The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually)

by Denise Deegan

  When I get back, there are two cars in the drive. Graham and a big, flashy Merc. I don’t want to walk in on whoever’s there. It’s starting to rain, so I sit in the porch. The door opens.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ Maisie says. ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘You’ve company.’

  ‘Actually, you have.’

  ‘I do?’ I didn’t think I wanted it. Now I’m kind of excited. ‘Who?’

  ‘Emily.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She laughs. ‘Come on in. She wants a word.’ Then she whispers, ‘The investigation’s over.’

  I look at her.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  The real surprise is that I’m not more excited. I follow Maisie in.

  ‘Here she is,’ Maisie says cheerfully.

  Emily stands up. ‘Rachel, hi. Come and sit down.’

  ‘You didn’t have to come all the way out here,’ I say.

  ‘Actually, I did. I wanted to let you know in person that you’ve been totally exonerated.’

  I’m not sure what to say. Finally, I opt for, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Your old school backed you up. And apparently you’re not the first member of the cast to have been bullied by Rebecca. Also, our technical department hired some amazing people who specialise in retrieval of information. It’s amazing what they can do nowadays. Anyway, suffice it to say, Rebecca French will not be on the show much longer. I know I can trust you to keep that to yourself.’

  I nod. Shouldn’t this be sweeter?

  ‘Do you’ve any questions? Anything you want to say?’

  I’m a complete idiot because my questions are for Rebecca. What’ll she do now? Who’ll employ her? Ireland’s a small place. She doesn’t have a Leaving Cert.

  ‘Not really. No.’

  She nods. Then looks at Maisie. ‘I need a drink. Why do you live way up here in the boons?’

  ‘To get away from you,’ Maisie deadpans.

  TWENTY-THREE | Cinderella

  ‘Thursday night is the IFTAs,’ Maisie says later, over Scrabble. I can’t believe I’d forgotten. ‘Do you still want to go?’ she asks.

  The thought of leaving here, even just for a night … ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem important any more.’

  She nods. Then looks back down at her letters. After a few moments, she smiles and places down a word. It’s only ‘jugs’ but j’s are worth eight points and she’s put hers on a Double Letter Score. The s is on a Triple Word Score and it’s stuck onto the end of another word.

  ‘I haven’t a hope,’ I say.

  She looks at me, crossly. ‘Of course you’ve a hope. You’re the bookies’ favourite. And I for one, would really like to see you hold that award high for everyone who has given you grief to see.’

  I smile. ‘I was talking about the Scrabble.’

  ‘Oh. The Scrabble. No. You haven’t a hope.’

  After a while, I ask, ‘Am I really the favourite?’

  ‘I’ve even put money on you, though the odds are appalling.’

  I smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, just win. So are you coming?’

  ‘I don’t have a dress.’ I can’t believe we never spoke to Marsha. Life just seemed to spiral out of control.

  ‘No problem. We’ll get you one tomorrow.’

  The thought of going back to the city makes me nervous.

  ‘Come in with me in the morning. Entertain yourself. And we’ll shop when I’ve done my scenes.’

  ‘Thanks, Maisie.’

  Coming down from the mountains, my phone comes back into coverage. There are messages from everyone. Except Mark. I text back to say I’m fine. I tell Charley the investigation is over. And Jack that Rebecca is being fired. I know he’ll enjoy that. Then I switch off the phone.

  I’ve brought my laptop but when we get in to D4, I use it to watch music videos on YouTube and play computer games, not to check what people have been saying about me. Progress.

  Maisie has just been called on set. Which means she’s fifteen minutes before she has to go. I rush out to grab her a coffee in the canteen. And just my luck, Rebecca’s coming the other way with one of the cameramen. She doesn’t see me and I’m so tempted to turn around. But I force myself to keep going, meet her eyes. Hers are filled with hate. Which is how I know she’s already been given her notice.

  I don’t feel sorry for her now, though, like I did in the mountains, because seeing her brings it all back, everything she’s done and how she’s the opposite of sorry. She blames me, I know, for getting fired. She’ll never see things the way they really are. I smile as I walk past. Because, for once, the bully has got what she deserved and she brought it all on herself. I know that as long as I’m acting there’ll always be people like her who’ll put me down to push their own agenda. But thanks toRebecca, I know it won’t be personal. It’ll be about them not me. And it’s something I’ll have to live with. Like lots of people do. She’s done me a favour. I should tell her. Because she’d so hate to know it.

  As soon as Maisie is finished, we go shopping.

  I pick out a dark green dress and hold it up. She takes it off me and puts it back on the hanger.

  ‘Think big,’ she says. The one she picks is white. It’s fitted. And off one shoulder. ‘Try it.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s me.’

  ‘Trust me. It’s you.’

  I make a face. ‘It’s too—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Obvious?’

  ‘That is your exact problem, right there. For someone so beautiful you put an incredible amount of energy into not being noticed.’

  I laugh. ‘No I don’t.’

  She shoves the dress at me. ‘Prove it.’

  I exaggerate a sigh, take the dress and go to the dressing room.

  ‘We’re just wasting time, Maisie.’

  I strip to my knickers because that’s what you have to do with a dress like this. I put it on, muttering in my head. Then I look in the mirror. It’s just a piece of material but it’s turned me into something I’m not. I stand staring at myself for a little too long.

  Finally, I come out, knowing she’s going to say, ‘I told you so.’

  She smiles. ‘Say it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were right, Maisie.’

  I smile. ‘You were right, Maisie.’

  ‘Not just about the dress, but about the other thing.’

  I can’t stop smiling. ‘Not just about the dress, but about the other thing.’

  ‘Maisie, you’re a genius,’ she says.

  ‘Maisie, you’re a genius. And I love you.’ I give her a hug.

  ‘Don’t look now,’ she whispers, ‘but I think you’ve a fan club.’

  I turn around. People in the shop are staring. A woman asks if they have the same dress in her size. I’m smiling and I don’t really want to take it off.

  ‘Right,’ Maisie says. ‘Hurry up and get out of it. We need to get you shoes.’

  ‘Magic shoes?’

  ‘Magic shoes.’ She winks.

  I hurry back to change. When I come out again, Maisie is taking out her credit card.

  ‘No way!’ I say.

  ‘Let me do this,’ she bosses, pushing her way ahead of me to the counter.

  I catch up and take out my wallet.

  She looks at me and her whole face softens. ‘Let me have this,’ she says, quieter than I’ve ever heard her speak. ‘I lost my little girl.’

  I throw my arms around her and squeeze her so tightly. It’s only then I realise that, without Rebecca, I’d never have what I have with Maisie. And I wouldn’t change that.

  Thursday night. We’re in the auditorium after a gala meal, everyone is dressed up and facing the stage. I feel like Cinderella - I even have glass slippers. We’ve had our hair and make-up done professionally. Damien insisted on coming to the cottage. He spent his time apologising. And calling himself naïve. Eventually, Maisie told him to just s
hut up and make me wonderful.

  Now, she’s on my right and Charley’s on my left. That helps. Because even though I thought the IFTAs didn’t matter any more, now that I’m here, they do.

  The very first award is the one I’m up for, Actress in a Supporting Role in Television.

  Good, Jesus. Colin Farrell is presenting it. Sarah will die when she hears this.

  ‘And the nominees are …’ The lights go down.

  They start to show clips of us. It’s a reminder of how tough the competition is. I’m shown last. It’s my very first scene. Where I say nothing. There are so many better ones they could have used. And that’s how I know I haven’t won. They haven’t bothered. It’s fine, I think.

  There’s polite applause. This is not a major award. And most people here are just waiting for their turn. As the lights go up again, the cameras zoom in on all four of us. I swallow and keep very still. On stage, Colin Farrell is opening the envelope.

  ‘And the winner is …’ he pauses - for ages. ‘Rachel …’ There’s another Rachel and I’m thinking, OK, it’s her. ‘Dunne,’ he says.

  I turn to Maisie in shock. It’s like my brain’s frozen. ‘Is it me?’

  She’s beaming and nodding like a psycho. ‘It’s you. Now get your spindly shoulders up there.’

  I can’t help it, I start to laugh. I hug her. Then get up. I can’t pass Charley without hugging her too. Then I’m in the aisle. My knees are shaking. Actually shaking like little islands on jelly. I’m breathing funny. I feel the cameras on me and every head turned in my direction. I can’t believe they picked me.

  I reach the stage. I lift my dress to climb the steps. I think of Meryl Streep, losing a shoe at the Baftas. I curl my toes to hold mine on. I reach the podium. And Colin Farrell. He is even better looking in real life.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, by accident.

  Everyone laughs.

  ‘Hi,’ he says and winks, like he’s trying to say everything’s OK.

  He hands me the award. He actually kisses my cheek. Never washing it again.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he says, then turns to the cameras.‘Watch this space, people. This lady’s going to be big.’

  I’m torn between not believing it and thinking, Eat that, Rebecca. I turn to face everyone. Because now I have to say something. Christ.

  ‘Eh, hi.’ I smile.

  They laugh again.

  ‘Eh, I just want to say thank you so much to everyone who voted for me.’ I clear my throat. ‘And to everyone in D4 for believing in me, especially Emily Liston.’ I look down at her, sitting on the other side of Maisie. ‘I want to thank my family and friends. My agent, Charley Bloomfield. Who is the best. But I especially want to thank Maisie Morrin, who has been the best friend to me.’ My voice wobbles and I start to well up. Better get out of here before I do a Gwyneth. But Maisie is raising a power fist. So I raise the award.

  I grin all the way back down. I could skip.

  The ceremony goes on all night. Every so often, I look at my award, to prove I didn’t imagine it. Charley whirls me around, introducing me to directors, producers, talent scouts, casting agents. People look at the dress and see someone I’m not. A star. Or maybe I am a star. For one night. I wonder if Cinderella, travelling back in the carriage, knowing it was going to end, thought it was worth it. Bet she did.

  It is the best feeling climbing into Graham after our victories and heading back into the mountains. The show didn’t go out live, but the results must have gone out on Twitter or something because when I turn on my phone, there are missed calls and texts from everyone. And I realise something great. I’m happy on my own. But I’m not on my own.

  My phone bleeps again. Oh, God, it’s a text from Mark.

  It’s just, 'congratulations'. I imagine what would be if we were still together. ‘Caecilius superbus est.’ I smile. Then burst into tears.

  Maisie looks over. ‘Are you OK?’

  I nod. ‘Sorry. Sometimes I just miss my boyfriend.’

  ‘Do you want to go home?’

  ‘It’s not that kind of miss. We split up.’

  She reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘There’s always Colin Farrell.’

  Next day at around five, Maisie comes home.

  ‘They want us to go on the Late Late Show.’

  ‘The two of us?’

  She nods.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Two people from D4 who won IFTAs. One at the winter of her career; the other, the springtime.’

  I make a face. ‘Winter? They didn’t say that, did they?’

  She laughs. ‘They actually did. That’s what happens when you get the geriatric award. So, what do you think, do you want to do it?’

  ‘Not if they’re talking about winters.’

  She laughs. ‘It would be good for your career. And I’ve a very thick skin. There is one thing though,’ she says, her face growing serious. ‘They might ask about the newspaper article? I don’t think they actually would - it’s not that kind of show - but you should be prepared for anything.’

  I consider that. And realise something huge. I’m not afraid any more.

  ‘Then I can set the record straight.’ I look at her. ‘I’m tired of hiding, Maisie. Whatever they ask, I’ll answer.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, like my problems are over.

  TWENTY-FOUR | Quiet

  It’s well into the Late Late Show. I’m in a hospitality room with Maisie, waiting to go on. A rock star is draped on the couch opposite, halfway through a pint of Guinness. There’s a bunch of people with him, also dressed like rock stars. They listen to everything he says. He doesn’t listen back. They don’t seem to mind, they look like they’re used to it. He gets called to go on. He brings his pint with him. They wish him luck and, when he’s gone, order more drinks.

  Ever since we got here, people have been telling me I’ll be ‘grand’. Which makes me nervous.

  ‘Tell me I’m going to be crap,’ I say to Maisie.

  ‘You’re going to be crap.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I feel better already. Because now I’ve something to prove wrong.

  There’s a huge flat-screen TV high on the wall. We watch the rock star turn on a charm that wasn’t there before. For the first time, he looks like he’s enjoying himself.

  The door to the hospitality room opens. A guy in his twenties in denims and a checked shirt comes to get us. I look at Maisie.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be crap,’ she says.

  The guy laughs. He brings us out along corridors. My heart is pounding and I’m wondering why I’m putting myself through this.

  The red ‘On Air’ sign is on above the backstage door. Once through, we whisper and walk quietly. A sound guy mikes us up.

  Out on set, the rock star’s interview is finishing up. I get a jolt of nerves. But then I realise, with relief, he’s going to perform his latest hit. I try to focus on the music, just the music.

  It’s coming to an end.

  Oh, God. We’re being called out. I take a deep breath. Then we’re walking out into the lights. The host, Ryan Tubridy, is standing, waiting, smiling. He shakes our hands, Maisie first. We take our seats, me farthest from him. I catch my breath. I’m facing an audience of real, live people. I can see individual faces. D4 goes out to hundreds of thousands of people but it never feels that way when you’re on set. It’s just you and the cast and crew. It’s not live. It’s not even you. I look at Tubridy and try to pretend it’s just him.

  He welcomes us, congratulating us on the IFTAs. Then he zones in on Maisie. He asks about the award - her life, her achievements, her big breaks. He doesn’t know about the poetry. And I love that she has her secret.

  Then, just like that, he turns to me.

  ‘And, Rachel, you’re at the other end of your career, just starting out. How are you finding it all?’

  ‘Good.’ I can’t think of anything else to say. Any time I think of D4, I think of Rebecca.

  ‘Must be a challenging role t
o play. Your character, Naomi, is terminally ill.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘She’s also a bully.’

  Suddenly, I’ve something to say. ‘Yeah and people think I am one because a newspaper reported it. But I’m not a bully. I never was. The person who said I bullied her, bullied me.’

  ‘Wow,’ he says in surprise, like he’d given up on me talking and now this.

  ‘I wish people treated bullies in real life the way they’ve treated me since Naomi started bullying. They should be isolated, blanked. They should be expelled - instead of the people they bully being forced to move school. And they should keep getting expelled until they can’t get into a school unless they treat people properly. That’s the way it should be.’

  ‘When were you bullied?’ he asks.

  ‘In fifth and sixth class.’

  ‘For two years?’

  ‘It’s not unusual.’

  ‘How did it start?’

  ‘I was moved back a year.’

  He doesn’t ask why, which means he thinks I’m dumb. Which is better than blaming my parents on national TV.

  He asks me to tell him what else the bullies did. And I do. In detail. There’s complete silence in the studio.

  ‘Didn’t the school help?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘They tried. But if the school isn’t behind you, you can pretty much forget it. In the end, I just pretended to my parents it had stopped. It was easier.’

  ‘How did you feel?’

  ‘How the bullies wanted me to feel - stupid, sad, a loner, a loser.’

  ‘But it stopped eventually?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I tried to commit suicide.’

  I hear people breathe in. While I’m breathing out.

  ‘What age were you?’ Tubridy asks quietly. ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Twelve?’ He looks like he can’t believe it. Then he asks me about it.

  And while I’m telling him, I realise something. I have to talk to Jack.