I decided to talk to somebody about it, somebody who was totally unrelated to this world, a man who told me he was writing a novel, for Christ’s sake, and who seemed to care, and when I woke up this morning I find that crap splashed all over the paper and I’m really exhausted because I had to sleep on a friend’s couch so I am humiliated and mortified and extremely sorry, okay? I’m really sorry.’ She hadn’t realised she was crying until Pete held out a tissue to her and she felt her wet cheeks and her nose running.
‘Okay,’ he said gently. ‘Okay, that’s a different story entirely. I’m sorry for getting the wrong idea.’
Kitty simply nodded her thanks and continued wiping her streaming eyes.
‘Is it true about the attacks on your flat?’
‘Last night it was firecrackers. A firecracker roll, apparently. Five thousand of them. Hence the sleep on a couch.’
‘Jesus, that could have been dangerous,’ he said, face full of concern.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Did you call the guards?’
She shook her head.
‘Why not?’
She shrugged but she knew exactly why.
‘You haven’t had an easy time of it, have you?’
Her tears started up again at the sympathy. ‘I made a stupid mistake, Pete, a really bad, unprofessional mistake, and I ruined a man’s reputation, possibly his life, and for that I deserve to be punished, but,’ her tears took over again and she struggled to speak, ‘I’ve had enough now. I just want to write nice stories about good people, I want to get back to doing what it is that I love, what makes my world normal again. And I want people to believe in me again. I want you to look at me and listen to me without the doubt that I can see so obviously. I’m second-guessing myself enough as it is, Pete. I don’t need it from everyone else too.’
Pete looked at her, full of sympathy. ‘Would it be unprofessional to offer you a hug?’
‘Would it be unprofessional to accept?’ she sniffed.
Though when she thought of it after, it was rather unprofessional behaviour, but sometimes when people are involved, business has to stop being business and the human must win. However, Kitty couldn’t ignore the underlying truth that they both hung on to that hug for a little too long.
The curtains were still closed in Bob’s flat when she left the office and she contemplated calling in to give her version of events before he heard it from someone else but she decided against it. If her sleepless nights were anything to go by, she was certain he needed his rest.
‘I’ll tell him,’ she heard Pete say from the top of the stairs as he locked the door.
‘Thanks.’
He looked around the car park. ‘No bike today?’
‘It was stolen.’
He looked at her with a half-smile in disbelief. ‘Jesus, Kitty, the same people?’
‘No, no, other people. I’m a popular lady.’
He shook his head. ‘So it seems.’ He looked at her as if he had never seen her before, as if this was their very first meeting. As if it just occurred to him that she was a person in the world he had an interest in getting to know. And to her surprise, she liked it. She liked him looking at her like that. He came down the steps and they started walking together.
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll walk.’
‘To Fairview?’
‘No, I’m just going as far as town.’
They reached his car and he opened the passenger door, extended his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman.
Kitty laughed. ‘I forgot that you don’t take no for an answer.’
It felt strangely intimate sitting next to him in his car.
‘Where am I driving you to?’
‘BusÁras, please.’ It was the main central station for bus routes nationwide.
‘Is this your attempt to run away?’
‘Not a bad idea. No, this is just a day trip. I’m interviewing another person on Constance’s list in Straffan. A woman named Ambrose Nolan who runs a butterfly museum and conservation site.’
‘A butterfly museum? Never heard of it.’
‘Well, then, it will make a good read.’
‘So how is this butterfly woman linked to the others you’ve met?’
‘I thought I had until Friday to tell you that,’ she said in mock indignation.
‘It’s only a week until we go to print,’ he shot back. ‘I was hoping to know what the story is before then.’
Me too, thought Kitty.
‘You know, Oisín O’Ceallaigh and Olivia Wallace have agreed to write their stories for Constance’s tribute.’
‘Really?’ Kitty’s eyes widened. ‘I can’t believe you talked them into it. Did they ask for much money?’
‘They’re doing it for free. For Constance.’
Kitty nodded. Constance had so much respect for the writers, she was glad to see them returning the support she’d given them over the years.
‘It’s a really big scoop to get stories from them, Kitty,’ Pete said. ‘No one has seen or heard from Oisín for almost ten years. Olivia hasn’t written for over five years and has turned down every publishing deal offer imaginable to return to writing.’
‘I know, I agree.’ Kitty replied emphatically, wondering why he felt he had to tell her the importance of this. These were big-name writers; it was obviously a huge deal for Etcetera to get the opportunity to publish their original stories.
‘They’re only doing this because it’s for Constance’s tribute and their stories can only be included in Constance’s tribute section if we also have Constance’s last story. Do you understand?’
Kitty swallowed. Nodded.
‘So you need to keep thinking, Lois Lane,’ he warned playfully.
‘No pressure then,’ she said, trying to hide her nerves with a smile.
‘Welcome to my world,’ he said and gave her such a vulnerable look she wanted to reach out to him. Instead she cleared her throat, severing their eye contact, and climbed out of the car.
When she reached the ticket desk they refused to let her buy a ticket. Her bus was driving off.
‘Jesus,’ she fumed, her phone starting to vibrate
