Читать книгу Cecelia Ahern 3-Book Collection: One Hundred Names, How to Fall in Love, The Year I Met You - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 14

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.