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,
