“Andie!”
I awoke with a jerk to see Colm’s face hovering over mine. It made a change from his camera, but still not a welcome one.
“You were doing an odd little strangled-screaming type of thing in your sleep.”
I put a hand on his chest and heaved him away. Personal-Space Invaders polled top of my list of pet hates, so I felt that a heave was appropriate in this instance. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I spluttered in a clearly-not-fine fashion. I was mortified. The dream usually happened at home. Just my luck for this to happen in a place where there was no escape for another – I glanced at my watch – six hours.
In a bid to save as much money as possible, the tight-fisted travel department in Éire TV had put two stopovers in our itinerary. We had to fly from Dublin to Heathrow, Heathrow to Atlanta, then Atlanta to Vegas. I had kicked up blue murder about it in the hope that they could somehow change the itinerary to have just one stopover, but it seemed that there really were no more direct flights left at such short notice. I still didn’t buy it, but I hadn’t time to go searching for cheaper flights myself with everything happening so fast. We were now on the Heathrow to Atlanta leg, the Dublin to Heathrow flight having mercifully passed in the blink of an eye. I’d been hoping I’d be able to sleep this one away, but my subconscious – and Colm – seemed to have other ideas.
“What?” I snapped at Colm, who was looking at me as if he expected an explanation. Possibly a reasonable expectation, but that didn’t mean it was going to happen. I yanked the in-flight magazine out of the storage area in the seat in front of me, and buried my head in an article about rugby, a game I had minus-zero interest in. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Colm was still gawking at me, so I did what any mature woman would do in these circumstances and turned my back to him. I’d only known him a few hours, but Colm was already starting to get to me. I got the impression that he thought he owned all the space around him in a ten-mile radius. Have you ever met anyone who could smell like a month’s worth of BO, or be going around with a runny nose or something, but they still wouldn’t have a bit of shame about going up to the president of the country and sitting on her lap? He was one of those types. He didn’t have BO, a snotty nose or a penchant for lap-perching (that I knew of, anyway), but it was the same principle. His personality apparently made him good at his job, or so I’d heard from an ex-colleague, but I couldn’t share much enthusiasm about that either after the nasal-zoom incident. He was known to be fearless in his work, and I wondered briefly if Isolde had ever had a love child that she’d left on a doorstep thirty-odd years ago. Colm didn’t look anything like Isolde though, thankfully. He had more of a . . . rusty look about him. He wasn’t quite ginger, but he had a good schlep of red running through his otherwise brown hair. He also always seemed to have a few days of facial hair hanging around, but he got away with it because he was really tall and broad and it just fit in with his look somehow. That and the fact that he looked like someone who’d rip your head off if you dared to mention it.
I was forced to turn around when the air stewardesses came around with the in-flight drinks – there was no way I was letting that opportunity go.
Colm gave me what could only be described as a knowing smile when I ordered a white wine.
“Aren’t you having one yourself?”
He shook his head. “I don’t drink.”
“Well, aren’t you a good boy.” I turned my back on him again, my precious alcohol secured in my grasp.
I had just taken my first relaxing sip of chardonnay when Colm piped up.
“So, you’re a big rugby fan, then.” The look he gave me after he said it was the observational equivalent of the world’s loudest, most contemptuous guffaw into a loudspeaker.
“Yes.” I adopted a brazen expression. “Why so surprised?”
“I didn’t think Glitter-heads and rugby were good bedfellows.”
“So, you think I could only possibly be interested in one thing?” Feck. That sounded really dodgy. “I mean, that I couldn’t like sport because I am an entertainment correspondent?”
“I just thought soccer would be more your thing.”
The bastard. I’d managed not to think about the Graham-and-the-married-woman incident for a long while, but now I was getting cream-pied in the face with it. And why? I didn’t even know Colm – what did he have against me? Or maybe he was like this with everyone? The fact that Graham’s betrayal squeeze had been a high-profile millionaire’s wife meant that it had been big news at the time, so I wasn’t surprised that Colm was aware of it – the surprise was that he would be so nasty as to use it against me.
I had to cut this kind of thing off at the pass – especially as I was going to be stuck in his company for the next few weeks, so I decided to go into psycho mode. I usually reserved it for after a feed of pints, but needs must. I had to go for the jugular with this guy to keep him out of my face. I did a bit of personal-body-space invasion myself before going in for the kill.
“If you have something to say to me, have the guts to say it straight out instead of inferring it,” I said in a low, scratchy voice. I was quite pleased with it. That should do the trick.
He did this fake-surprise-look thing that made me want to leather him. “Calm down, Andie. I’m only making polite conversation. It’s what colleagues do when they’re stuck on a plane together. You should try it.”
“And you need to learn some basic manners and respect!” Okay, slightly OTT and game-show-contestant-esque, I’ll admit. Heads all around us swivelled in my direction. I was half-expecting them to start chanting ‘Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry!’. Colm had regained his composure and was now the picture of nonchalance, and looking at me as if I was crazy.
I cursed Amanda from Éire TV and her clumsiness. Isolde had signed us up for four half-hour episodes of the Looking for Leon documentary, with an option to extend the number of episodes on a rolling-contract basis if public interest in the story was still high after the fourth episode, and Amanda was originally supposed to have accompanied Colm and me on this trip as a storyboarder and editor for the show’s footage. That was all well and good, until she broke her ankle in a supermarket. She’d seen a half-price offer advertised on the supermarket’s own-brand breakfast cereal but, when she went in, all of the cheap cereal was on the top shelf, with the expensive brands layering the shelves that she could actually reach – and, of course, there wasn’t a member of staff to be seen, or a random tall person for that matter. She got it into her head that the offer of cheap cereal was just a ploy to get people in and get them spending, because when most people had the more enticing, tastier brands within their reach, they wouldn’t bother going to the effort of getting someone to take down the cheap cereal from the top shelf. But not our Amanda. In a fit of pique at the supermarket’s cheek, she swept her arm across a row of Chocolate Swirl cereal to knock them off the shelf, then stacked them on top of each other in a makeshift set of stairs so that she could reach the top shelf. She’d just clasped hands on the cereal she wanted when a member of staff turned a corner, saw her and cried out “Hey! Be careful, for the love of God!” The voice startled Amanda. She lost her balance and toppled over, landing on her ankle. She said her leg and ankle looked just like a boomerang, that’s how badly she broke it, and the staff member promptly puked all over the expensive boxes of Chocolate Swirl when she saw the ankle hanging uselessly to the side. Amanda never did get to buy her cheap cereal. I sent a curse up for her meanness too – we’re talking about a saving of about seventy cents here.
The end result was that Éire TV had tasked me with the storyboarding, and Colm would do the editing. I wasn’t tickled pink about this – I’d used up most of my tracking-down ideas the last time I was in Vegas, and I could have done with a pair of fresh eyes looking at the situation – which had been exactly Amanda’s argument when she’d persuaded Éire TV to let her go on this junket. After all, the editing could easily have been done at home when Colm sent th
e footage through, but “You need to be in the thick of the action to storyboard effectively,” according to Amanda. Realistically, she just wanted to live off expenses for a few weeks and save her wages, but she’d somehow managed to convince Éire TV to let her come. She used to reef the tea, coffee, biscuit and stationery supplies so much on a day-to-day basis that it probably amounted to the same cost to send her away anyway. But now that she’d cocked the whole thing up by getting injured, I’d really have to start thinking. I had a feeling that with an attitude like his, Colm wouldn’t be much use to brainstorm with. Plus, he’d mentioned in the queue to board the flight that he worked as a project manager as well as a cameraman, and he was expected to keep things going remotely from a different timezone, so I had a feeling he wouldn’t have a spare minute to help me even if he did have the inclination. I was essentially on my own. So much for the liaising Éire TV crew that Isolde had been on about.
Still, it would all be worth it if I found Leon. Okay, so that was a big ‘if’ . . . but even though it felt like Isolde was chucking me out of a plane without a parachute, at least I was doing something about the situation now instead of sitting around feeling pissed off about it. Guys like Leon were never on their own for long, and if I didn’t act quickly, he’d be snapped up by another woman in no time. All I had to do now was work out how to find him in a country with a population of more than three hundred and ten million people before it was too late. Easy peasy.
“Beef or chicken?” The air stewardess was back.
“Chicken,” Colm and I said in unison.
She buried her head in her trolley, then looked up with regret on her face. “I’m afraid I have only one chicken left.”
“Did he say chicken? He meant beef.” I patted Colm’s head in what I hoped looked like an affectionate gesture. “He’s been mixing up his words ever since he had a blow to his head a few years ago,” I stage-whispered loudly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Colm throw me such a vicious look that I was actually a bit scared, but it was too late to stop now.
Believe me when I say that I would give the shirt off my back to absolutely anyone who passed me on the street who happened to be shirtless. It never happens – everyone seems to be in possession of shirts these days – but if it did, I would. But I was not giving that chicken to Colm Cannon. Not after that dig about Graham. I was ready for a fight, and I’d show him. I’d –
Colm cut across my thoughts. “I’ll take the beef. I wouldn’t want any of your passengers getting injured by the toys that’d be thrown out of the handbag if this one doesn’t get her way.”
The air stewardess giggled dutifully, then stopped when I gave her a look.
I’d won – well, I’d won the chicken, even if I had been insulted in the process – but I felt strangely deflated. He hadn’t given me the fight I was all geared up for, which left me feeling like a bit of a fool. Of course, the chicken was vile. I had to fight the vomit down as I tucked into a medley of chicken and watery cabbage – always a popular combination. And for someone who hadn’t wanted beef in the first place, Colm looked like he was quite enjoying his meal. And then, when he finished it, he fished into a ridiculous rucksack type of effort that he’d brought on as hand luggage, and pulled out some biscuits wrapped in tin foil. They looked distinctly like Mariettas, which I thought nobody ate any more unless they were over ninety. I took the opportunity to write my daily diary entry while he was distracted – I was convinced he’d be poking his nose into it to see what I was writing otherwise. No doubt there’d be some snide comment from him at some stage on this trip about how nobody kept diaries any more, but he managed to hold his tongue while it was wrapped around the Mariettas.
My diary entry for the day complete – and filled with complaints about nosey people who think they’re God’s gift – I turned my thoughts to work.
The night before my flight to Vegas, Isolde had called me while I was doing my packing. I took the call, even though it was outside work hours and I was up to my eyes in things to do, seeing as I had a last-minute transatlantic tenure to prepare for. Ignoring the call was never going to be an option.
“I’ve been thinking about the best way for you to write the column.”
Heaven forbid that I might use a bit of originality and write it my own way . . .
“Now, I know you’re not good with complex notions, so I’ll make it easy for you and sum it up in one word. Cheese.”
“Cheese. There are many different types of cheese, Isolde. Would you care to elaborate?”
“Types don’t matter. That column just needs cheese, and lots of it. If your previous columns are anything to go by, you’ll have no problem with that. Just ham it up a bit.”
Ham and cheese now. I pursed my lips. “The Vicious Voice isn’t exactly known for its cheese factor . . . I’m not sure how well throwing a block of cheddar into the mix every week will go down –”
“The fact that we have an entertainment column at all is cheese. You are the cheese in my paper. Didn’t you know that already?”
I decided not to dignify that with a response.
“I’d prefer it if we didn’t need to go near that stuff at all,” Isolde continued, “but we do, and there’s one very important reason why. Sales. A paper needs diversity in subject matter to appeal to as wide an audience as possible. As you know by now – although it’s hard to tell sometimes with some of the rubbish you submit – I pride myself on maintaining the highest of writing standards in the Vicious Voice, and only letting the best writers work for me. But the reality is that there’s no point in producing breathtaking writing if nobody is reading it. Popular entertainment and social-scene updates may be things I abhor, but articles about them bring the readers in. And everyone who buys the paper for entertainment news then also has access to our more high-quality editorial, so we’re bringing our best work to a wider audience who might not otherwise have chosen our paper.”
“Charming.”
Isolde thought she was so high-brow, with her classical music CDs scattered all over her desk and a copy of whatever was the latest Booker Prize winner tucked under her arm as she walked out to lunch (or actually in her hand – she was one of those people who read books as they walked, the types who trampled on pets and young children and kept going without so much as a backwards glance). But I would bet anything that she went on furtive weekly expeditions into a supermarket where nobody knew her, and filled her trolley with copies of all of the latest gossip magazines.
“Charming, my arse. We all know you don’t do the hard-hitting stuff well. Leave that to Jason. You worry about the fluff – it’s what I pay you for. I want that column to convey lovesickness and romance – all that crap. That’s what people want, and a good love saga is what’ll bring the new readers in. Make sure you don’t go overboard either, though. No ‘Dear John’ type of columns. Get the balance right between cheese and not making a disgrace of yourself and the paper with bad writing.”
‘Here’s a great idea – how about you just write the damn column for me altogether?’ That was what I wanted to say. What I actually said was “Right. Okay.” I would have agreed to write the next War and Peace if it meant I’d get off the phone. I’d had more than enough of this conversation.
The journey seemed to take forever. Thankfully, Colm had pulled out his laptop after the meal, and had buried his head in it for the rest of the Heathrow to Atlanta leg of the trip.
When we eventually arrived in Atlanta, we were due to have a two-hour stopover – but no sooner had I bagged a seat in the waiting area for the Vegas flight (having ‘lost’ Colm somewhere in the airport) than a big Delayed sign was projected into the boarding area. An announcement had been made that the flight would be at least an hour delayed due to T-storms in Vegas (thunderstorms to you and me), but that hour crept into two, three, four, five, until eventually we boarded six hours behind schedule. There was one small positive, which was that when Colm had made his way to the boarding area, there were no se
ats left and he’d had to slump against a wall far away from me to while away the hours – but it was scant solace as I tried to sleep while a middle-aged man’s head continually dipped onto my shoulder.
Although I was seated beside Colm again for the Atlanta to Vegas leg of the journey, I managed to lose myself in the latest book from Daniel Larch, my favourite author, while Colm slept through most of the flight. Daniel Larch’s fantasy novels were ostensibly for teenagers, but were a huge hit with adults all over the world too. I always felt a little better when I could escape into the magical worlds he created – and this was definitely a time when I needed a temporary escape.
There was a collective and unrehearsed whoop of delight when we eventually landed in McCarran airport. I’d felt a little thrill of anticipation as I looked out the window of the plane at the lights of the Strip. Okay, so I had my doubts about how effective this trip was going to be in finding Leon, but it was still a million times better being here than in Dublin where I had nothing to look forward to, annoying-Colm-presence or no annoying-Colm-presence.
I had to revise that line of thought when, a full hour later, Colm and I were filling in forms to have our lost luggage sent to our hotels in the eventuality that it might miraculously be found. At least in Dublin I had clean clothes. And as if not having our luggage wasn’t bad enough, Colm seemed to have no grasp of the severity of the situation. As more and more people from our flight had sauntered away with their bags and suitcases, I’d become more convinced that ours wasn’t coming through – but instead of getting upset about that like a normal person, Colm stayed infuriatingly calm. In fact, the more agitated I got, the less he seemed to care about his luggage. I could have sworn he was doing it just to annoy me.
The fact that, despite Daniel Larch, I was still shaken up after the dream wasn’t helping matters either. If only Leon were here, he’d know exactly the right thing to say to make things better, just like he had in Vegas. I thought about how he’d reacted when I told him about all the stuff in my past . . .
[2014] Looking for Leon Page 6