One Hundred Names
- -
- 100%
- +
‘I don’t know,’ she eventually said, quietly.
Pete moved on but Kitty couldn’t concentrate on a word he said thereafter. She felt as though she had let Constance down – she was sure she had let herself down, and though it still hurt, she was used to that now. She kept wondering what exactly Constance would want. If she was in this room, what story would she want to tell …? That’s when Kitty thought of it.
‘I’ve got it,’ she blurted out, interrupting Sarah’s feedback on how her story on contrasting nail varnish sales increases in a recession with lipstick sales during the Second World War was shaping up.
‘Kitty, Sarah is talking.’ Others looked at her annoyed.
She shrunk lower in her chair and waited for Sarah to finish. When she had, Pete moved on to Trevor. She sat through two more ideas pitches, neither of which Pete would probably use, and then finally he looked back at her.
‘The last time I spoke to Constance she had an idea that she wanted to run by you. I don’t know if she did or not. It was just over a week ago.’ When she had been living and breathing.
‘No. I haven’t spoken to her for a month.’
‘Okay. Well, she wanted to tell you an idea she had and that was a piece about asking retired writers, if they had the opportunity to write the story they always wanted to write, what would it be?’
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.
Chapter Five
1 Sarah McGowan
2 Ambrose Nolan
3 Eva Wu
4 Jedrek Vysotski
5 Bartle Faulkner
6 Bridget Murphy
7 Mary-Rose Godfrey
8 Bernadette Toomy
9 Raymond Cosgrave
10 Olive Byrne
11 Marion Brennan
12 Julio Quintero
13 Maureen Rabbit
14 Patrick Quinn
15 Gloria Flannery
16 Susan Flood
17 Kieran Kidd
18 Anthony Kershaw
19 Janice O’Meara
20 Angela O’Neill
21 Eugene Cullen
22 Evelyn Meagher
23 Barry Meegan
24 Aiden Traynor
25 Seamus Tully
26 Diana Zukov
27 Bin Yang
28 Gabriela Zat
29 Barbara Tomlin
30 Benjamin Toland
31 Anthony Spencer
32 Aidan Somerville
33 Patrick Leahy
34 Cyril Lee
35 Kelly Marshall
36 Josephine Fowler
37 Colette Burrows
38 Ann Kimmage
39 Dermot Murphy
40 Sharon Vickers
41 George Wallace
42 Michael O’Fagain
43 Lisa Dwyer
44 Danny Flannery
45 Karen Flood
46 Máire O’Muireagáin
47 Barry O’Shea
48 Frank O’Rourke
49 Claire Shanley
50 Kevin Sharkey
51 Carmel Reilly
52 Russell Todd
53 Heather Spencer
54 Ingrid Smith
55 Ken Sheeran
56 Margaret McCarthy
57 Janet Martin
58 John O’Shea
59 Catherine Sheppard
60 Magdalena Ludwiczak
61 Declan Keogh
62 Siobhán Kennedy
63 Dudley Foster
64 Denis MacCauley
65 Nigel Meaney
66 Thomas Masterson
67 Archie Hamilton
68 Damien Rafferty
69 Ian Sheridan
70 Gordon Phelan
71 Marie Perrem
72 Emma Pierce
73 Eileen Foley
74 Liam Greene
75 Aoife Graham
76 Sinéad Hennessey
77 Andrew Perkins
78 Patricia Shelley
79 Peter O’Carroll
80 Seán Maguire
81 Michael Sheils
82 Alan Waldron
83 Carmel Wagner
84 Jonathan Treacy
85 Lee Reehill
86 Pauric Naughton
87 Ben Gleeson
88 Darlene Gochoco
89 Desmond Hand
90 Jim Duffy
91 Maurice Lucas
92 Denise McBride
93 Jos Merrigan
94 Frank Jones
95 Gwen Megarry
96 Vida Tonacao
97 Alan Shanahan
98 Orla Foley
99 Simon Fitzgerald
100 Katrina Mooney
There was no summary, synopsis or anything to explain who these people were or what the story was. Kitty looked in the envelope for more but there was nothing.
‘What does it say?’ Pete asked, no longer able to stand the silence.
‘It’s a list of names,’ Kitty replied.
The names had been typed and were numbered along the left-hand side from one to one hundred.
‘Are the names familiar?’ Pete asked, stretching his body so far over the table he was practically crawling on it.
Kitty shook her head, feeling a failure again. ‘Maybe you guys will recognise them.’ She slid the page down the table and the other three jumped on it like lions on a piece of fresh meat. They placed it in the centre of the table in front of Pete and huddled round it. Kitty watched their faces, hoping for some signs of recognition but when they finally lifted their heads, looking as confused as she had, she sank back in her chair both relieved and confused. Should she know what the names meant? Had she and Constance had a conversation about it before? Was there a hidden message?
‘What else is in the envelope?’ Pete asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Let me see.’
He doubted her again, and she in turn doubted herself, despite looking inside it twice. Quickly seeing there was no further information he tossed the envelope back on the table and Kitty dived for it and held it protectively as if he had thrown a baby.
‘Did she keep notes?’ Pete asked Bob. ‘In a book or on file? Maybe there’s something in the office.’
‘If there is, it will be downstairs,’ Bob said, looking at the names again. ‘My dear Constance, what on earth were you up to?’
Kitty couldn’t help but laugh. Constance would love seeing them all huddled round, scratching their heads.
‘It’s hardly funny, Kitty,’ Pete said. ‘The feature won’t make much sense if we don’t have a story from Constance.’
‘I disagree,’ she said, surprised. ‘It’s the last piece Constance suggested for the magazine.’
‘I’d still prefer to include Constance’s story,’ Pete said stubbornly. ‘It’s what I want the other stories to revolve around. If we don’t have Constance’s story, I’m not sure about the idea at all.’
‘But Constance’s story is just a list of names,’ Kitty said, losing confidence in herself. She didn’t want the entire tribute piece to rest on her ability to piece together what on earth this list meant. There wasn’t enough time, and the time that they did have happened to be the worst time of Kitty’s life. She was feeling far from inspired and her self-belief was at an all-time low. ‘There’s nothing to explain where Constance was going with it or how she was feeling about it.’
‘Well then, Cheryl will do it,’ Pete said quickly, taking them all by surprise. ‘She’ll figure it out.’ He snapped his folder shut and straightened up.
‘With all due respect, I think Kitty should do it,’ Bob said.
‘But she just said she didn’t think she could.’
‘She just needs a little encouragement, Pete,’ Bob said, a little firmer then. ‘It’s a daunting task.’
‘Fine,’ Pete said suddenly. ‘We have two weeks until we go to print. Kitty, keep me up to date with how you’re getting on. I’d like daily feedback.’
‘Daily?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Yep.’ He gathered his things and made for Constance’s, his, office.
With Pete’s demand for daily updates, Kitty knew that her suspension from the television network, the vandalism to her flat, her relationship breakdown and the court case loss had just scratched the surface, and now the real repercussions of Thirty Minutes were beginning.
Kitty reluctantly sat behind Constance’s desk in her home office, her hands up in the air as though she was being shot at, afraid to touch anything, afraid to ruin the order of how Constance had placed things, knowing they would never find their way back to their rightful place without their rightful owner to fix them. Last week she had loved the feeling of being there but now she felt like an intruder. Bob had given her free rein in the office; there was nothing she couldn’t read, no territory she wasn’t allowed to examine. The previous Kitty – the Kitty who had Constance in her life and who hadn’t a court ruling against her for irresponsible journalism – would have jumped at the chance to be meddlesome and would have read everything she could get her hands on, whether it was related to the story or not, but now it was different.
She spent the afternoon doing fruitless but time-consuming searches through the filing cabinet, trying to see if any other paperwork matched up to the one hundred names. It was pointless because she had no idea what the names meant and how they could be linked to anything else. She Googled the names but nothing of interest came up; everything led her down deceiving paths.
By the end of day two, after an embarrassing meeting with Pete in which she had nothing to report, she returned home to find her flat with red-paint-splashed toilet paper hanging in strands across the front door as if to mimic a crime scene.
Despite going to bed without an ounce of hope and a blocked toilet from when she’d tried to flush away all the toilet paper at once, she managed to wake up somehow feeling vibrant and full of possibilities. A new day meant a new start to her search. She could do it. This was her moment to redeem herself, to make Constance proud. Her final thought of the night had been that the people on the list could be absolutely anyone – and where else do you find people who could be anyone? Not bothering to get dressed, she retrieved the phone directory and sat at the table in her pants.
She had made various photocopies of Constance’s list, not wanting to damage the original, which she had placed back in Constance’s filing cabinet. Kitty’s own copy was now covered in thoughts, questions, cartoon squiggles and shapes and so she took a fresh copy, a new notepad, the phone book, a fresh mug of coffee – instant, as Glen had taken his coffee machine and fresh coffee beans – took a deep breath and prepared herself. She heard a key in the door and it suddenly opened and she was faced with Glen. Her hands went straight to her naked chest. Then, feeling vulnerable, she folded her legs, opened the phone directory and covered herself more.
‘Sorry,’ Glen said, still frozen at the door, key in hand, staring at her. ‘I thought you’d be at work.’
‘Do you have to keep staring at me?’
‘Sorry.’ He blinked, looked away, then turned his back. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘Too late for that, isn’t it?’ she snapped, marching to her wardrobe.
‘Oh, here we go,’ he said, politeness leaving his voice. The door banged and he followed her into the bedroom.
‘I’m not dressed yet.’
‘Do you know what, Kitty, I’ve seen it all before and I really couldn’t care less.’ He didn’t glance at her as he rooted in her drawers.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘None of your business.’
‘It’s my flat, of course it’s my business.’
‘And I’ve paid my half of this month’s rent, so technically it’s mine too.’
‘If you tell me what it is, I can help,’ she said, watching him root. ‘Because I’d really like for you to take your hands off my knickers.’
He finally retrieved a watch from her underwear drawer and strapped it around his wrist.
‘How long has that been there?’
‘Always.’
‘Oh.’
How much more hadn’t she known about him? That’s what they were both thinking: how much more didn’t they know about each other? They were silent for a moment, and then he looked around the room again, more gently this time, placing shoes, CDs and other miscellaneous items he’d left behind into a black bin liner. Kitty couldn’t watch and went to sit at the kitchen table again.
‘Thanks for telling me you were leaving,’ she said as he passed her and made his way around the kitchen. He took the oven gloves, the oven gloves. ‘It was very gentlemanly of you.’
‘You knew that I was leaving.’
‘How the hell did I know that?’
‘How many arguments did we have, Kitty? How many times did I tell you exactly how I felt? How many more arguments did you want to have?’
‘None, of course.’
‘Exactly!’
‘But this wasn’t quite the outcome I was hoping for.’
He seemed surprised. ‘I thought you weren’t happy. You said you weren’t happy.’
‘I wasn’t having a happy time. I didn’t think that … anyway, it doesn’t matter now, does it?’ She was surprised to feel hope in her heart, hope that he would say, of course it matters, let’s fix this … but instead he left a long silence.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘I decided to work from home.’
‘Did the magazine fire you?’ he asked, disbelieving her.
‘No,’ she snapped, tired of being second-guessed. ‘They didn’t fire me. It may surprise you to know that some people still believe in me.’ Which wasn’t entirely true with the way Pete was treating her.
Glen sighed, then walked to the door, bin liner over his shoulder. She looked back down at the directory. Her eyes jumped from one name to the next, unable to concentrate while he was there.
‘Sorry to hear about Constance.’
Emotion flooded her and she couldn’t speak.
‘I was at the funeral, in case you hadn’t heard.’
‘Sally told me.’ She wiped her eyes roughly, annoyed that she was crying.
‘Are you okay?’
Kitty blocked her face with her hands. It was too humiliating to have him stand there while she cried, when before he would have comforted her. She cried about that and she cried for Constance. And she cried about everything else in between. ‘Please go,’ she sobbed.
She heard the door softly close.
With dry eyes Kitty started afresh. She went to the first name on the list, Sarah McGowan. She turned to the McGowan pages in the directory. There were hundreds of McGowans in total. Eighty Mr and Mrs McGowans, twenty S McGowans, eight Sarah McGowans, which meant she would at least have to attempt to call them all if the twenty-eight specific S’s didn’t work out for her.
She began by ringing the Sarahs. The first call was answered immediately.
‘Hello, can I please speak to Sarah McGowan?’
‘This is she.’
‘My name is Katherine Logan and I’m calling from Etcetera magazine.’
She left a pause to see if there was any recognition.
‘I don’t want to take part in any surveys, thank you.’
‘No, no, this isn’t about a survey. I’m calling on behalf of our editor, Constance Dubois. I believe she may have been in contact with you regarding a story.’
She hadn’t been. Nor had she been with six other S’s she had contacted, while two calls rang out and she left a message for another two. Kitty started on the other McGowans in the directory, hoping Sarah was listed as a Mrs Somebody Else McGowan. Ten calls weren’t answered and she made a note to call them back. There were no Sarahs in the first eight Mr and Mrs’ homes she called; on the ninth there was, but at three months old baby Sarah was not the subject of Constance’s story, Kitty quickly learned. Twenty McGowans left, not to mention ninety-nine other names on the list with at least one hundred of each name to call. A possible ten thousand more phonecalls awaited her, unless she began with the more obscure names. Kitty didn’t doubt that she could do it – nothing bored her about research – but there were two factors working against her: time and money. She simply couldn’t afford to make all of these calls.
She abandoned her work-from-home strategy and returned to the office at lunchtime. It was busy with everyone working flat out to meet their new deadline for Constance’s tribute section as well as researching and writing stories for future issues.
Rebecca, the art director, came out of Pete’s office pulling a face. ‘He’s in a mood today. Good luck.’
An unfamiliar woman was sitting in Kitty’s usual desk, which wasn’t all that rare as they had many freelance writers in the editorial section who came and went from the office. Kitty stood in the centre of the room looking for a free desk and when that proved fruitless she looked for a free phone. Pete opened the door and called her into his office.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Looking for a desk. I have a mountain of calls to make, do you think you could get somebody’s phone for me for the day? And who is that lady at my desk?’