Pete looked around the table and he could see that people looked interested.
‘Writers like Oisín O’Ceallaigh and Olivia Wallace,’ Kitty continued.
‘Oisín is eighty years old and lives on the Aran Islands. He hasn’t written a word for anyone for ten years and hasn’t written anything in the English language for twenty.’
‘They’re the people she mentioned.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ Kitty replied, cheeks burning again at being repeatedly questioned.
‘And are these interview pieces about their stories or are we asking them to write their actual stories?’
‘First she said I should interview them—’
‘She said you should interview them,’ Pete interrupted.
‘Yes …’ She paused, unsure what the problem was. ‘But then she said you could ask the writers to write the stories they always wanted to write.’
‘Commission them?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Writers of that standard, that’s a costly piece.’
‘Well, it’s a tribute to Constance, so maybe they’d offer their time for free. If it’s a story they’ve always wanted to write, perhaps that’s payment enough. It will be cathartic.’
Pete looked doubtful. ‘How did this conversation come about?’
Everyone looked from Pete to Kitty.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I’m trying to find a link between this idea you have and it being a tribute to Constance.’
‘It was one of her final feature ideas.’
‘But was it? Or was it yours?’
Everyone looked uncomfortable and shifted in their chairs.
‘Are you accusing me of using this tribute piece so that I can use one of my own ideas?’ Kitty had wanted it to sound bigger than him, superior, to make him seem small, but instead her voice came out battered and meek, and she sounded as if she was doing exactly what she was accused of.
‘Why don’t we call this meeting off for now and everyone can get back to their desks?’ Cheryl added in the awkward silence.
Everyone quickly exited the room, glad to be away from the awkwardness. Pete remained standing at the head of the table, two hands spread on the surface, leaning over. Cheryl remained, too, at the table, which annoyed Kitty.
‘Kitty, I’m not trying to be smart here but I want this to be authentically Constance. I know you knew her more personally than the rest of us but you’re talking about a conversation you both had alone. I want to make sure it was something Constance really wanted to do.’
Kitty swallowed and suddenly doubted herself. What had once been a crystal-clear memory of the conversation now seemed fuzzy. ‘I can’t tell you if it was something she really wanted to do, Pete.’
‘Come on, Kitty,’ he laughed with frustration. ‘Make up your mind, will you?’
‘All I know is that I asked her what story she had always wanted to write but never did. She liked the question and said that it would be a good idea for a feature, that I should do a piece where I asked retired writers about the story they’d always wanted to write or, better yet, asked them to write the piece. She said she would talk to you about it.’
‘She didn’t.’
Silence.
‘It’s a good idea, Pete,’ Cheryl said quietly, and Kitty was momentarily glad she’d stayed.
Pete tapped his pen on the table while he thought. ‘Did she tell you her idea?’
‘No.’
He didn’t believe her. She swallowed.
‘She told me to find it in her office, bring it back to her at the hospital and she’d explain, but when I brought it back to the hospital it was too late.’ Kitty’s eyes filled and she looked down. She hoped then for a bit of humanity but none came.
‘Did you open it?’ Pete asked.
‘No.’
He didn’t believe her again.
‘I didn’t open it,’ Kitty said firmly, her anger rising.
‘Where is it now?’
‘Bob has it.’
Pete went quiet.
‘What are you thinking?’ Cheryl asked.
‘I’m thinking it would be a great feature and tribute if we had Constance’s story that she always wanted to write, to tie in with the other writers’ pieces. If Bob gives us the story, you could write it,’ he said to Cheryl.
Kitty felt angry at Pete for handing the story over to Cheryl.
‘Maybe Bob would prefer to write it,’ Kitty suggested.
‘We’ll give Bob first preference.’
‘I have it here.’ Bob’s voice came from the adjoining room.
‘Bob.’ Pete straightened up. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
Bob entered the room. He looked tired. ‘I wasn’t going to come in but then I realised there was nowhere else I’d rather be,’ he repeated Kitty’s line, which told Kitty he’d been there since the beginning and had heard it all. ‘I needed to get something from Constance’s office – her address book, God knows where she’s put it – and I couldn’t help but overhear talk about covering her story.’ Bob smiled. ‘Pete, I think that’s a marvellous idea. Well done.’
‘Would you like to write it?’ Pete asked.
‘No. No. I’m too close to it.’
‘What is the story?’ Pete asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Bob shrugged. ‘The envelope is sealed, it’s never been opened.’
Kitty was vindicated. She tried not to leap up and punch the air.
‘Okay,’ Pete looked at Cheryl, pleased with himself, and about to do the honours on her behalf but Bob sensed that and interrupted.
‘I’d like Kitty to write it.’
Pete and Cheryl were surprised.
‘I think she’s better suited,’ he explained gently, as ever thoughtful and apologetic to Cheryl.
Cheryl tried to look accepting.
‘Even though you don’t know what it’s about,’ Pete said, defending his number one.
‘Yes. Even though,’ Bob replied, handing the envelope to Kitty.
They all looked at her in suspense. Kitty carefully opened the envelope. A single sheet lay inside. She slid it out and was faced with a list of one hundred names.
1 Sarah McGowan
2 Ambrose Nolan
3 Eva Wu
4 Jedrek Vysotski
5 Bartle Faulkner
6