One incredibly shaky half hour later, I’m sitting alone in the Madison lounge, a gorgeous Jazz-Age-style bar just off the Roosevelt Hotel’s reception area. It’s suitably dark in here, which suits me; I don’t want anyone to see me, speak to me or even notice me; nothing. All I want is to blend in and dissolve like a Disprin. There’s a mirror just behind the bar and I catch the reflection of what appears to be a ghost. Then I realize: it’s me. White-faced, weak as water and still trembling from head to foot.
Even though it’s just coming up to 6 p.m., the lounge is fast filling up with the after-work gang all dropping in for a pre-Christmas drink. Somehow though, I manage to get a seat in front of a roaring log fire, which helps me to calm down and cool my head a little. I order a glass of brandy to bring my heart rate back down into double digits and am just about to call Joy; I’ve got to talk to someone – not that she’ll believe any of this – when suddenly my mobile starts pealing, sending my blood pressure levels shooting skywards all over again.
Blocked call. I waver a bit, deciding whether or not to even bother answering. If this is – and I shudder to even invoke the name, so let’s just say if this is Teen Boy calling, do I really want to hear whatever he has to say?
Then another follow-on thought. The tiny part of my brain that’s still rational and thinking clearly figures, hang on here just one second. OK so this idiot knows he’s strung me along, he knows I’ve made a blatant eejit out of myself by haring across the Atlantic, all set to have an almighty showdown with him.
This con artist may think he can have the last laugh here, but why not turn the tables on him for a change? After all, no matter how old he is, he has it coming, and that’s what I came here to do. Plus I never got to say my piece back there; the words just froze on my lips. So let’s just see what he has to say for himself when he realizes that he’s shortly about to be the subject of a national radio and TV show.
Fuelled on by a rising wave of anger, I answer.
‘Hello? Who is this?’ I ask crisply.
But it turns out not to be Teen Boy at all.
‘Hi there, am I speaking with a Ms Holly Johnson?’
A man’s voice.
At least I think it is a man’s voice, but given that until this afternoon I thought I was having in-depth chats with an adult male for the past few weeks, I’m assuming my own radar here wouldn’t exactly be the most reliable.
‘Yes, this is Holly,’ I answer cagily.
‘Hi, Mike McGillis here.’
McGillis. Same last name as Teen Boy. Jesus, don’t tell me, this is his father calling me now to say he’s reporting me to the police for messing round with a minor? Oh God, I think, suddenly shivering at just how potentially horrific this could well turn out to be.
‘We haven’t met,’ this Mike goes on, sounding so like Teen Boy, it’s actually frightening. The same deep, soothing voice, minus the Southern twang, which clearly the gobshite only ever put on in the first place. ‘But I’ve just been told what Harry’s been up to and I had to get in touch.’
Why, why, why? I’m frantically thinking, though still a bit too shell-shocked to do anything other than keep listening.
‘I think you should know that Harry’s told me everything,’ this Mike guy goes on calmly. ‘That is, everything that you can possibly prise out of a teenager. Look, we’re all horrified here, as you can imagine.’
I still can’t bring myself to answer though, so he talks on.
‘Anyway, we all feel the only right and proper thing for Harry to do is apologize to you face-to-face. It’s a better punishment for him that way and then maybe there’s some hope he’ll learn a lesson here. So I got your number from him and I’m wondering if you’d be free to meet up with us both?’
‘Umm … well, when were you thinking?’ I ask, still not really thinking clearly.
‘Are you free now? Maybe we can get you a coffee, if you had thirty minutes to spare? Harry’s behaviour has been a big shock for us all and I think the sooner we get to the bottom of all this, the better. For all our sakes. Don’t you?’
Chapter Sixteen
Half an hour and one shot of brandy later, I’ve somehow calmed down, regrouped and am heading out of the Roosevelt yet again, but this time a very different woman on a very different mission. We’ve arranged to meet in Papillon, which according to this Mike guy is a French bar and bistro just a few blocks uptown from my hotel.
Now I’m still all at a complete loss whenever people talk about uptown versus downtown, and don’t even get me started on the whole East side/West side thing … east and west of what? So I ask the concierge for directions, then set off, eyes glued to the visitor’s map he gave me and feeling like I might as well have a novelty neon sign lit above me screaming ‘tourist!’.
Madison Avenue looks just incredible, I think as I head up towards what I hope is 54th Street, but my thoughts are way too distracted to even think about how inviting the shops look, not to mention the countless little art galleries and gorgeous restaurants I’m scooting past. Ten minutes later, only having to stop for directions twice, I finally stumble on Papillon, a trendy-looking watering hole, that’s moodily lit and, thank God, suitably dark, so I don’t flush crimson at the very sight of Teen Boy.
Either I’m early or they’re late, so I slink into a corner table, order a good strong Americano and sit back.
All the times I waited on you before, I think. Well this is one arrangement you certainly won’t be able to worm your way out of, arsehole.
Now that the initial shock has worn off, I’m finally allowing myself to get full-on angry. Real white-hot fury, this time. Because what this kid did to me was nothing short of wanton cruelty, and for all my humiliation, there’s a large part of me that’s actually delighted that Harry McGillis has been rumbled good and proper. And then there’s the small matter of his dad, who’s hopefully prepared to haul him over the coals for this.
So if nothing else comes of it, maybe this idiot will have learned a cautionary tale that single women are absolutely not fair game. Then at least this won’t have been an entirely wasted episode in my life. Not forgetting that I’ll be sure to get a good story out of it for work.
I’m busily working myself up into such a crescendo of righteous indignation that I don’t even notice them come in. A tall, lean, dark-haired guy wearing an expensive-looking suit, with a sullen-looking, chubby sixteen-year-old trailing reluctantly after him, dressed in a T-shirt and scruffy denim jacket, even though it’s sub-zero outside.
Him. Harry. I’d recognize that acne anywhere.
‘See? I told you. She’s not here. Can we just go now?’ says Harry, so I take that as my cue. Standing up, so they can’t possibly miss me, I give a curt little wave and they both come straight over.
‘Holly Johnson?’ says the older, dark-haired guy, and it’s only now that he’s up close that I really get a good look at him. The surprising thing is though, turns out he’s only mid-thirties, tops. So, barring he had Harry when he was still only a teenager himself, there’s just no way this is his dad.
‘Yeah, that’s me,’ I say, shaking hands coldly.
‘Hi I’m Mike McGillis, Harry’s older brother,’ he says, gripping my hand firmly and looking intently down at me. Steel in his eyes, clenched jaw, like he’s not looking forward to this any more than I am. Older brother. It’s all starting to make sense now.
‘We spoke on the phone earlier,’ he goes on. ‘Thanks so much for coming to meet us, we really appreciate it. Don’t we, Harry?’ he says, prompting him.
‘Ehh … I guess,’ says Harry, at least having the good grace to look mortified now as he reddens and stares down at the floor.
They slide down into the booth opposite me and Mike orders more coffees. There’s an awkward pause while I just glare across the table at the pair of them, determined not to blink first, before Mike breaks the silence.
‘So here’s why I asked to meet,’ he begins as I look coolly back at him, arms folded cr
ossly. ‘My mother, who I guess you met earlier, called me at my office right after you’d visited the apartment earlier.’
‘Yes,’ I half snap, needing no reminders, thank you very much. Poor woman thought I’d come to deliver groceries while I ended up passing out on her living room carpet instead. ‘And please will you say I’m sorry for running out the way I did, but I’d just had quite a shock, I can tell you.’
‘I can imagine,’ Mike says, again angrily addressing Harry, who’s staring at the menu in front of him so intently, you’d swear he was about to take a test on it. ‘And I think you have something to say now, don’t you, Harry?’
A sharp look passes between them and, reluctantly, Harry grunts, ‘Yeah, look, sorry about … you know … everything.’
Then silence. Like, that’s it. That’s all the apology I’m getting.
So I suppose it’s my turn now.
‘Well I’m certainly glad to hear that you’re sorry, Harry,’ I say crisply, finding it hard not to talk down to him, given that the kid looks like he only just stopped believing in Santa Claus the other day. ‘You have to understand that what you did was horrible and cruel. And if nothing else, then let my coming here – all the way to New York, from Ireland, at Christmas – be a lesson to you.’
‘A lesson in what exactly?’ he asks sulkily, as he shoves a fistful of the clumpy black fringe out of his face and addresses me directly for the first time since he’s got here.
‘Well, a lesson that when you lie online, you can get caught out very easily. I knew you were lying to me and that’s the only reason why I came!’
‘Yeah, well I’m not the only one who lied, am I?’ he says, flushing hot red in the face now. Mind you, that could just be the pimples. It’s very hard to tell.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You said you were tall! And you’re like, what, thirty plus? You told me you were still in your twenties.’
‘You better take that right back!’ says Mike, but I override him.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to Harry, reddening now. ‘You’re not exactly comparing like with like here! So I may have tweaked the truth just the tiniest little bit …’
‘Oh so what’s this then, quantum lying?’ Harry says cheekily, but I don’t even let him finish.
‘Can I just remind you that you invented an entire fake human being? That’s a psychotic thing to do!’
‘Yeah well I already said I was sorry!’
‘I don’t want your half-arsed apology, I want you to go and get yourself a CAT scan!’
Cheeky pup isn’t for backing down though.
‘You also said you were some kind of a high-flying TV reporter,’ Harry retorts, ‘but I Googled you and that turned out to be just another lie!’
‘Excuse me! You arranged to meet me, not once, but three times knowing right well there wasn’t the slightest chance of you even being there! Do you know what a vicious, horrible thing that is to do to anyone? For God’s sake, you should get community service for this!’
‘Harry,’ says Mike, turning to him furiously, ‘is this true? You set up three separate meetings?’
‘Too right it’s true,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Harry here even called me to arrange. Morning, noon and night he was calling me. Even sent me flowers the first time he stood me up.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ Mike groans, putting his head in his hands. ‘Quite apart from anything else, where did you get the money for flowers?’ he demands.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ grumbles Harry.
‘I asked you a question,’ says Mike sternly, and I’m suddenly grateful that at least someone at this table seems to be on my side here.
‘From … umm … your credit card,’ says Harry in a voice so small it’s barely audible. Mike slumps back against the chair and exhales deeply.
‘Just when you think things can’t get any worse, lo and behold, they do,’ he says, to no one in particular.
‘OK, OK,’ says Harry, sulkily sitting forward now, picking up a fork and hammering it annoyingly off a glass in front of him. ‘So I messed up, I get it. So I’m grounded for the holidays, fine.’
‘You think that’s all you gotta do to make up for this?’ says Mike evenly. ‘Try this on for size, kiddo: after this stunt, I’m enrolling you into military school, and they can take their shot at straightening you out.’
‘Hello? I’m actually trying to say something in my defence here,’ Harry cuts over him, and for a second, I shudder. It’s just that bloody voice gets to me so much. How is it possible for a teenager to sound so scarily like a grown man?
Our coffees arrive and the smell of it suddenly starts to make me feel a bit nauseous. Because if you ask me, this kid isn’t one tiny bit sorry at all. If anything, he’s just being a defensive little shit who deserves nothing more than a good thumping for what he gets up to online.
‘OK, so now I gotta question for you,’ Harry says to me, sitting back now with his arms folded defensively.
‘Go ahead,’ I say, struggling to keep my voice calm and even.
‘Well, aren’t you at least prepared to take some responsibility for your own part in all this?’
‘What do you mean, “my own part in all this”?’
‘Well, didn’t you even start to get suspicious when ‘Captain Andy’ let you down for the third consecutive time?’
‘Course I did! Why do you think I’m here? Because I’m so mad about Captain Andy McCoy? Are you kidding me? The minute I discovered you were a hoaxer, I was determined to have it out with you face to face. And you know what? It’s no less than you deserve!’
‘So are you seriously telling me,’ Harry says heatedly now, face flushing bright red, ‘that you travelled all this way just to give me an earbashing? I mean, come on, what kind of a desperado do you have to be to go to those lengths?’
There it is. To cap it all, the little turd has thrown in the D-word. For a second, I’m too shocked to even react. It’s the exact same sensation as being slapped across the face. And oh Jesus, next thing the gloves are rightly off.
‘Harry!’ Mike snaps at him. ‘That’s quite enough out of you. Remember you’re here to apologize, not to dig yourself in even deeper.’
‘And is this really your idea of an apology?’ I ask, though God knows I can barely control what I’m saying now, given that I want nothing more than to wallop the big spotty face off him, whether he’s just a teenager or not. Frankly right now I’m beyond caring.
‘Because you’re nothing more than a catfish!’ I half shriek, not doing a very good job of sounding calm and in control any more. ‘You completely led me on, and what’s more you knew it. But here’s news you didn’t know: you may have lied about what you do for a living, but I certainly didn’t. As it happens, I do work for a national radio station and a TV show too. And if you’re not particularly sorry now, then believe me you’re about to be, because as soon as I get back to work, we’ll be running a story about you and the online antics of idiots just like you. So for your information, that’s the reason I’ve come all this way. You’re about to be publicly named and shamed, Harry McGillis. Which I have to say, given that this is possibly the worst apology ever heard in history, is probably no less than you deserve.’
Great end line. Just a shame I manage to stumble a bit as I grab my coat and get the hell out of the restaurant before either of them can answer back.
Still trembling with white-hot rage, I battle my way through the after-work crowd all enjoying a Christmas drink at the bar and somehow make it safely back out onto 54th street.
It’s started to sleet, the cold is biting and I don’t even care. Shaking from head to toe, I stand in the middle of the street like a demented woman, madly trying to hail down a cab that’s miraculously free.
And it’s only then I notice I’ve been followed.
‘Holly! Wait up, will you?’
I turn over my shoulder to see the outline of Mike just outside the restaurant, waving at me to come back
. But just then, a cab splashes up beside me, so I grab it.
‘Holly, please! You and I really need to talk!’ I can hear Mike yelling, as he rushes over to make a grab for the cab door.
‘Roosevelt Hotel, East 45th Street,’ I tell the driver numbly, wishing Mike would just piss off and leave me alone. Wishing that I could just disappear myself.
And while I’m at it, I’m now starting to seriously wish that I could somehow get the hell out of New York too.
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday morning. Christmas Eve. 7 a.m. After a troubled, fretful sleep where I’m full of smart-alec indignation at all the great lines I should have said to Harry last night and didn’t, I eventually abandon sleep and haul myself up to face the day. One bonus though, it’s coming up to lunchtime at home, therefore the perfect time to grab a-hold of Joy. Because boy do I need a friend right now.
I call her on her mobile, where she’s in her local Tesco’s down in Adare doing last-minute grocery shopping for her parents and all five of her brothers, like the living saint that she is. So I fill her in and feel freshly vindicated at just how suitably gobsmacked she is by this latest twist.
Thing is, I’ve been in such a state of shock over it all ever since last night, I’m inclined to underestimate just how much this actually beggars belief. And to gauge by her reaction, Joy sounds even more horrified than I was myself; I’m actually thankful for the saving grace that she’s out and about in public, otherwise she’d probably be effing and blinding down the phone at me about Harry McGillis and exactly what she’d like to mangle his unmentionables through.
‘I know, it’s just unthinkable,’ I tell her time and again. ‘Believe me, I’ve been back and forth over it in my head so many times, I’m punch-drunk with the whole shagging thing by now. Thing is, I really lashed out at the kid last night; you want to have heard me. I couldn’t help myself, he was just acting like such a little shit!’
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 13