Meet Me In Manhattan

by Claudia Carroll

  Right on cue, Mike calls.

  ‘Well?’ I ask, too keyed up for even a perfunctory hi, how are you.

  ‘Jesus, Holly, where do I start? What you just saw online actually happened earlier today and even since then things have completely escalated out of all control.’

  ‘What do you mean? What did they say when they met Harry and realized who they were dealing with?’

  ‘Harry, in fairness to him, played a blinder. He apologized so sincerely it reduced Mom to tears. He explained that he’d learned his lesson and pointed out that he’d broken off all online contact ever since you showed up and really taught him a lesson. And I pointed out that he was still in school and that, if exposed, it could tarnish him forever. So I begged them to leave it at that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And unfortunately they were having none of it. Where you were prepared to forgive, they most definitely weren’t. These women are baying for blood, Holly. Making all kinds of threats to take this to “the wider media”, as Mary-Clare the ringleader claimed. Apparently they’ve been contacted by news editors and even a TV producer. They want their moment in the sun and nothing less will do. Oh Christ, where will it end?’

  He sighs deeply while I search YouTube for more updates, but this time my stomach flips when I notice something: since I last looked, the number of hits their videos are getting has now soared up to seventy-five thousand, four hundred and counting. Which means it’s officially viral. Which means it’s purely a matter of time before someone I work with gets to see it.

  It’s a case of when, not if.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Back in News FM the following morning and the first sign something serious is up is when I step out of the lift only to see everyone all clustered round a computer over at a desk right in the corner. They all seem engrossed in something, every eye is glued to the screen, and the second sign something’s up is when they catch sight of me and immediately break away.

  Oh Jesus no, I think to myself, instantly panicking. Don’t let the cat be out of the bag already, when I was banking on at least a few precious hours of wriggle room. Not when my plan was to come in here and try my best to do some degree of damage limitation. My instincts go into overdrive when lovely, sweet-natured Jayne gives me a supportive pat on the back on her way to her desk.

  ‘Good luck today, Holly,’ she whispers.

  ‘And whatever you do, don’t let the bastards get you down,’ Sally hisses in the Norn Iron accent, as she brushes past us.

  Shit, I think, palms actually starting to sweat now. They’ve all seen it. They all know. Though as Dermot wisely pointed out to me yesterday, how could I possibly have expected otherwise? Scouring and scanning the internet for stories that are spreading like the plague is the fuel that runs our jobs. Simple as. It was futile to hope that something that’s gone as viral as this would miraculously go under the radar.

  I scan around the desk bank anxiously, trying to single out Dermot for moral support, then remember he’s off interviewing some celebrity chef this morning who considered himself far too busy and important to deign our humble studio with a visit.

  Just stick to the plan, I tell myself sternly. Head this off at the pass, and you may – you just may – come out the other side of this with your job and your reputation, if not intact, then maybe at least not in complete flitters.

  And the very worst nightmare seems to materialize from out of nowhere and is suddenly here, standing right in front of me, tapping immaculately manicured nails on the partition and sending the blood whooshing through my temples.

  Aggie.

  Nor is there the usual perfunctory hello, good morning, how are you. Course not.

  ‘Holly,’ she says curtly. ‘I think the sooner you and I talk, the better, don’t you?’

  With a sickening tug at my stomach I follow her, but to my surprise, instead of leading me towards her office, like I figured she would, we’re heading to the lifts and out of the building.

  Hard not to be aware of the stilly silence all around, with what feels like every eye in the place glued to me.

  Dead girl walking.

  Aggie takes me to Starbucks just beside our offices and, I swear, the smell of roast coffee that hits me when I walk in the door makes my already churning tummy instantly want to heave.

  She seems to sense this though and doesn’t waste time in ordering, then tactfully leads me to a quiet table where no one can overhear.

  Mercifully, she comes straight to the point. And it’s a stilted, broken conversation, all coming in half sentences, with me such a bag of nerves that I’m pre-empting her every line. After all, is my reasoning, nothing she could possibly say to me could be any worse than what I’ve already been imagining and mentally dress-rehearsing for the past twenty-four hours.

  ‘So you know why I needed to see you—’ is her opener.

  ‘I know, Aggie, and believe me, you really don’t need to—’

  ‘You lied to me. You told me the exact opposite of what you knew and had promised to deliver. And that’s what I can’t possibly—’

  ‘Of course not. Nor should you have to either—’

  ‘You stood in my office and you told me there was no story—’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry—’

  ‘After everything, Holly? After you promising me that you’d—’

  ‘I know it was wrong of me, but—’

  ‘You do realize that stories like this are our bread and butter—’

  ‘Of course—’

  ‘And now thanks to you, we’ve got nothing, when we actually could have been sitting on a big international scoop—’

  At this, I just bite my lip and twiddle nervously with a teaspoon in front of me. Because I know what’s coming next. We both do.

  ‘These girls – catfish ladies – as the vlog-sphere is calling them, effectively went and did your job for you. Everything you set out to do, they just went ahead and did. I should have them on my team, not you. And it’s them I should be paying, not you.’

  ‘I know. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘So of course you know what I have to do next,’ Aggie says, more sadly than anything else really. Which in an odd way goes straight to me more than anything else she’s been saying. ‘I’m sorry, Holly. You’ve been great. Apart from this, you’ve been exemplary and a joy to work with. But you have to understand, that considering your job was effectively part-time anyway—’

  ‘You don’t have to say another word,’ I tell her, ‘because, to be honest, I expected as much. And for what it’s worth, I do understand. In your shoes I’d probably do exactly the same.’

  ‘But here’s what I still don’t get,’ she cuts across me, shaking her head like she’s puzzled now. ‘You’re a smart girl, Holly. You knew exactly what the consequences would be for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say automatically. ‘Yes, of course I did.’

  ‘So what in the name of God made you do it?’

  *

  Numbness is a wonderful thing, I decide on the long, weary trudge home through the icy-cold with a wind chill that seems to slice your face in two. Numbness is to be highly recommended, in fact. Sheer numbness alone got me back to my office to clear out my desk and somehow propelled me through the agonizing hugs, tears and supportive pats on the back from Maggie, Jayne and all the News FM gang.

  ‘We’ll miss you!’

  ‘Stay in touch!’

  ‘Place won’t be the same without you …’ was all I could hear, but it was beyond me to do anything bar nod, smile and somehow try to wade through the living nightmare. Dermot particularly aced himself, insisting on walking me out of the building, scarlet red in the face, practically with hot steam fuelling out of his ears, cartoon character-like.

  ‘One poxy, ridiculous little mistake and this is what happens to you?’ he fumes, marching briskly beside me out past reception on the ground floor of our building and onto Grand Canal Square outside. ‘Aggie’s an out of control, megalomaniacal
nutjob, that’s how she’s acting these days. A toytown Trotsky and feck all else.’

  I nod silently but say nothing. Can’t. Not when I’m still trying to process so much myself. New Year’s Eve is the day after tomorrow, and here I am, facing into it jobless, broke and with my professional reputation effectively in tatters. Plus, there’s still more to come. Channel Six are bound to get wind of this too – if they haven’t already by now, that is. So that’s yet another kamikaze mission I have to face solo.

  Dermot is still spewing fire as we walk over Grand Canal Square, both of us laden down with boxes, my laptop and a wobbling pile of now redundant files I’ll probably never need again.

  We fill up the whole boot of the taxi and I’m just about to hug him goodbye when suddenly he catches my arm.

  ‘Just one more thing, Holly,’ he says, eyes locking into mine.

  I look blankly back at him.

  ‘For what it’s worth … I actually respect what you did. In this business, we’re all like cut-throat sharks the way we plunder into the stuff of other people’s souls because they’re newsworthy, then humiliate them live on air, just to fill a show. And yet you didn’t. You stuck by a family who’d shown you kindness and hospitality, instead of selling your granny for a week of airtime, same as the rest of us. In your shoes, I’d like to think I’d do the same.’

  ‘Wow,’ I tell him, genuinely touched by his little speech. ‘I don’t know what to say, except thank you.’

  ‘So here’s my question,’ he adds. ‘Was it worth it?’

  Funny, but after a whole morning of tension and unfinished half sentences left dangling because they’re too bloody painful to finish, that’s the one question I’ve no difficultly answering. Mainly because the exact same thing has been going through my own mind on a continuous loop for the past twenty-four hours.

  ‘I think so,’ I tell him, and it’s the first time all morning my voice has even sounded halfway approaching normal.

  ‘Because you want to know why? Sometimes family is just more important than any story, any job or any gig. Sometimes, at the end of the day, family is all we really have.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘And what about Channel Six?’ Joy asks worriedly later that afternoon, as we’re talking the whole thing inside out and back to front again. ‘Did you get hauled over the coals by them too?’

  ‘No,’ I sigh, staring absently into the fire, still a bit punch-drunk by it all, to be honest. Which means I’m probably in shock. Which means I still have delayed shock to look forward to. Great.

  ‘I called Tony, the producer on Tonight With … and left a message explaining everything,’ I tell her, while she tops up the glass of wine I’d been nursing. Feck it anyway, not every day you suddenly find yourself jobless and broke, might as well take the edge off my nerves a bit.

  ‘And did he bawl you out of it too?’

  ‘No, in fact he still hasn’t even returned any of my calls as of yet. But then maybe that’s how things get done in telly-land. Maybe they don’t do you the courtesy of firing you to your face, maybe you just get the long, slow shut-out instead. Then when the phone stops ringing, you’re expected to cop on that you’ve been canned.’

  Shit. The one gig I adored, too. The one gig that I worked so hard to make happen. There’s a long, lingering pause and I’d put money on it Joy is thinking that I’m off my head to have sacrificed so much for so little. Even if it doesn’t necessarily feel like little to me.

  ‘Look, about News FM,’ Joy eventually says, ‘is there any point in my reminding you that they cut you back to part-time there, even though you still effectively worked every hour of every day for them?’

  ‘I know,’ I say dully, staring at a burning fire log in the grate ahead of me.

  ‘Bummer about Channel Six though. I know you were praying it might lead onto bigger and better things for you.’

  The thought is unspoken between us, but it’s there all the same. It was my big telly gig that I loved and was so excited about; working out on Tonight With … alongside Noel and all the team. But I know in the pit of my stomach that’s gone belly up too. It’s just a matter of time before I get confirmation.

  ‘Well, maybe it’s not too late to salvage this,’ Joy offers hopefully. ‘You could do it if you wanted to, easily.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Go out to Channel Six and grovel like you’ve never grovelled in your life before, you eejit! Tell that guy Tony you made a horrible mistake. Fall back on phrases like “error of judgement”, the way politicians do, if you have to. For God’s sake, Holly, you can’t let everything you’ve worked for slip through your fingers just for a family you barely even know!’

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ I tell her defensively, ‘I gave my word. Just like a good journalist should always be able to protect a source, I wanted to protect the McGillis family, I felt it was the least they deserved. I honestly thought the whole thing was just a tiny storm in a teacup that would blow over in no time. How was I to know that the story would go stratospheric like it did?’

  ‘Have you checked it out online since you came home?’ Joy suddenly asks, changing tack. ‘Or Googled it? Or seen for yourself how it’s panned out today with that catfish gang and their threats about going to TV shows and the papers? In other words, have you seen exactly what everyone else has?’

  ‘No, and I don’t think I want to either.’ In fact, my stomach is starting to heave at the very thought.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she says firmly, suddenly standing up. ‘And I’ll tell you why. Nothing could be as bad as what’s going through your mind right now, it’s just not possible. You’re imagining the very worst, and for all you know, it mightn’t even be that bad at all. So come on, let’s just get it over with together, while I’m here with you. Let’s do it now, when you’ve a glass of vino inside you to dull the blow.’

  Two minutes later, we’re both sitting side by side at the kitchen table with my laptop propped up in front of us. Doesn’t take much Googling to find what I’m after either.

  Jesus. My hand involuntarily clutches at my throat when I see in black and white exactly the kind of coverage the Catfish Ladies have been garnering for themselves. So far, they’ve made USA Today, The Post, and wouldn’t you know it, the National Enquirer. But it’s not that that’s draining the colour from my face and turning the acid in my stomach to bile. Because there it is, so far, two television appearances and counting. They’re here, posted along with obliging YouTube clips, just in case I still can’t believe my eyes.

  ‘Sooner you see what you’re up against, the sooner you can put it all behind you and move on,’ says Joy, clicking on the very first one. Which is NY1 as it happens, a huge network breakfast TV show with, as they bill it, ‘all that’s hot from inside the five boroughs of New York’. I remember this channel only too well from my brief little stay there; it used to wake me up with all the news and gossip first thing in the morning.

  ‘Come on, love,’ says Joy, giving me a good cheerleader-y pat on the back. ‘And remember, I’m right here beside you.’

  The first YouTube clip is of a presenter on NY1, a middle-aged woman with bright blonde hair and the flashiest set of teeth I’ve ever seen, so we click on it.

  ‘And coming up after the break,’ she beams straight to camera, ‘we’ll be bringing you the astonishing story of sixteen-year-old Harry McGillis from Manhattan, who expertly hoodwinked three incredibly brave ladies on a dating site, and even convinced them he was a widowed father who worked as a pilot with Delta Airlines. But when these brave ladies realized they’d been stung by a catfish, they decided to take matters into their own hands, with astonishing consequences. Stay tuned, we’ll be right back after the break!’

  ‘Oh God, they’ve named him!’ I groan. ‘They’ve gone and named and shamed the kid.’

  Joy doesn’t answer me though, instead she scrolls down to the next YouTube clip, which is freeze-framed on the same three faces I instantly reco
gnize from all my incessant Googling over the last few days.

  There’s Mary-Clare, beaming proudly to camera, the big round face almost ready to burst in two, her smile is that wide. She’s all gussied up too in a floral print dress that would put a good stone on a much slighter build than hers. And she looks utterly euphoric. A woman whose moment has come.

  Perched daintily on the bright, canary-yellow sofa beside her is the one I immediately recognize as Kelly from all the earlier vlogs I’ve seen: all blonde swishy hair and way too much fake tan for December. And to her left is Natalie, hair neatly pulled back and dressed like she’s just on her way to Wall Street to sell stocks and shares.

  ‘Welcome back to NY1,’ says the presenter, flashing her professional toothy smile live from the studio set, which as you’d expect is all done out in over-bright, lurid citrus-y colours, as is somehow written down in coded law for breakfast TV shows. It’s a pretend-y living room, with windows looking out onto a photo mock-up of the New York skyline in the early morning light. Two sofas face each other, with the presenter perched on one, and on the other … Oh Christ. Another stomach flip at what’s ahead, and this time I think I might actually be sick. Joy must sense this though, as she grips my hand while the presenter warbles on.

  ‘And let me introduce you to three incredibly determined ladies who’ve brought to us live one of the hottest stories we have for you today. Ladies, you’re all very welcome and thank you for joining us here this morning.’

  ‘It’s our pleasure, thanks for having us,’ beams Mary-Clare, as relaxed as you like on the yellow sofa, while Natalie twitches nervously beside her.

  ‘So you all thought you’d met your dream guy,’ says the presenter, ‘but your suspicions were heightened when you discovered he’d been simultaneously dating you all online?’