I’m so sorry, Moira, I’d half wanted to snarl down the phone at her the last time we spoke. If my mother’s terminal illness in any way interrupts your busy schedule. Please forgive us, how thoughtless!
And then there were the angels. Mary-Jane, another nurse who’d worked alongside Mum for years and years; giving up her Christmas holiday, her precious time off, just to be here with us. Day and night, she was always there, helping me to wash Mum, feed her the tiny scraps we could get her to eat, or even just to sit with her and hold her hand.
‘She knows we’re both here, you know,’ Mary-Jane had wisely told me. ‘Even though she mightn’t be saying anything, you can be sure that she knows.’
Day turned into night and night, day. I moved a little camp bed into Mum’s room and took to sleeping on the floor right beside her, just in case she needed me during the night. Consultants that Mum knew from hospital came and went, some briskly in a professional capacity, others out of genuine concern, just to see how she was doing.
I remember one, a good-looking Egyptian doctor who I’d silently nicknamed Hasnat Khan, taking me aside and gently asking me how I was doing.
‘Oftentimes it can be just as hard on the carer as it is on the patient,’ he’d said, looking at me with real concern. But then ever since Mum’s final diagnosis and all the gruelling rounds of chemo she’d been through, I’d barely been eating or sleeping myself. No time.
‘I’m … OK,’ I told him. ‘Scared, to be honest. Petrified. She’s been through all this treatment and all it seems to be doing is making her weaker by the day.’
‘I know it can seem that way,’ said Hasnat Khan calmly. ‘And I know in your mother’s case it’s even tougher for her, because she’s a chemo nurse. She’s trained in this field and knows exactly what’s happening to her body. But please know that we’re doing absolutely everything we can to ease her suffering.’
He was kind, he genuinely meant well, and more importantly, he topped up her morphine meds, which at least meant Mum became a helluva lot more peaceful. Had to count for something, I worked hard at convincing myself. Seeing her all calm and serene, even if she was doped out of her brains on painkillers, was better, infinitely better, than what we’d just been through.
Back then, Mum had good days and bad days, but it didn’t take long for the latter to totally overtake. Got to the stage where a good day now counted as her opening her eyes and maybe sitting up in bed for a half hour or so. We were offered a home care-nurse, but her pal Mary-Jane said, no, she’d be happy to take care of everything. I had no words left to even thank her.
Then the not knowing, the fear of what would happen afterwards. And then finally, the inevitable.
Today, on this improbably bright and sunny day. Mum suddenly seeming more alert, more anxious to speak than she’d been for weeks. How surprisingly strong the tight grip of her bony, thin, white hand felt on mine.
Her whisper, hoarse and raw, like it was physically paining her even to try to talk.
‘Holly …’
‘I’m right here, Mum!’ I said, trying to sound jovial, in spite of the box of Kleenex on the bed in front of me and the fact that my voice sounded so wobbly, you’d think it was coming from another room. ‘What was it you wanted to say? Can I get you something? Top up your meds?’
She shook her head weakly and clung tight to my hand.
‘My lovely Holly …’ she whispered. ‘You came to me at Christmas. You were my little Christmas miracle and always remember it’s our special time.’
‘Mum,’ I told her, choking up. ‘Don’t … please don’t try to talk, if it’s hurting you …’
‘I have to say thank you …’ she insisted on saying. ‘For being the best daughter any mother could have asked for …’
‘Mum!’ was all I could say back to her, properly welling up now.
‘Our special time,’ she whispered faintly. ‘Always was, always will be.’
And that’s when she left me.
On Christmas Day.
I come to with a sharp jolt, heart hammering, mouth dry, head pounding.
Just a dream, I tell myself. Only a dream. Go back to sleep now, or at least try to.
Dreams can’t cause you any pain.
Life takes care of that all by itself very nicely, thanks.
Chapter Thirty-Five
New Year’s Eve. But for me, it’s day one of unemployment. And oh dear God, but the horrible isolation of it is already killing me. I’m someone who’s always worked, ever since the day I left college, there’s always been a job to go to and a purpose to the day. But now nothing, just a whole day stretching out ahead of me with a dole queue at the end of it.
In a mad whirl of energy, I decide to at least get proactive about this and immediately sign up for three online recruitment agencies, updating my Linkedin profile, then scanning the net to see exactly how I go about signing on the dole.
Cheery texts from Dermot and some of the old gang in News FM keep me buoyed up for exactly fourteen minutes and then, wouldn’t you know it, I slump straight back into a trough of anxious desperation.
I try my best to resist the urge to cave into daytime telly; besides, there’s nothing on but crap shows like Judge Judy and ancient reruns of Frasier that I’ve seen about a thousand times before. And I’m determined not to Google Catfish Ladies to see what the three witches from Macbeth have been up to in the interim since I last checked.
This resolve lasts for exactly three and a half minutes, at which point I decide, feck it anyway, nothing could be worse than what’s already going through my mind. Like Joy says, might as well just find out and deal with it once and for all.
But just as I’m hitting Google, my mobile rings. A blocked number too. Which is odd, considering that it’s way too early in the morning to be Mike, and he’s the only person whose number ever comes up as blocked on my phone. I answer anyway, figuring I’ve shag all to lose, but as soon as I hear who’s on the other end of the line, I instantly regret it.
Noel. Our esteemed presenter on Afternoon Delight, not to mention my indirect boss on Tonight With … out at Channel Six. Noel, actually picking up the phone to call me. Which must be akin to Simon Cowell going to all the bother of calling a lowly floor-scrubber on one of his shows to bawl them out of it personally.
Swear to God, my bowels wither just at the very sound of his voice. So this is it then, I think. This must be how you get fired in TV-land. Turns out it’s the senior producer/ presenter who does all the dirty work and not his exec, as you’d normally expect.
‘Apologies if this disturbs you,’ is Noel’s opener, after the usual ‘how was your Christmas? Fine. And yours? Oh fine too thanks.’ Stilted, awkward chat.
‘You’re not disturbing me in the least,’ I half-stammer, my mouth is that dry, only waiting on him to do an Alan Sugar on it and come out with the magic words, ‘you’re fired.’
‘The thing is, you see, Tony’s been in touch about your story. Or rather about your lack of a story.’
I’m suddenly unsure if I’m up to another earbashing right now, so figuring I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I decide to pre-empt him.
‘Look Noel, let me save you a whole lot of time and bother here,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate your calling and I completely understand that my career at Channel Six is over before it’s barely even got off the ground. Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful to you for breaking the bad news personally; God knows, you certainly didn’t have to do that. But please understand I did what I did to protect a source, and an underage one at that. Of course I can’t apologize enough to you and all the team for leaving you with a blank space slap bang in the middle of your holiday schedule; that goes without saying. But I really should tell you that – well, if I had to do it all again, the honest truth is … I think I probably would.’
Protracted silence now. I didn’t expect silence. I thought he’d come out with some half-arsed comment along the lines of, ‘Well have a nice life an
d good luck finding another gig like this one.’
He doesn’t though.
‘Which is precisely what I wanted to speak to you about,’ he says instead.
Ahh … so here it comes now then. The bollocking proper. The ear-chewing. The throwing of the sacrificial researcher to the lions.
‘Not over the phone though,’ he says, to my mute astonishment. ‘Instead, I suggest we meet for lunch. So are you free later on today? Say 1 p.m.?’
Bonkers, I think, hauling myself out of my PJs and into the shower. They’re all bloody mental cases out in Channel Six and that’s all there is to it. Because this makes no sense at all! Why go to all the bother, not to mention the expense, of taking me out to lunch, just to fire me to my face? So Noel can have the pleasure of seeing me crumple and cry in public? Or maybe because at least this way he gets a fancy lunch out of it on company expenses?
Ever the bon viveur, he’s asked to meet in Pichet, a gorgeous French-style bistro on Trinity Street, right off Grafton Street and smack in the dead centre of town. The streets are so crowded and packed though with all the Christmas sales still in full swing that I’m a few minutes late in getting there. I spot Noel straightaway before he sees me, sitting at a table for two over by the window, perusing the wine list and rubbing his belly in gleeful anticipation.
‘Hello, Noel,’ I say tersely, coming over to join him. To my surprise though, he stands up to greet me and even gives me a light peck on the cheek. Which is a first. The Judas Kiss? I’m wondering.
‘Good to see you, Holly,’ he says, again surprising me by actually sounding warm and affectionate. He’s wearing an expensive-looking suit and smells subtly of aftershave and garlic from whatever he was eating last night.
‘I hear you’ve been having a bit of a rough time out at News FM lately,’ he goes on, ‘and that’s partly the reason why I asked to you to join me here today. Here, have a seat,’ he adds, waving me towards the chair opposite him.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, sliding into the seat. ‘And thank you for your concern. I really do appreciate it …’ I trail off here though, thinking, what exactly am I thanking him for anyway? There’s only one reason why he even asked me here and that’s to fire me to my face.
‘So what do you say we order first?’ says Noel, picking up the menu and studying it carefully. ‘Don’t know about you, but I’m bloody starving.’
A waiter silently glides over from out of nowhere and it soon becomes pretty obvious that Noel is a regular here. There’s lots of in-jokes and banter along the lines of, ‘Can I get you your usual, sir? And perhaps a bottle of the Merlot to complement your fillet of duck?’
‘Excellent, excellent, thank you,’ says Noel, ordering all three courses, then sitting back and immediately horsing into the breadbasket.
Ordering first, however, turns out to have been a pretty nifty move, as Noel is one of those people who’s invariably in much better form as long as there’s grub involved. Wine is poured, but it’s all I can do to sip at mine, half afraid it’ll turn my stomach, given that my nerve endings are practically frayed to gnarled rope ends by this stage.
Meanwhile, Noel lays into the Merlot with gusto, and when our starters arrive – grilled hen’s egg for him, goat’s cheese salad for me – he’s demolished his in all of about three and a half minutes flat, while I just nibble around the edge of mine, nervously feigning an appetite.
‘So Holly,’ he says, sitting back and patting his tummy, having completely cleaned his plate, then turning his attention back to demolishing the rest of the breadbasket and anointing each tiny slice with approximately a quarter pound of butter, ‘allow me to get to the point here.’
I wish you would, is all I can think, numbly focused on him slathering a bread slice.
‘As you can imagine,’ Noel says, with his mouth half stuffed, ‘Tony at Channel Six called me as soon as he realized you wouldn’t be delivering the story you’d faithfully promised.’
I don’t even try to defend myself here. Instead I force myself to meet his eyes, still utterly punch-drunk by it all.
Just remember, the torture will all be over in a heartbeat.
‘He certainly wasn’t a happy man, put it that way,’ Noel goes on, topping up his wine glass now and knocking it back.
‘So I gather,’ I say quietly, ‘and for what it’s worth, I really am sorry to have let you down. You were so good to me, you took a chance, you gave me a break and …’ I trail off lamely though as Noel just waves me silent.
‘The thing is, effectively you decided to cover up your source.’
‘Yes, in a nutshell.’
‘Holly,’ he says, swirling the wine round the bottom of the glass, Winston Churchill-style. ‘You might not be aware of this, but when I was senior editor over at the Chronicle back in the day, on one famous occasion I found myself in exactly the same position as you right now.’
‘You did?’ I ask him, curiously piqued. I knew Noel had edited the Chronicle all right, but it was all so long ago now, over fifteen years in fact. Way before my time.
‘Indeed I did. I’d had a tip-off, you see, about a politician who had been involved in a land rezoning deal which seriously compromised his position.’
I nod along, suddenly interested now, and momentarily forgetting all my antsiness. Because the thing is, I do remember: hard not to, given that it was a huge story at the time. A senior government minister even ended up resigning over the whole debacle.
‘I’d been tipped off, you see,’ Noel goes on, ‘from a source who I knew was absolutely reliable and who I trusted implicitly. But the trouble was, for security reasons, my source couldn’t be named. Now I gave my word I would never reveal his name and I’m proud to say that, to this day, I never have. It came with a hefty price tag attached though, as you can well imagine.’
And now it’s all flooding back to me, crystal clear.
‘Didn’t … you end up losing your job over the whole thing?’
‘Absolutely. The story leaked out anyway, as these things do, and the board of directors at the Chronicle decided to make an example of me. So I was told in no uncertain terms that either I could resign or face the bullet. Naturally, I chose the former. And if News FM hadn’t offered me a presenting gig not long afterwards, God knows what would have become of me.’
‘Wow. That’s incredible. I had no idea.’
‘But what you must realize, Holly, is that to this day I’ve never regretted what I did. I took a principled stand and I know what I did was right. Just as you do now.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Plus, let’s not forget you had the added disadvantage of a story leaking and going viral on you in this digital age of Twitter and social media, where stories go stratospheric in the blink of an eye. You had all that to contend with and yet, you were still prepared to protect your source and stick to your guns.’
I’m half wondering if I’m hearing things or if the wine isn’t making my head a bit fuzzy. Is Noel actually condoning what I did? Unlike everyone else?
‘Still though, the fact is that I’ve gone and left you with a blank slate for the show this week,’ I gibber across the table at him.
‘Yadda, yadda, yadda,’ he says dismissively with a wave of his pudgy hand. ‘Sure, Tony is spewing fire at you. And sure, we’ll have to dig up some pre-recorded show to tide us through this week, or else the station will just drop us and broadcast some class of a Christmas movie instead. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again. That’s live TV for you. That’s showbiz, as we say. But what I have sitting in front of me now …’ he breaks off here a bit, this time to top off my wine glass, and I gratefully take a sip. Feck it, I need it.
‘… Is a researcher who knows the rules and who still understands what it means in this world to have ethics. And I for one applaud that, Holly. I may not be overly happy at not having a show to do this week, but you should know that I’ll always respect someone who’s prepared to fall on their sword for their principles.
’
‘Wow,’ is all I can say, utterly dumbfounded. ‘I really don’t know what to say. Except thank you. It’s been a rough few days and your validation means the world to me, it really does.’
‘Not just a validation, Holly,’ he says, swishing his napkin off the table and tucking it bib-style into his collar. ‘That’s not the reason why I asked you here at all.’
‘Sorry, but I don’t follow you.’
‘Do you honestly think,’ he asks, focusing right on me now, ‘that I’d be prepared to let a damn good researcher go over one lousy mistake? Don’t be ridiculous. I made the very same mistake myself and I was given a second chance. And now it seems it’s my turn to do the same. So, are you ready for your second chance, Holly?’
I think my mouth must be dangling somewhere around my collarbone just as our entrées arrive: duck breast with sauerkraut for him, gnocchi and cheese for me.
‘About time too,’ mutters Noel. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
It’s official. I’m being given a bona fide, proper researcher’s contract out at Channel Six, effective from mid-January onwards. In spite of fecking it up royally, in spite of letting everyone down, somehow and by some unquantifiable Christmas miracle, the fates have taken pity on me and decided to give me a second chance.
Is this your doing, Mum? I half wonder on the bus back home. Is this you looking down on me? Looking after me, like you always promised you would?
My head is buzzing and I can barely think straight. Still trying to process it all, still trying to unscramble it then reassemble it back together again in my head. It’s utterly bizarre; I had honestly thought that, for better or for worse, Aggie at News FM was less of a boss and more of a friend to me. A boss-friend, if you will. Half the time, I even worked for her – and worked bloody hard too – for free. Yet one, albeit pretty major, fuck-up and I’m out on my ear without so much as a handshake from her or a ‘stay in touch, all the best and I wish you well’.
And Noel, who I always had down as a man with an ego the size of a racehorse and with a girth to match; the same man that I used to cower and get twitchy around every time he’d even deign to speak to me, suddenly and most unexpectedly comes through for me?
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 29