Cecelia Ahern 3-Book Collection: One Hundred Names, How to Fall in Love, The Year I Met You. Cecelia AhernЧитать онлайн книгу.
shrugged but she knew exactly why.
‘You haven’t had an easy time of it, have you?’
Her tears started up again at the sympathy. ‘I made a stupid mistake, Pete, a really bad, unprofessional mistake, and I ruined a man’s reputation, possibly his life, and for that I deserve to be punished, but,’ her tears took over again and she struggled to speak, ‘I’ve had enough now. I just want to write nice stories about good people, I want to get back to doing what it is that I love, what makes my world normal again. And I want people to believe in me again. I want you to look at me and listen to me without the doubt that I can see so obviously. I’m second-guessing myself enough as it is, Pete. I don’t need it from everyone else too.’
Pete looked at her, full of sympathy. ‘Would it be unprofessional to offer you a hug?’
‘Would it be unprofessional to accept?’ she sniffed.
Though when she thought of it after, it was rather unprofessional behaviour, but sometimes when people are involved, business has to stop being business and the human must win. However, Kitty couldn’t ignore the underlying truth that they both hung on to that hug for a little too long.
The curtains were still closed in Bob’s flat when she left the office and she contemplated calling in to give her version of events before he heard it from someone else but she decided against it. If her sleepless nights were anything to go by, she was certain he needed his rest.
‘I’ll tell him,’ she heard Pete say from the top of the stairs as he locked the door.
‘Thanks.’
He looked around the car park. ‘No bike today?’
‘It was stolen.’
He looked at her with a half-smile in disbelief. ‘Jesus, Kitty, the same people?’
‘No, no, other people. I’m a popular lady.’
He shook his head. ‘So it seems.’ He looked at her as if he had never seen her before, as if this was their very first meeting. As if it just occurred to him that she was a person in the world he had an interest in getting to know. And to her surprise, she liked it. She liked him looking at her like that. He came down the steps and they started walking together.
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll walk.’
‘To Fairview?’
‘No, I’m just going as far as town.’
They reached his car and he opened the passenger door, extended his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman.
Kitty laughed. ‘I forgot that you don’t take no for an answer.’
It felt strangely intimate sitting next to him in his car.
‘Where am I driving you to?’
‘BusÁras, please.’ It was the main central station for bus routes nationwide.
‘Is this your attempt to run away?’
‘Not a bad idea. No, this is just a day trip. I’m interviewing another person on Constance’s list in Straffan. A woman named Ambrose Nolan who runs a butterfly museum and conservation site.’
‘A butterfly museum? Never heard of it.’
‘Well, then, it will make a good read.’
‘So how is this butterfly woman linked to the others you’ve met?’
‘I thought I had until Friday to tell you that,’ she said in mock indignation.
‘It’s only a week until we go to print,’ he shot back. ‘I was hoping to know what the story is before then.’
Me too, thought Kitty.
‘You know, Oisín O’Ceallaigh and Olivia Wallace have agreed to write their stories for Constance’s tribute.’
‘Really?’ Kitty’s eyes widened. ‘I can’t believe you talked them into it. Did they ask for much money?’
‘They’re doing it for free. For Constance.’
Kitty nodded. Constance had so much respect for the writers, she was glad to see them returning the support she’d given them over the years.
‘It’s a really big scoop to get stories from them, Kitty,’ Pete said. ‘No one has seen or heard from Oisín for almost ten years. Olivia hasn’t written for over five years and has turned down every publishing deal offer imaginable to return to writing.’
‘I know, I agree.’ Kitty replied emphatically, wondering why he felt he had to tell her the importance of this. These were big-name writers; it was obviously a huge deal for Etcetera to get the opportunity to publish their original stories.
‘They’re only doing this because it’s for Constance’s tribute and their stories can only be included in Constance’s tribute section if we also have Constance’s last story. Do you understand?’
Kitty swallowed. Nodded.
‘So you need to keep thinking, Lois Lane,’ he warned playfully.
‘No pressure then,’ she said, trying to hide her nerves with a smile.
‘Welcome to my world,’ he said and gave her such a vulnerable look she wanted to reach out to him. Instead she cleared her throat, severing their eye contact, and climbed out of the car.
When she reached the ticket desk they refused to let her buy a ticket. Her bus was driving off.
‘Jesus,’ she fumed, her phone starting to vibrate in her pocket. ‘What next?’ She looked at her screen: it was Steve. She had thrown the man out of his bed in the middle of the night and had probably caused his housemates to think he was terminally ill. She couldn’t ignore this call.
‘I’m sorry, I just said what you told me to say, then they read way too much into it and made it a bigger deal than it actually was. I’m sorry but I was just doing what you told me to do.’
There was a silence. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your housemates. They saw me this morning.’
‘Never mind them, I haven’t been home yet. Did you know he was a journalist?’ He spoke quickly, with a sense of urgency.
She sighed and sat down on a chair. ‘Steve, I know you don’t think very highly of me and my moral standards but—’
‘Did you know he was a journalist?’ He sounded like he was running and out of breath.
‘Where are you?’
‘Answer the question, Kitty.’
‘No. He told me he was writing a book. A fictional thing. A novel. He didn’t mention anything about being a journalist. I feel such an idiot.’
‘What happened?’
‘Are you running or something because you really sound like—’
‘What happened?’
‘Jesus! Okay! He showed up at the dry-cleaners like it was the biggest coincidence in the world, even though he lived on the other side of the city. I should have known. Then we went for drinks, caught up on old times, he knew nothing about Thirty Minutes, didn’t even pretend to be all that interested, which, again, I should have been suspicious of, but I’d had a few drinks, so I talked a little … then … it doesn’t matter. Then that was it. We left.’
‘No, that wasn’t it. Then what?’
‘No, it’s embarrassing, Steve. I—’
‘Tell me,’ he practically shouted at her.
‘I ended up in his place.’ She felt physically sick. ‘Oh God, I feel so … crap. What do you think I should do?’