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Money was tight for Mum and yet still Santa never failed to deliver in style. A doll’s house that particular year, I remember. A little girl’s fantasy version of just what a proper Victorian doll’s house should be, right down to window boxes and plastic figurines in bonnets and corsets that you could move around inside.
‘You see?’ she said, beaming that wise, calm smile that’s imprinted on my mind to this very day. ‘Santa never forgets good children.’
It’s only looking back now that I realize how tough Mum must have had it really. She’d adopted me at forty-two, quite late-ish in her life, certainly for the nineteen eighties, a time when women in their forties rarely had kids and certainly didn’t go adopting on their own. It was an extraordinarily brave thing to take on, then as now, and until I arrived I think she never really thought it would actually happen. I was, as she used to joke, ‘her little surprise’.
Right from when I started pre-school, she was by far the oldest of all the mums waiting for us at the school gates. Not only that, but she was one of the few who worked full time too; all the others seemed to have husbands who were the main breadwinners. Back then, right bang in the middle of The Decade that Taste Forgot, I can still see all the younger mothers in shoulder pads with big hair and waaaay too much blusher all nattering excitedly about Talking Heads / Duran Duran / who was going to see Fatal Attraction that weekend.
And right there at the back, always at the back, Mum would be waiting quietly for me. More often than not, still in her nurse’s uniform of long blue trousers with a white top over it, navy woolly cardigan, flat, sensible shoes with her hair pulled back into a tiny bun. Neat as a pin, like always.
‘Is that your mammy or your granny?’ I remember one girl in my class innocently asking me. I never said a word to Mum about it, but I think she knew anyway. She knew by the way I hugged her tight that night and said, ‘I think you’re lovely … and not that old at all!’ She just knew, same way she always knew everything, mind reader that she was.
The subject of my birth parents was one she and I never went into, at least not until I was old enough to properly understand. Even though as a nosey kid I practically had the poor woman persecuted.
‘Molly in my class says you have to have a mother and a father to get born,’ I used to plague her, day and night, like a dog with a bone.
‘And Molly’s quite right,’ Mum would reply, briskly getting dinner ready, efficiently cleaning up any mess behind her as she went. Swear to God, our kitchen was cleaner than any hospital she’d ever worked in. You could have performed surgery right on our kitchen table, it was that sterile.
‘But then what happened to my real parents? Did they die? Like Jayne in school’s Dad did?’
‘Holly,’ she’d say calmly, barely looking up from the housework as if to reduce the enormity of where this conversation was headed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that family is family and that all families are different? Sometimes you have a mum and a dad who aren’t able to bring up a child by themselves and sometimes you have someone like me, who’s on her own, but who wanted nothing more than a little girl exactly like you.
I wanted a child like you so badly, then you came along and you were like a miracle for me. It was December when you first arrived and suddenly there you were. My own personal little Christmas miracle.’
‘But Mum …’
‘… What’s really important,’ she’d add, stopping to affectionately ruffle the top of my head, ‘is that in our little family, no child could possibly be more loved than you.’
‘But where did my real mum and dad go?’ I persisted, with all the stubbornness of childhood.
‘Sweetheart, they didn’t go anywhere and if you ever wanted to meet them, then when the time is right I’m sure we can. But here in our little family, there’s just the two of us; you and me. And if you ask me, we’re the best, happiest family you could ever ask for.’
Didn’t stop me from being utterly consumed with thoughts of my birth parents though, particularly when I was old enough to fully understand and Mum told me everything. All about my birth parents, how ridiculously young they were when I was born, my biological mother nineteen and still in college, while my father was younger still, just eighteen and barely out of school. She told me how they’d no choice but to put me up for adoption.
But then before what happened I’d happily have battered down the Adoption Authority’s offices to track down my birth parents, wherever they were now, wherever life had taken them.
Whereas after, I gave up even caring. The only family I’d ever had was gone, so what was the point, I figured. After all, I’d been lucky enough to have the best parent anyone could possibly have asked for.
And that, for me, was plenty.
Chapter Nine
D-Day. Thursday. Date night.
I’m in News FM, but as it’s one of my ‘turn up for work even though I’m not getting paid’ days, I’ve got a secret, cunning plan to slip out of here about 4ish, grab a lightning-quick blow-dry, then race home to try on about twelve different outfits before fecking them all in a big mound on the floor as soon as I hit on ‘the one.’
But after years of toiling away in the doldrums, wouldn’t you know it? That’s exactly the moment when my whole career suddenly decides to go stratospheric.
Afternoon Delight is just wrapping up for another day and I’m at my desk packing up so I can surreptitiously slip off unnoticed. Next thing I’m cast into shadow as our presenter Noel, all six feet three of him – the brandy and port gut included – is suddenly towering over me.
‘Hey there, Holly,’ he smiles fake-sincere, in that man-of-the-people-I-feel-your-pain way he goes on. ‘Not in a mad rush off somewhere, I hope?’
I jump a bit, but then it’s pretty unheard of for Noel to linger round as soon as we’re off air. Ordinarily, he just skedaddles out of here the very minute the red studio light clicks off, then heads off to glamorous TV land for his far more salubrious night job presenting Tonight With … at Channel Six. In fact, we’re doing really well if we see or hear from him before the next day’s pre-production meeting.
Not to mention that this is the second time he’s deigned to single me out in the last week alone.
‘Ermm, well actually …’ I begin to say, but it’s a waste of my time as he just cuts right over me anyway.
‘Thought not, good,’ he says. ‘In that case, you can walk me to my car. It’s high time you and I had a bit of a talk.’
That, by the way, sounded like more of an order than a polite request, so with a ‘what the f**k?’ cartoon caption coming out of my head and on numb autopilot, I trail along in his wake. Hard though not to be aware of a lot of raised eyebrows from round the office, particularly from Maia Mars, who’ll doubtless start spreading rumors that I’m now having a hot affair with the boss right under everyone else’s nose.
I’m still utterly at a loss to know what this is all about and the two of us are all alone in the lift, before Noel even acknowledges that I’m actually sharing the same airspace as him.
‘So then, Holly,’ he says just a touch patronizingly as he focuses on his own reflection in the steel metal lift door, then starts adjusting the thick clump of grey hair he’s so inordinately proud of from side to side. I can only guess to make it more camera friendly.
‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on your work lately you know, and I have to say I think you’re really doing a terrific job.’
‘Oh, well thanks, Noel,’ I somehow manage to stammer, still mystified but secretly thrilled.
‘That piece about long-distance online relationships last week? Pure gold,’ he goes on, still concentrating on his own reflection, like he’s about to be papped the minute he leaves the building. We reach the car park level on the lower basement floor and the lift doors obediently ping open for him.
‘Anyway, here’s the deal,’ he goes on, striding out of the lift and on through the icy cold car park, as I struggle two paces behind him madly trying to keep up. ‘I think you’re long overdue a trial run out at Channel Six by now. You’ve worked hard and it’ll be good for us to try you out as a freelance journalist in TV land as well. You deserve a shot; you’ve earned it. So what do you say?’
A weak, water-y ‘what?’ is all I can come out with, I’m so utterly flabbergasted.
Channel Six? Is that what he just said? A proper telly gig? And one that even pays me properly? Because this, well, this would be it then. This is a proper break for me. The big one, what I’ve been waiting for and working towards all this time.
‘Now I’m not in a position to offer you anything permanent, you do understand,’ Noel turns to caution me as we finally reach his car, an ostentatious boom-era seven series BMW with all the bells and whistles on it you’d expect. ‘So it goes without saying that you’d still keep on working here at News FM too.’
‘Of course,’ I tell him, ‘I’d never leave the station high and dry like that.’
‘Good, good. Because all I can offer you right now is a try-out as a freelance researcher, nothing more,’ he goes on, car door open, hopping inside to the cushiness of the cream leather driver’s seat. ‘So at most we’re talking maybe one evening’s work per week on Tonight With … . I’m afraid, budget wise, that’s as much as is on the table right now.’
‘Of course, I completely understand—’
‘I’ll monitor your progress closely and we’ll see how you get on from there.’
‘Ermm, well … that’s really great, Noel. And thanks.’
‘Human interest stories, that’s what you really excel in, Holly. Particularly stories that appeal to women. You know the kind of thing I’m after; you could do it in your sleep. You keep pitching good stuff and I promise I’ll keep broadcasting it.’
He closes the car door with an expensive clunk and zooms the tinted window down, so he can keep on talking.
‘So what do you say then? Can I count on you?’
‘Oh God, yes! Absolutely!’ I tell him delightedly, with my head swimming. ‘Of course I’m in! And thanks so much for the opportunity … I’m just so excited about all this.’
‘Good, good, good,’ he says, waving away my gushing gratitude. ‘So that’s all settled then. I’ll call my exec producer and tell him you’ll be part of the team on a freelance basis. He’ll organize a security pass for you and then you’re in.’
‘Fantastic!’
‘And, by the way, you start tonight.’
‘Sorry? What did you say? Tonight?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m a reporter down for this evening; out with the bloody flu, can you believe it? On the same day as the Government Budget? It’s one of the busiest days of the year for us, so it’s all hands to the pump. Anyway, I’ll see you in studio, you know where Channel Six is. About 5.30 p.m. Just make sure you’re not late.’
And like that, he’s gone. Leaving me with my jaw dangling approximately somewhere around my collarbone.
*
The aforesaid exec producer, an incredibly hassled sounding guy called Tony, calls me immediately afterwards. And so far, I think, so good. Tonight With … airs at 9 p.m., but the research team are needed in situ hours earlier, directly after the Budget’s been announced.
‘So … does that mean we’re free to leave at nine, as soon as the show goes live?’ I ask him, aware of just how bloody cheeky that sounds. On my very first day in a job where I should be trying to carve out my name, not skive off ASAP.
‘And why are you so anxious to rush off anyway?’ Tony asks dryly. ‘Prior engagement or something?’
‘No! Absolutely not,’ I lie, biting the words back and quickly reminding myself of just how much this gig means to me. ‘And I’m so sorry, for even bringing it up in the first place.’ Then just so he doesn’t mark me down as a complete skiver, I hastily throw in, ‘of course, it’s wonderful to get this chance to work with you all and I promise I won’t let you down.’
‘As it happens, I reckon I should be finished with you not that long after nine-ish,’ Tony sighs, ‘So I suppose you could slip off then, as long as nothing else comes up. But with live TV, you never know. It tends to be a bit of a rollercoaster.’
OK then, I think, taking a nice, soothing breath. This is do-able. It won’t be easy, but I may just be able to keep all the balls juggling in the air at once. Having my cake and eating it is still very much on the cards. I can take this amazing, unmissable opportunity and still get to make my date tonight too. It’ll be tight, but I can do it.
So I call the one and only number I managed to wheedle out of Andy a few nights ago, during one of our long, long, lazy night-time chats. The emergency number. The only-in-case-of number. The one that he was incredibly reluctant to give me, saying there really was no need as he’d always call me anyway. But I kept on at him and on at him till I eventually got the digits and I’m now bloody glad that I had the wit to do that much, at least.
I call the number and call it and keep on calling it, time and again. But it just keeps clicking through to an annoying voicemail in an American accent saying, ‘we’re sorry, but the customer you’re trying to reach may have their unit powered off. Please try later.’
Feckfeckfeckfeckfeck.
So instead I email.
User Name: lady_reporter
Hi Andy, it’s me.
Look, there’s a bit of a problem this end, but I’m hoping it’s a surmountable one. A major work thing involving the Government Budget has suddenly landed on me and I may be a little late this evening to meet you for drinks. Like about an hour late. Or thereabouts.
Will you let me know if that’s OK? Tried calling but your phone is switched off.
So sorry about this. Will explain absolutely everything to you when we’re chatting, but trust me, as excuses for lateness go, this one’s a doozie.
Holly x
So it’s just coming up to 5 p.m. now and all going to schedule. I think, hope and pray that this might – just might – work.
In the interim, I scoot home and switch on the telly so I can see the Minister for Finance reading out the Budget live. Meanwhile I’m frantically changing into a pair of low-cut jeans and a tight black cashmere sweater; a borrow from Joy which she made me promise to do her laundry for a full week in return for. Throw in the high heels I bought for our last aborted date last week and I’m all set to go. Not too overdressed for work, and yet not too shabby – I hope – for dinner somewhere fancy with Andy afterwards.
5.15 p.m.
I’m really up against the clock now and I’ve still got a scary amount of preparation work to do if I’m to be ready to work on an actual live hard-hitting TV show. So, with no choice in the matter, I splurge out on a cab to get me to Channel Six in Donnybrook where Tonight With … is shot. It’s a fifteen minute journey, so I use the time to read what the news app on my phone is saying about the Budget, trying to brief myself a little bit better on the whole thing. It’s only when that’s done I get a chance to check my emails again.
Bingo. Oh thank you, God! Andy got my message and he’s here, he’s actually here! In Ireland … we’re sharing the same landmass … finally!
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Well Holly, aren’t you gonna welcome me to the Emerald Isle? Got here not long ago and I’m all checked into my hotel. Loving being here and looking forward to a stroll down Grafton Street later on – that’s your main shopping precinct, right?
No biggie at all about your being an hour late, honey. Your Government Budget sounds like real hot news. Still though, you’re well worth waiting for. Sorry about missing your phone calls; my cell phone died on me, so I’m just juicing it up a little right now.
Have a great day, good luck with your work thing, and I’ll see you in the Shelbourne bar later,
Ax
Major sigh of relief! He got my message and it’s all absolutely fine. Which is wonderful beyond words. Means if the delay stretches out a bit longer, the way these things sometimes do with any live show, I’m covered. I can just call or email, tell him I’m on my way and there’s no problem whatsoever. Is there? Course not.
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