Kitty was confused. They were making a big deal out of something very simple. She wasn’t sure whether to stick to her line or explain. Instead she gulped down her water and they eventually looked away. Dave resumed buttering his toast and Lisa picked up her newspaper and what Kitty saw on the front almost stopped her heart as the third bad thing of that day happened. It also caused her to choke on her water and she circled her little spot in the kitchen coughing, spluttering and banging on her chest.
‘Are you okay?’ Dave asked.
Tears were streaming down her face.
‘Wrong way,’ she squeaked before convulsing with coughs again.
He watched her, not knowing whether to help her and choosing not to. Finally the fit eased and it was just the occasional cough here and there, mostly when she spoke.
‘Can I see that?’ She pointed at the Sunday tabloid.
Lisa closed it over and handed it to her. She took it in her hands, looked at the photograph of herself smiling sweetly to the camera with nice make-up, nice hair, nice lighting, the network’s official press shot. Below the photo was ‘“My Year of Hell.” Thirty Minute star Katherine Logan’s exclusive interview with the Sunday World by Richard Daly’.
‘What?’ she shrieked, opening the newspaper to get to the article. On the inside, a double-page spread, there was a photograph of Colin Maguire and his wife leaving the courthouse, another photo of Donal, Paul and Kitty leaving with their team of lawyers looking like the Sopranos, the big nasty TV people, the big bad wolves, guilty as hell. But what took up most of the page was a photograph of Kitty leaving the Four Courts after Colin Maguire had been awarded damages, her face squeezed and pinched as though there were a bright sun glaring in her face. She had been caught mid-blink as though she were doped on methadone, not looking at all as she was trying to appear, and certainly not as she felt, which was contrite, apologetic and full of self-loathing. Elsewhere on the page, in contrast, was another official photo of Kitty looking sweet and innocent, honest and trustworthy. What that girl didn’t know then. What that girl hadn’t known two nights ago. Her old college friend had double-crossed her. Her eyes jumped across the words, barely able to read a full sentence and take it all in. She kept hopping from subheadings filled with tacky adjectives such as ‘shocked’ and ‘appalled’, to the photo of the journalist who got the scoop looking smarmy and as awful as she remembered him and his disgusting naked body from the previous morning. Richard Daly.
Colin Maguire and his crew of supporters are possibly behind the abusive attacks which Katherine has had to endure. The victim of a bully campaign, Katherine, known to some friends as Kitty, has been suspended by the network, cast aside at a time when she needed them most.
There was a pretty headshot of her and beneath it the caption said ‘Scapegoat’.
She now has been suspended from Etcetera magazine. Though the case had nothing at all to do with the magazine, terrified advertisers coming under pressure, possibly from Maguire’s crew, are withdrawing their support in the face of such shoddy and careless journalism, leaving the magazine in uncertain times.
Despite all that, Logan insists she is working on the most ‘exciting project of her life’ though she was reluctant to say what that was, leaving those who know her to speculate if there’s such a story at all.
Beneath the article there was a poll taken with the public to see if Katherine Logan deserved the abuse she was getting. Seventy-two per cent said yes, eighteen per cent said no, ten per cent didn’t care.
Kitty narrowed her eyes and stared at Richie’s ugly face again. She wanted to do such violent things to him, it scared her.
‘Writing a book, my hole,’ she said aloud, then remembered she wasn’t alone. She looked up and the couple were watching her, a little disgusted by her words and presence. She dropped the paper down on the table and left the house.
‘Hey, is that her?’ she heard Lisa ask before she closed the door behind her.
And then one good thing happened that day, the first good thing, the only good thing, but sometimes you only ever need one good thing.
Archie Hamilton called her.
They met in the Brick Alley Café in Temple Bar, a charming café on Essex Street that seemed to be the only place that wasn’t a pub or chain sports bar or establishment without a shamrock or leprechaun emblazoned across the front, Ireland’s version of the child-catcher to lure in the tourists. It was a low-key place with friendly staff, and when Kitty entered she saw Archie sitting alone at the back of the café. He was the first customer of the day and had been successful in finding a table alone. Later, customers would be encouraged to sit at large wooden communal tables. He looked up when she entered, seemed slightly amused, and then he looked back down at his paper again. He appeared even more exhausted than he had before, as though he hadn’t slept, but after two nights of very little sleep Kitty dreaded to think what she looked like herself. After calling Richie’s phone sixteen times and getting no answer, she’d leaped on her phone as soon as it rang. She was lucky it was Archie.
She sat beside him on a high stool at a counter that was a wooden bench secured to the wall. Above the counter was a blackboard with the daily specials, and above that it said, ‘Every table has a story to tell’. She knew that was certainly true of this table. She was just hoping Archie was going to tell it.
‘Hi,’ Kitty said.
Archie was sitting to the side of his chair so that his elbow was resting on the counter and he could have a full view of the room. Perhaps not wanting to turn your back on a room is what came of doing time in prison. Or, in Kitty’s case, it was pure nosiness.
‘I just ordered breakfast,’ he said into his paper. ‘Do you want to order some?’
She could tell the paper was the Sunday tabloid with her story. So he had seen the article and for some reason that was probably why he had called her. He didn’t seem like the gloating kind, so she waited for his reasoning to be revealed.
‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry.’
‘You should eat,’ he said, still not looking at her.
‘No.’ She felt sick, sick by what she had read, by how she had been lied to, humiliated, by the fact she had slept with Richie. She felt disgusting and used and like she could never trust anyone ever again, and the last thing she wanted was food.
‘You need to keep your strength up,’ he said. ‘Or those fuckers will get you down.’
She sighed. ‘Too late for that.’ She heard her voice tremble; he did too and looked up from the paper. She was thankful his food arrived at that point, though the smell of it made her queasy. A large plate of tomatoes, eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, black and white pudding and enough toast to tile a roof with. The waitress placed it down before him and he finally set his paper aside and transferred his concentration to the food.
‘Are you ready to order?’ the waitress asked.
‘I’m not eating, thank you.’
‘Tea, coffee?’
‘Still water, please.’
‘And a plate of fruit,’ Archie said, cutting into his sausage. ‘She’ll have a plate of fruit. Fruit stays down okay.’
‘Thanks,’ Kitty said, touched by how he cared. ‘I suppose you’re the expert on this.’
He nodded his head in a horse-trying-to-get-rid-of-a-fly-on-his-nose kind of way.
‘What did you want to speak to me about?’
He didn’t answer, he just shovelled the food in his mouth, massive amounts that puffed out his cheeks and he chewed merely a few