving, the door next to Agnes’s opened again and four kids came firing out as if from a cannon, their mother quickly following to shout her orders. Agnes called out, ‘And tell her they cut her rose bush down. Butchered it, they did.’

Mary threw Agnes a look of absolute loathing and Kitty smiled and lifted her hand in a farewell. En route to her next destination, Kitty looked at the two names she had visited that day. Sarah McGowan and Bridget Murphy.

Story theory: people who have had to move home against their will?

That was definitely a theme she could relate to. Her and Colin Maguire.

Chapter Seven

Due to a very limited bus service to Oldtown, Kitty had no choice but to get a taxi and with a driver hailing from the opposite side of the county, a fact he pointed out many times, they had to stop three times for directions as they drove down a series of country lanes that seemed to get ever narrower. In the heart of the countryside they finally reached St Margaret’s, a 1970s bungalow that had been extended on all sides to meet its new requirements as a nursing home. The south-facing conservatory to the right was set as a dining room, an extension to the left and then further to the back filled with couches and armchairs. The gardens were extensively landscaped, with benches placed all around and colourful hanging baskets hung from the sides of the house. If she ever saw her again, Kitty would be sure to tell Agnes that her friend Bridget was in a good place. It was 7 p.m., only thirty minutes of visiting time remaining, and having not had the greatest luck so far with hunting down her subjects, Kitty was really hoping Bridget would agree to see her.

She asked at the desk for Bridget Murphy and waited while a stern-faced nurse, her hair in a severe bun, checked the visitors’ book. Kitty squirmed as she watched her, trying to figure out how to tell her she wasn’t expected and figure out her best way of manipulating the situation. To her right was the common room, busy with visitors, and on-going chess games. A middle-aged woman with dreadlocks was in the centre of the floor forcing three old men, one using a walking frame, another wearing hearing aids in both ears, to play Simon Says.

‘No, Wally!’ she screeched with laughter. ‘I didn’t say “Simon Says”!’

The old man with the hearing aids looked confused.

‘You have to sit down now, you’re out of the game. You’re out of the game!’ she shouted even louder.

She abandoned the two remaining men standing with their hands on their heads and came to the common room door. ‘Molly,’ she called, looking Kitty up and down as though surveying the competition, ‘where is Birdie?’

‘She’s having a lie-down,’ a young nurse with blue hair and blue nail varnish responded in a bored tone, without looking up from a chart.

‘Should I go to her room?’ dreadlocked woman asked. ‘I’ve brought my angel cards I was telling her about.’

Molly looked at Kitty and lifted an eyebrow as if to say, ‘No wonder she’s lying down.’

Dreadlocked woman looked slighted at that, like a little girl who’d lost her playmate.

Molly sighed. ‘Let me go check on her and I’ll see if she wants to come to the common room.’

While waiting, dreadlocked woman turned round and spoke loudly to an old man near her. ‘Seth, would you like to hear a poem I wrote this week?’ Seth looked a little weary as she sat down anyway before he’d answered and began reciting her poem like a six-year-old at elocution lessons.

Kitty watched Molly wander down the hall, pause outside a bathroom, lean against the door where she studied her nails. Kitty smiled to herself. After the count of ten seconds Molly returned and called to the dreadlocked woman, ‘She’s having a nap.’

‘Seth needs new batteries,’ the nurse dealing with Kitty said to Molly when she returned to the desk.

Molly glanced up at dreadlocked woman reciting her poem. ‘Why don’t we leave him battery free for a few minutes?’ Kitty liked Molly’s style.

‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name is again?’ the plump stern-faced nurse finally looked up from the book.

‘Kath—’ she stalled, realising she couldn’t bring herself to say her usual professional name. ‘Kitty Logan,’ she finally said.

‘And you’ve made an appointment to visit Bridget?’

‘Actually, no, I haven’t. I just thought I’d call by,’ she said as sweetly as she could. Though how anybody could just drop by this place was anybody’s guess. A missile couldn’t be programmed to target this place.

‘We only allow visits by appointment,’ the nurse said firmly, snapping the visitors’ book closed without a smile, and Kitty knew immediately this one would be tricky.

‘But I’m here now, and I’ve come all this way. Could you tell her that I’m here and ask if she’d like to see me? You can tell her that Agnes said I’m all right,’ she smiled.

‘That’s against our policy, I’m afraid. You’ll have to come back if Brenda wishes—’

‘Bridget. I’m here to see Bridget Murphy,’ Kitty said, her temper rising. She had had no luck with making contact with anyone on the list so far, time was running out, so was her patience, and she had no intention of leaving the building without seeing Bridget or at least without smacking somebody in the face, she didn’t care who, but preferably the battle-axe in front of her.

‘Well, now …’ The nurse put her hands on her rotund hips and looked as if she was about to give Kitty a good spanking.

‘Bernadette,’ the blue-haired nurse interrupted, ‘I’ll deal with this. Why don’t you go see to Seth, he much prefers you.’

Bernadette looked at her, annoyed she’d interrupted her telling-off, then backed down, gave Kitty a final snarl and went to Seth’s aid.

‘Follow me,’ Molly said, and she turned and headed into the extension to the back.

Great, she was doing the walk of shame; they didn’t even have the nerve to throw her out the front door. When they stepped out into the lush landscaped gardens Molly finally spoke.

‘Don’t mind her, she was an army sergeant in her last life and a frustrated one in this. Birdie hates visiting hour. That hippie inside annoys everyone but always seems to focus on Birdie. I’d punch her lights out if I could. She’s nothing better to be doing with her time, she’s either hugging trees or annoying old people, and if she annoys the trees as much as she hugs the old people, she’s not appreciated all that much. Over here.’ She led Kitty under an archway to a bench. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s great that people come and visit,’ she assured her so as not to insult her. ‘Sometimes they do get a bit lonely here and, you know, sane people would be a good start.’

They heard the piano and then the dreadlocked woman starting up ‘This Little Light of Mine’.

‘Doesn’t Bridget have visitors in the evening?’

‘Her family can only visit on weekends. We’re not exactly easy to get to, as I’m sure you discovered. But don’t worry, that doesn’t bother Birdie in the slightest, in fact I think she likes it. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring her to you.’

She wandered off in the direction of some tiny adjoining bungalows. Kitty got her notebook and recorder ready, wondering what the story could be.

Bridget appeared. She was a graceful woman who moved slowly, aided by a cane, but appeared more like a ballet instructor than an old person. Her grey hair was pinned back neatly, not a strand out of place, she had a gentle smile on her pink lipsticked lips and a curious expression in her eyes as she studied Kitty and tried to figure out if she should know her visitor. She was well dressed, sophisticated and looked like she’d made an effort despite the fact she’d had no intention of meeting anybody that day.

Kitty stood to greet her.

‘I’ll be back with your tea, Birdie. Kitty?’

Kitty nodded yes please, and turned to Bridget. ‘I’m so glad to finally meet you, Bridget,’ Kitty said, surprised to discover she genuinely meant it. She had finally made contact with someone from Constance’s list. She felt connected to her friend, ready to embark on the journey Constance had set out for herself but didn’t have time to finish.

Bridget seemed relieved. ‘Call me Birdie, please. Ah, so we haven’t met,’ she stated, rather than asked. There was a light Cork lilt in her accent.

‘No, we haven’t.’

‘I pride myself on my good memory but there are times when it lets me down,’ she smiled.

‘Well, not this time. We haven’t met. But we do have somebody in common who you have met, or at least been in contact with, which is why I’m here. Her name is Constance Dubois.’ Kitty realised she was perched on the edge of the bench, her anticipation high. She waited for Birdie’s eyes to light up but it didn’t happen and again a cloud lowered over Kitty’s enthusiasm. To jolt her memory she took out a copy of Etcetera from her bag. ‘I work for this magazine, Constance Dubois was the editor. She had an idea for a story, a story which you were part of.’

‘Oh dear.’ Birdie took her glasses up and looked up from the magazine. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person. I’m sorry you came all this way. I haven’t heard of your friend …’

‘Constance.’

‘Yes, Constance. I’m afraid I haven’t received any communications from her at all.’ She looked at the magazine as if trying to recall a memory. ‘And this magazine, I haven’t seen this before either. I’m very sorry.’

‘You weren’t in contact with Constance Dubois at all?’

‘I’m afraid not, dear.’

‘You didn’t receive a letter from her or an email or a message of any kind?’ Kitty’s desperation was oozing from her pores and so was her frustration; she was just short of asking Birdie if she had any history of Alzheimer’s in the family.

‘No, dear, I’m sorry. I would remember that. I’ve been here for six months, so unless she contacted the battle-axe at reception who insisted she have an appointment, I certainly didn’t receive any contact from her.’ Birdie studied the magazine again. ‘I would have remembered something as exciting as a magazine editor contacting me.’

Molly came with the tea and winked at Birdie as she handed it over. There was a smell that was very unlike tea to Kitty.

‘She’s my one accomplice in here, the rest are as rigid as anything,’ Birdie smiled, sipping on her brandy.

Kitty was disappointed to learn her tea was in fact tea; she could do with something stronger. ‘Constance would have been in touch with you over six months ago, a year or more ago, in fact, when you were living in Beaumont.’ On her surprised reaction to the knowledge of her previous home, Kitty explained, ‘I called to your house earlier today. Agnes told me you were here.’

‘Ah, so that’s the link with Agnes,’ she smiled. ‘Agnes Dowling. The nosiest old bat I’ve ever known, and the most loyal woman I’ve ever met too. How is she?’

‘She misses you. She doesn’t seem to be too happy with the new neighbours.’

Birdie chuckled. ‘Agnes and I made a good team. We lived beside each other for forty years. We helped each other out a lot over the years.’

‘She wants to visit you but she’s not too mobile at the moment.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Birdie said softly.

It struck Kitty how, on coming to live in a home, it seemed almost as if each habitant had to say goodbye to life outside the walls. They would receive visitors and have day trips, perhaps weekends or holidays, but the life that they once knew, the people who once surrounded them, were no longer a part of them. She thought of Sarah McGowan, qualified accountant, now farming watermelons on the other side of the world.

Story theory – saying goodbye to old lives, hello to new lives. Castaways?

Birdie looked at Kitty’s note nervously. Kitty was used to that: people were often afraid of speaking to journalists, afraid of saying something wrong.

‘My editor, and friend, Constance, passed away a few weeks ago,’ Kitty started to explain. ‘She was going to do a story, one which she left in my hands but which she never had the opportunity to fully explain to me. Your name was on the list of people she wanted to write about.’

‘My name?’ Birdie seemed surprised. ‘But why would I be of interest to her?’

‘You tell me,’ Kitty urged. ‘Is there something that happened in your life that you think she would have been particularly interested in? Something she would have been aware of? Something you talked about publicly that she could have seen or heard from somebody else? Or perhaps your paths crossed along the way somewhere. She was fifty-four years old, French accent, tough as nails.’ Kitty smiled to herself.

‘My goodness, where would I even start?’ Birdie began. ‘I have never done anything particularly special in my life that I can think of. I never saved a life, won any awards …’ she trailed off. ‘I can’t see why I would be of interest to her.’

‘Would you be willing to let me write the story about you?’ Kitty asked. ‘Would you allow me to ask you questions and perhaps find the thing that Constance thought was so special?’

Birdie’s cheeks pinked. ‘Goodness, I was getting ready for a chess game with Walter, I didn’t think a magazine would be suddenly doing a story on me.’ She laughed lightly and sounded like a little girl. ‘But I would be more than happy to try to help you with your story. I don’t know how much help I will be, though.’

‘Great,’ Kitty said, not feeling as happy as she should be. She had finally found somebody from the list but that person had no idea of the story. It was getting curiouser and curiouser.

Birdie sensed her hesitancy. ‘How many are on the list?’

‘There are one hundred names in total.’

‘My goodness,’ she whispered. ‘And do none of them know what the story is about?’

‘You’re the first I found.’

‘I hope you have more luck with the others.’

Me too, she thought, but didn’t say it out loud.

With a lot of encouragement from Kitty, Birdie talked about her life, starting from her childhood and going all the way up to her current life. Kitty kept it general, making a note of where she would like to question her further on her next visit. Birdie was shy at first, as most people were when talking about themselves, leaving out information, talking more about others than herself, but she seemed to warm up by the end, the wheels of her memory bank moving up a gear with each new question.

Birdie was eighty-four years old and had grown up in a small chapel town in County Cork, in the south-west of Ireland. Her father had been a school teacher, as strict at home as he was in the school, and her mother had died when Birdie was a child. She had three sisters and one brother and when she was eighteen she had moved to Dublin to live with a family to mind their children. That same year she met her husband, Niall. They married and immediately started having children. She had seven children, six boys and one girl, ranging in age now between sixty-five and forty-six. Her daughter was the youngest. At the age of thirty-eight Birdie had her last child. This seemed less to do with family planning than with her husband having to sleep on the couch. The seven children were raised first in Cabra and then in Beaumont, in the home Kitty had visited earlier that evening, with Agnes sounding more like the second parent who helped raise Birdie’s children, taking the place of the husband who was busy with his job in the Civil Service.

Though Birdie’s life was indeed interesting, nothing jumped out to Kitty as being particularly extraordinary about it. Birdie seemed embarrassed by it all at the end, apologising for not being more exciting, while Kitty reassured her over and over that her life was more than interesting, that she was an inspiring woman who lots of women could look up to and relate to.

On the way home Kitty glanced at her notes and felt guilty for feeling that Birdie’s beautiful rich family life was not enough.

From the bench in the now darkened garden lit by pathway lights and overhead lanterns, Birdie remained outside long after Kitty had left her, feeling aware of the lack of excitement in her life, feeling her simple answers had done nothing to inspire the lady who had spent an hour with her, though she had done her best to try to convince her her life was indeed interesting. Birdie had no doubt that it wasn’t interesting to any other person. It had at times been barely interesting to her but it was her life and she had liked it; had never been in it for more than she could handle. Birdie couldn’t help but retreat into her memory that evening and she stayed there for the entirety of the chess game, so that Walter had checkmate almost as soon as they started.

Birdie would be eighty-five years old the following week; of course she had stories, of course she had secrets, everybody did. It was a case of trying to decide which one she felt Kitty would like to hear and, after all this time, which one Birdie wished to tell.

Kitty ignored Pete’s call on her way home in another expensive taxi. She didn’t want to have to tell him she was nowhere with the story. She couldn’t bear the condescending tone in his voice, the judgement, the doubt that trickled through each of his words. She placed her phone on silent and as a result missed another call. When she picked up the voicemail it was a woman speaking so loudly the taxi driver gave Kitty a look, and she had to turn down the volume.

‘Hi, Kitty, it’s Gaby O’Connor, Eva Wu’s publicity agent. We received your call today. Sorry we missed you, we’ve just been so busy. Eva would be only too happy to give you an interview. We’re based in Galway but we’ll be in Dublin tomorrow. In fact, Eva’s doing an interview tomorrow in Arnotts on Henry Street if you’d like to come along and meet us there.’

Eva Wu. Number three of the one hundred names. She’d made contact with her second person, and this one had a publicity agent and was doing a television interview. Who on earth was she and how on earth had Kitty missed her?

When she arrived home after an exhausting day feeling a bit more upbeat about her story, she found dog turd smeared all over her front door.

Chapter Eight

‘I’m so sorry to drag you over so late,’ Kitty apologised to Steve as he got out of his car. She’d wiped her eyes roughly while she waited and now hoped it wasn’t obvious that she’d been crying. ‘I didn’t mean for you to come over at all, I just didn’t know who else to call. The dry-cleaners said they’d evict me next month if I didn’t sort it out and I didn’t want to call the guards and I didn’t know who else to call. Sorry,’ she repeated.

‘Kitty, shut up saying sorry, okay?’ he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulder and giving her as much of an embrace as his PDA-hating body would allow him, and though it was more the kind of hug a footballer would give another she appreciated that he even touched her. ‘What did they do this time?’

She didn’t need to answer, the smell hit as soon as they stepped in the stairwell.

‘Oh God …’ He pulled the neck of his sweater up over his mouth and nose.

It took them twenty minutes of much gagging and retching to clean the door and it seemed it would take eternity to get rid of the stink. As a further apology and thanks, Kitty treated Steve to dinner in a nearby bistro.

‘I have to wash my hands again,’ Steve said, rolling up his nose in disgust, ‘I can still smell it on me. I don’t think I can touch food.’

‘You’ve cleaned your hands six times,’ she laughed, watching him disappear to the bistro toilet.

‘So how is everything with you? Is Victoria Beckham’s new line Fit or Shit?’ she asked as soon as he’d returned.

‘Ha ha,’ he said, without cracking a smile. ‘I wouldn’t know, seeing as I’m no longer a slave to her fashion.’

Steve wasn’t a slave to any particular fashion but his own style, which wasn’t especially bad but it was consistent, had pretty much been the same since their college days, though the fabrics were now more expensive and he tended to wash his clothes more regularly. He was thirty-four years old, with a mop of unruly black curly hair on top of his head, a style he’d had since college and which, like him, never seemed able to be tamed. His curls often hung in front of his blue eyes so that he was constantly jerking his head to move his fringe away, having long ago given up on brushing it away with his fingers. He was always unshaven, his stubble a designer length, but Kitty had never seen him freshly shaven or reach beard stage. He lived in leather jackets and jeans and would have appeared more at home reviewing the alternative music scene than as a sports journalist, or at least a frustrated sports journalist. Even when going to matches he never wore a jersey, his love for the game not having to be proved by his T-shirt. He was the eternal student, never seeming to have any money and sharing houses and flats with unusual characters, chopping and changing accommodation according to their recent behaviour. He was currently living in the suburbs in a nice semi-detached three-bedroom house with a married couple who needed help from a third party to meet the mortgage payments of their negative equity. Living in non-violation of the married couple’s strict household code for the past six months, Steve found his lifestyle now mirrored theirs, and it was almost like he’d grown up a little.

‘Actually,’ he shifted in his chair, a movement that told Kitty he was preparing to say something he deemed interesting, ‘I no longer work for the paper.’

‘What?’

‘I no longer work for the paper,’ he said in exactly the same tone.

‘Yes, I heard you but … they fired you?’

‘No,’ he said, insulted. ‘I left.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? I thought that would be obvious. Because a million reasons, but mainly because you were right about what you said a few weeks ago—’

‘No, no, no,’ she interrupted, not wanting to hear whatever it was that she’d said. ‘I was wrong. Completely wrong. Don’t ever let anything I say be of any value to you in your life at all.’

He smiled. ‘Mostly it isn’t.’

‘Good.’

‘But you were right about one thing. I was hardly setting the world alight by writing the stories I was writing, and even then the editor would change them so much I could hardly call them my own. And the thing is, Kitty, I never wanted to set the world alight with my writing. I just like sports. I like to watch sports, talk about sports, I like to read about sports and I wanted to be one of those people who wrote about it. It was never about anything else.’

‘So who are you writing for now?’

‘No one.’

‘I thought you left so you could write about sport?’

‘I left because I couldn’t write about sports. So what’s the point in staying there? Writing ridiculous articles that aren’t even true about people I have never met and have no interest in is not a job I want. It suits Kyle, who leaves meetings to watch breaking headlines on E! News