My Virtual Life, page 14
Reclusive au pair and her criminal boyfriend
Wednesday 3.09pm
Food eaten: oranges, Rice Krispies, cheese sandwiches, one KitKat, one packet of salt and vinegar crisps, pasta and salad.
Oh, the drama. I am an accessory. I am at risk in my own home. I am sleeping with a knife under my pillow.
Turns out Kveta stayed in her room so much because she was hiding her boyfriend, Petar.
Apparently he arrived three months ago from his hometown of Ilok in Croatia. He has been living, rent free and undiscovered in Kveta’s room, only coming out at night time for fear of being found and deported back to Ilok. It explains why she always had the television on with the volume turned up – so we wouldn’t hear them speaking.
Just in case I am ever required to make a police statement on the events, this is what happened:
It was a hot, muggy July night and I couldn’t sleep. The events of the past few weeks were whirling around my head like a bad movie stuck on rewind. I tossed and turned until my sheets were tangled and in exasperation I threw back the duvet and decided to go downstairs for a cold drink.
It was a Tuesday night so Stella was in Dublin. I had eaten pasta and salad with Kveta before finishing off some sketching with my left hand, so they were only rough storyboard ideas.
I had gone to bed early to read Stella’s James Herbert novel The Secret of Crickley Hall, which, if I am truthful, was scaring the bejaysus out of me.
I tiptoed down the stairs quietly so as not to wake Kveta. The last thing I wanted was for Kveta to be moaning in the morning about not getting a good night’s sleep. Of late she has become even more strange, preferring to go to bed at eight and spending as much time as possible in her room.
I could hear her snoring through the wall, a snuffly sound like Rosie sniffing around in Nora’s pockets looking for a treat.
As I entered the hallway I was aware of a dim light coming from the kitchen. I froze, trying to discern if it was Kveta up, unable to sleep as well. But within an instant I was sure whoever was in there wasn’t Kveta, for I could still hear Kveta’s soft snoring from above.
Then, your honour, I heard the suction thump of the fridge door close. Whoever was in the kitchen was helping themselves to something out of our fridge. Their shadow was cast right across the stairway while I stood frozen. Then, just as I was about to bound back up the stairs to wake Kveta and phone the police, he moved away from the fridge and spotted me. All I could do was stand there, glued to the cold tiles of the hall floor and scream blue murder. Oh, the terror. I shall need counselling to deal with my post-traumatic stress.
When I began screaming, the fridge thief, Petar, also began screaming and Kveta ran down the stairs convinced we were being murdered.
When we calmed down, Kveta explained and pleaded with me not to turn him in to the authorities as he is here without a work permit. Seems he had some trouble with the police back home when he was caught growing marijuana in quantities large enough to be a supplier!
Despite the dubious greenhouse activities, he appears to be a very meek kind of guy. Mousey like with a beaky nose and spiked dirty blond hair. He was shaking and nervous, asking Kveta lots of questions in Croatian I couldn’t understand. He was wearing Kveta’s old grey towelling dressing gown, which looks like it needs a good wash, his bare legs pasty pale in the blue moonlit kitchen. Can’t believe we have had a fugitive hiding out in our house. What will Stella think?
After the drama dissipated somewhat, as it would since we were all so exhausted, we agreed to sleep on it. I don’t know about them but I didn’t get much sleep for the rest of the night. I kept having weird dreams about the basement of Crickley Hall. That’s the last time I am going to read one of Stella’s books. In the dream I was climbing down the basement stairs to find Petar snoring in Kveta’s arms.
I am so creeped out. I think I need to start reading less scary books. Maybe try one of Stella’s romance books instead.
Think Stella needs to come home and sort out this one. I don’t know what to do. On one hand I would hate to see Petar out on the streets and on the other I don’t want to harbour a criminal. In the meantime, I am going to sleep with a kitchen knife under my pillow, just in case. Don’t want to sound xenophobic but he is an ex-criminal and he has been hiding out in my house, eating all the chocolate cake and probably responsible for the things that go bump in the night noises.
Oh bum. Will have to contact Derek Acorah to inform him that the ghostly poltergeist sex noises have been explained.
28
Nora talks
Wednesday 3.34pm
Food: Weetabix, banana milkshake, chicken soup with some crusty bread, oranges.
Lonely Girl Blog
Went to Nora’s house. Stopped off at the Spar to buy supplies – tinned chicken soup, two oranges and a bottle of Lucozade. Yesterday I had called in on Nora to find her slumped over the kitchen counter coughing so violently that she had barely the strength to stand up. Her gnarled yellowing fingers clutched at the counter with all her might. I just about managed to support her weight and helped her to reach the sofa in the living room.
Later I talked Nora into going to bed and I sorted out the animals. In recent weeks we have had to refuse to take in any more animals. It was heart-breaking last week when I took a call asking for a place for two dogs. Their owner had died and the neighbour didn’t know what to do with them. I sadly explained that St Francis’s was full to capacity and that we were unable to commit to any new animals for the foreseeable future. Until we have complied with all the council’s demands we can’t take in any new animals, no matter how desperate their need is. I gave the woman the phone number for the RSPCA and said I hoped they would be able to help rehome them; trouble is I know they are likely to be split up. There are few people like Nora who would happily take on two dogs.
Nora was sitting up when I arrived. She looked a bit brighter but her skin was sallow and saggy like a deflated balloon. I think the stress of the previous month has taken its toll on her. The council officials should be held accountable for harassing an old lady who wants nothing more than to be allowed to look after some stray animals. So what if the dogs bark? You can hardly outlaw barking. And cats cannot be trained to pee in one specific place. It isn’t Nora’s fault that they like to use the garden next door as a litter tray. I hope (and I have to admit I have even prayed) that Nora will soon be back to her normal, grouchy self. It’s funny how I miss her snarly tone and her barked-out orders.
‘Surely a young girl like you has better things to do on a lovely day like this than to come and see an old woman like me,’ she said today.
‘I don’t mind. I like coming here. Mum is in Dublin and Matt and Ollie are off training, so you have to put up with me.’ I smiled at her.
I prepared a light lunch for us both, the chicken soup with some crusty bread followed by the oranges which were fresh and juicy and sweet.
‘I don’t know what I would have done without you these last few weeks,’ said Nora, her voice weak and quiet.
‘Hey, that’s what families are for,’ I said, clearing away the dishes and thinking how I would see to the dogs next and perhaps take them for a run later.
Then Nora said, ‘I’m sure you have wondered why I didn’t have more to do with you when you were growing up.’
I stood at the sink letting the warm water run over the soapy bowls, frightened to turn and meet Nora’s eyes.
‘Times were different then and I felt that our Stella having a baby without being married was near enough the end of the world. Cared too much about what other people thought.’
‘And then when you came along I thought that perhaps I could bring you up as mine and let Stella go off and do whatever she had to do. I was probably a bit interfering to tell the truth and she wasn’t one for sharing you. Said you were her child and that she’d look after you. Off she went and I was left heartbroken. I missed you both something shocking – it was like a death. The house was so quiet and empty. All I had was my dogs and God above to see me through.’
I hardly knew what to say. The normally pensive, guarded Nora had said more in those twenty minutes than she had during the entire time I’ve known her. If only I could make Nora and Stella see that they still need each other and that they don’t have to engage in this battle of wills.
Saturday 6.05pm
Food: Crunchy Nut cornflakes, Jaffa Cakes, prawn salad wrap, orange juice, Chinese takeaway, ribs, spring rolls and rice.
Nora isn’t well. Mum said the doctor has been and was concerned that she wasn’t making any sense. I told Mum that’s just how she is at times and it was probably just the stress of everything with the council. Now Mum isn’t so sure about the protest. She said she doesn’t want to take a stand only to find out that Nora truly isn’t up to running the place.
How can she be so cruel? After all our hard work and all Nora’s commitment to the animals. I told Mum if the St Francis is closed down it will be her fault. How can she turn Nora away now? After all we have been through, has she not learned that we need to be a family and to stick together?
I have decided that if Mum won’t save St Francis then I will. I have emailed Caroline, the editor of Kiss magazine, to say I will meet with her to discuss the column. Yes, I know I am never ever supposed to arrange to meet up with random people off the internet but this is important. If I can use the column to promote St Francis’s Sanctuary then we might just be able to persuade the council to keep it open. I will instruct Matt and Ollie to spy on me to ensure that I do not get bundled into the back of a white van and kidnapped and locked in a basement for evermore. It would serve Mum right if something happened to me. Maybe she would be sorry then for turning her back on Nora.
So with all the stuff about Nora being sick and the shelter under threat of closure and me and Stella not speaking I could hardly tell her about Petar. When Stella is in Dublin he comes out of hiding and he is actually really nice. He is a much better cook than Kveta. On Monday night we had burek – meat pie with mashed potatoes – and on Tuesday we had sausage and potato casserole. He is cooking bean stew tonight and the smell is making me hungry. He is trying to learn English and points to things for me to tell him the correct words. He watches lots of television when he is in hiding and sometimes he uses American words like ‘awesome’.
Told Matt and Ollie about Petar and they think it’s cool to have a fugitive hiding out in my house, but Ollie said that I could be charged with aiding and abetting a criminal and an illegal immigrant. Not sure how Brexit will affect him but we reckon it means Petar is doubly at risk of being exported back home.
Don’t want to think about this as it wouldn’t look good on my university application forms. Still, who said I need to go to university. I might just go travelling instead.
My hand still aches and when it becomes itchy I want to yank the cast off and give it a good scratch.
29
Justification point
Friday 4.56pm
Food slurped up: porridge, peaches and ice cream, strawberry cheesecake, mince pie with potatoes and broccoli.
Been to Kiss offices. Oh my, so impressive. A real live magazine. Told the receptionist I had an appointment with the editor and she phoned up. All very slick, with huge cacti and oversized blush pink sofas in the lobby. Then Caroline showed up to bring me into her office which was at the top of the old converted Georgian style house in the university area. By the time I had climbed the four flights of stairs to reach the cramped room at the top I was slightly out of breath. Didn’t seem so fancy when I realised they had no lift. Still, I suppose magazine people worry about having toned calf muscles, so all that stair climbing is vital.
It was a brightly lit office furnished with a couple of filing cabinets, a grey couch and a couple of sorry-looking succulent plants on the windowsill. The front covers of past issues of Kiss adorned the walls, set off in smart black picture frames.
The steady chat and buzz of the main office outside the room provided background noise. It was a real magazine office; people were taking calls and clackety clacking on their keyboards. So far, so cool.
‘Can I get you a coffee or a tea or anything?’ Caroline asked. Her accent, although clearly Northern Irish, was unfamiliar to me – probably somewhere like Fermanagh, I think, definitely the countryside. She was short, at least six inches shorter than me, with a neat chopped-in short bobbed hairstyle which made her look like a pixie. She was dressed in a knee-length navy pinstripe skirt teamed with a smart sharp white blouse. So much more professional looking than Stella’s usual attire which can verge on the trampy. Think Toff mingled with Victoria Beckham with a dash of Alexa Chung thrown in – that’s more Stella’s fashion direction these days.
‘No, thanks,’ I replied.
Have to ’fess I was nervous and unsure of myself. Writing Lonely Girl blog has been a way of sounding off, mainly about my VM, and there I was sitting in the office of an actual magazine editor to talk about taking it one step further.
Believe it or not I was worried about hurting Stella. Even if she is annoying and selfish at times, well, truth be told all of the time, she is still my mum. The one who bandaged my hand when I fell over wearing roller skates for the first time, the one who cradled me to sleep when I had bad dreams, the one who has cared for me and loved me all my life even if it has been via remote control most of the time.
But Stella is also the one who has set about closing St Francis’s Sanctuary, practically putting a death notice on the heads of all the animals there. And then there is poor Nora. How could she cope without her animals for company, and did Stella really mean it when she threatened to find a nursing home for Nora if she didn’t come and live with us?
‘So this blog.’
Caroline interrupted my thoughts which were hurtling along like a freight train with no brakes, desperately trying to reach justification point before it was derailed.
‘You’ve attracted quiet a following, I hear, hundreds of readers and plenty of commentators.’ Caroline leaned back on her leather swivel chair, crossing over her slender stair-climbing toned legs.
‘One of our interns brought it to my attention and I have to say you can certainly write. Of course, we would need to agree an editorial line in keeping with the magazine. What do you say? Are you on board?’
Flattery is everything.
Saturday 10.45am
Food wolfed: Ulster fry and tea from the café up the road.
Turns out Caroline, my editor (do you like how I dropped that one in?), used to know my mum or at least knew of her. Caroline is married to Michael, my mum’s first boss way back when she worked for the Belfast News. He was the one who set her up with the job on the sister paper in Leeds. Caroline said he often wondered how she had got on in life. She said to let her know they were asking about her.
It’s funny, but Caroline looked a bit funny, wistful even, when she mentioned her name.
Haven’t told Stella yet. Still waiting for the right moment; besides, the magazine is due on the stands next Friday so perhaps I would be better waiting until it is definitely in, then I can show it to her and see how she takes it.
Caroline has edited the first three blogs to make up the first column piece. I hope she doesn’t stitch me up and only put in all the really bad bits about Stella. But then I can’t remember writing any good bits about her. Oh hell, what have I done?
Matt and Ollie said they loitered around the building so long that the security guard called the police. They tried to explain that they were waiting on me but the policeman told them to clear off and if there were any break-ins they’d know who to lift.
They walked away and waited for me at the top of the road until the police had gone. Ollie offered to walk me home and Matt headed off to Gaelic training. We chatted about the Killers – his favourite band.
When I got home I found a note in my pocket: ‘I think yr cool’
No name but I think it must have been Ollie. Can’t believe that the other notes must have been him too. Boys are weird – why can’t he just say if he likes me?
* * *
Note to Pop Tart: Yes, Dylan is still on the scene but he has been busy in London doing an advert for Lynx deodorant. It looks like the Colin Farrell movie has fallen through due, according to Dylan, to Brexit – they can afford Dylan but not Colin Farrell. Never mind, Stella says his career is only one personal hygiene advert away from stardom.
30
On the stands
Friday 1.10pm
Food: croissant with blueberry jam.
O>M>G. It is in the magazine! I am a real, published writer.
I stood gazing up at the magazine stand. There it was – Kiss.
The cover had a young model with glossy dark hair, her pink lips pushed tight into a Kardashian-styled pout. The straplines (I have picked the media jargon up from Stella over the years) included: How to have a social life and study. Why he hasn’t called: reasons boys don’t come through, and new hair accessories to suit every style. And beneath the headings, as ridiculous as it seemed, there was my name: Miss Print, new columnist Tara Hunter makes her mark.
I lifted the magazine down and flicked through looking for my piece. It was buried on page twenty-six but still, there it was in black and white with my first ever by-line. Sick with fear of what I had written and how Caroline had pasted it together, I quickly sped through the piece.
Since Kiss has been published my name has been a blaze of something – if not glory then at least notoriety. The Jessica crowd has heard about it, probably from Matt, and sent me a congratulations card. I am secretly thrilled at this and put it up on my dressing table.
Wednesday 3.09pm
Food eaten: oranges, Rice Krispies, cheese sandwiches, one KitKat, one packet of salt and vinegar crisps, pasta and salad.
Oh, the drama. I am an accessory. I am at risk in my own home. I am sleeping with a knife under my pillow.
Turns out Kveta stayed in her room so much because she was hiding her boyfriend, Petar.
Apparently he arrived three months ago from his hometown of Ilok in Croatia. He has been living, rent free and undiscovered in Kveta’s room, only coming out at night time for fear of being found and deported back to Ilok. It explains why she always had the television on with the volume turned up – so we wouldn’t hear them speaking.
Just in case I am ever required to make a police statement on the events, this is what happened:
It was a hot, muggy July night and I couldn’t sleep. The events of the past few weeks were whirling around my head like a bad movie stuck on rewind. I tossed and turned until my sheets were tangled and in exasperation I threw back the duvet and decided to go downstairs for a cold drink.
It was a Tuesday night so Stella was in Dublin. I had eaten pasta and salad with Kveta before finishing off some sketching with my left hand, so they were only rough storyboard ideas.
I had gone to bed early to read Stella’s James Herbert novel The Secret of Crickley Hall, which, if I am truthful, was scaring the bejaysus out of me.
I tiptoed down the stairs quietly so as not to wake Kveta. The last thing I wanted was for Kveta to be moaning in the morning about not getting a good night’s sleep. Of late she has become even more strange, preferring to go to bed at eight and spending as much time as possible in her room.
I could hear her snoring through the wall, a snuffly sound like Rosie sniffing around in Nora’s pockets looking for a treat.
As I entered the hallway I was aware of a dim light coming from the kitchen. I froze, trying to discern if it was Kveta up, unable to sleep as well. But within an instant I was sure whoever was in there wasn’t Kveta, for I could still hear Kveta’s soft snoring from above.
Then, your honour, I heard the suction thump of the fridge door close. Whoever was in the kitchen was helping themselves to something out of our fridge. Their shadow was cast right across the stairway while I stood frozen. Then, just as I was about to bound back up the stairs to wake Kveta and phone the police, he moved away from the fridge and spotted me. All I could do was stand there, glued to the cold tiles of the hall floor and scream blue murder. Oh, the terror. I shall need counselling to deal with my post-traumatic stress.
When I began screaming, the fridge thief, Petar, also began screaming and Kveta ran down the stairs convinced we were being murdered.
When we calmed down, Kveta explained and pleaded with me not to turn him in to the authorities as he is here without a work permit. Seems he had some trouble with the police back home when he was caught growing marijuana in quantities large enough to be a supplier!
Despite the dubious greenhouse activities, he appears to be a very meek kind of guy. Mousey like with a beaky nose and spiked dirty blond hair. He was shaking and nervous, asking Kveta lots of questions in Croatian I couldn’t understand. He was wearing Kveta’s old grey towelling dressing gown, which looks like it needs a good wash, his bare legs pasty pale in the blue moonlit kitchen. Can’t believe we have had a fugitive hiding out in our house. What will Stella think?
After the drama dissipated somewhat, as it would since we were all so exhausted, we agreed to sleep on it. I don’t know about them but I didn’t get much sleep for the rest of the night. I kept having weird dreams about the basement of Crickley Hall. That’s the last time I am going to read one of Stella’s books. In the dream I was climbing down the basement stairs to find Petar snoring in Kveta’s arms.
I am so creeped out. I think I need to start reading less scary books. Maybe try one of Stella’s romance books instead.
Think Stella needs to come home and sort out this one. I don’t know what to do. On one hand I would hate to see Petar out on the streets and on the other I don’t want to harbour a criminal. In the meantime, I am going to sleep with a kitchen knife under my pillow, just in case. Don’t want to sound xenophobic but he is an ex-criminal and he has been hiding out in my house, eating all the chocolate cake and probably responsible for the things that go bump in the night noises.
Oh bum. Will have to contact Derek Acorah to inform him that the ghostly poltergeist sex noises have been explained.
28
Nora talks
Wednesday 3.34pm
Food: Weetabix, banana milkshake, chicken soup with some crusty bread, oranges.
Lonely Girl Blog
Went to Nora’s house. Stopped off at the Spar to buy supplies – tinned chicken soup, two oranges and a bottle of Lucozade. Yesterday I had called in on Nora to find her slumped over the kitchen counter coughing so violently that she had barely the strength to stand up. Her gnarled yellowing fingers clutched at the counter with all her might. I just about managed to support her weight and helped her to reach the sofa in the living room.
Later I talked Nora into going to bed and I sorted out the animals. In recent weeks we have had to refuse to take in any more animals. It was heart-breaking last week when I took a call asking for a place for two dogs. Their owner had died and the neighbour didn’t know what to do with them. I sadly explained that St Francis’s was full to capacity and that we were unable to commit to any new animals for the foreseeable future. Until we have complied with all the council’s demands we can’t take in any new animals, no matter how desperate their need is. I gave the woman the phone number for the RSPCA and said I hoped they would be able to help rehome them; trouble is I know they are likely to be split up. There are few people like Nora who would happily take on two dogs.
Nora was sitting up when I arrived. She looked a bit brighter but her skin was sallow and saggy like a deflated balloon. I think the stress of the previous month has taken its toll on her. The council officials should be held accountable for harassing an old lady who wants nothing more than to be allowed to look after some stray animals. So what if the dogs bark? You can hardly outlaw barking. And cats cannot be trained to pee in one specific place. It isn’t Nora’s fault that they like to use the garden next door as a litter tray. I hope (and I have to admit I have even prayed) that Nora will soon be back to her normal, grouchy self. It’s funny how I miss her snarly tone and her barked-out orders.
‘Surely a young girl like you has better things to do on a lovely day like this than to come and see an old woman like me,’ she said today.
‘I don’t mind. I like coming here. Mum is in Dublin and Matt and Ollie are off training, so you have to put up with me.’ I smiled at her.
I prepared a light lunch for us both, the chicken soup with some crusty bread followed by the oranges which were fresh and juicy and sweet.
‘I don’t know what I would have done without you these last few weeks,’ said Nora, her voice weak and quiet.
‘Hey, that’s what families are for,’ I said, clearing away the dishes and thinking how I would see to the dogs next and perhaps take them for a run later.
Then Nora said, ‘I’m sure you have wondered why I didn’t have more to do with you when you were growing up.’
I stood at the sink letting the warm water run over the soapy bowls, frightened to turn and meet Nora’s eyes.
‘Times were different then and I felt that our Stella having a baby without being married was near enough the end of the world. Cared too much about what other people thought.’
‘And then when you came along I thought that perhaps I could bring you up as mine and let Stella go off and do whatever she had to do. I was probably a bit interfering to tell the truth and she wasn’t one for sharing you. Said you were her child and that she’d look after you. Off she went and I was left heartbroken. I missed you both something shocking – it was like a death. The house was so quiet and empty. All I had was my dogs and God above to see me through.’
I hardly knew what to say. The normally pensive, guarded Nora had said more in those twenty minutes than she had during the entire time I’ve known her. If only I could make Nora and Stella see that they still need each other and that they don’t have to engage in this battle of wills.
Saturday 6.05pm
Food: Crunchy Nut cornflakes, Jaffa Cakes, prawn salad wrap, orange juice, Chinese takeaway, ribs, spring rolls and rice.
Nora isn’t well. Mum said the doctor has been and was concerned that she wasn’t making any sense. I told Mum that’s just how she is at times and it was probably just the stress of everything with the council. Now Mum isn’t so sure about the protest. She said she doesn’t want to take a stand only to find out that Nora truly isn’t up to running the place.
How can she be so cruel? After all our hard work and all Nora’s commitment to the animals. I told Mum if the St Francis is closed down it will be her fault. How can she turn Nora away now? After all we have been through, has she not learned that we need to be a family and to stick together?
I have decided that if Mum won’t save St Francis then I will. I have emailed Caroline, the editor of Kiss magazine, to say I will meet with her to discuss the column. Yes, I know I am never ever supposed to arrange to meet up with random people off the internet but this is important. If I can use the column to promote St Francis’s Sanctuary then we might just be able to persuade the council to keep it open. I will instruct Matt and Ollie to spy on me to ensure that I do not get bundled into the back of a white van and kidnapped and locked in a basement for evermore. It would serve Mum right if something happened to me. Maybe she would be sorry then for turning her back on Nora.
So with all the stuff about Nora being sick and the shelter under threat of closure and me and Stella not speaking I could hardly tell her about Petar. When Stella is in Dublin he comes out of hiding and he is actually really nice. He is a much better cook than Kveta. On Monday night we had burek – meat pie with mashed potatoes – and on Tuesday we had sausage and potato casserole. He is cooking bean stew tonight and the smell is making me hungry. He is trying to learn English and points to things for me to tell him the correct words. He watches lots of television when he is in hiding and sometimes he uses American words like ‘awesome’.
Told Matt and Ollie about Petar and they think it’s cool to have a fugitive hiding out in my house, but Ollie said that I could be charged with aiding and abetting a criminal and an illegal immigrant. Not sure how Brexit will affect him but we reckon it means Petar is doubly at risk of being exported back home.
Don’t want to think about this as it wouldn’t look good on my university application forms. Still, who said I need to go to university. I might just go travelling instead.
My hand still aches and when it becomes itchy I want to yank the cast off and give it a good scratch.
29
Justification point
Friday 4.56pm
Food slurped up: porridge, peaches and ice cream, strawberry cheesecake, mince pie with potatoes and broccoli.
Been to Kiss offices. Oh my, so impressive. A real live magazine. Told the receptionist I had an appointment with the editor and she phoned up. All very slick, with huge cacti and oversized blush pink sofas in the lobby. Then Caroline showed up to bring me into her office which was at the top of the old converted Georgian style house in the university area. By the time I had climbed the four flights of stairs to reach the cramped room at the top I was slightly out of breath. Didn’t seem so fancy when I realised they had no lift. Still, I suppose magazine people worry about having toned calf muscles, so all that stair climbing is vital.
It was a brightly lit office furnished with a couple of filing cabinets, a grey couch and a couple of sorry-looking succulent plants on the windowsill. The front covers of past issues of Kiss adorned the walls, set off in smart black picture frames.
The steady chat and buzz of the main office outside the room provided background noise. It was a real magazine office; people were taking calls and clackety clacking on their keyboards. So far, so cool.
‘Can I get you a coffee or a tea or anything?’ Caroline asked. Her accent, although clearly Northern Irish, was unfamiliar to me – probably somewhere like Fermanagh, I think, definitely the countryside. She was short, at least six inches shorter than me, with a neat chopped-in short bobbed hairstyle which made her look like a pixie. She was dressed in a knee-length navy pinstripe skirt teamed with a smart sharp white blouse. So much more professional looking than Stella’s usual attire which can verge on the trampy. Think Toff mingled with Victoria Beckham with a dash of Alexa Chung thrown in – that’s more Stella’s fashion direction these days.
‘No, thanks,’ I replied.
Have to ’fess I was nervous and unsure of myself. Writing Lonely Girl blog has been a way of sounding off, mainly about my VM, and there I was sitting in the office of an actual magazine editor to talk about taking it one step further.
Believe it or not I was worried about hurting Stella. Even if she is annoying and selfish at times, well, truth be told all of the time, she is still my mum. The one who bandaged my hand when I fell over wearing roller skates for the first time, the one who cradled me to sleep when I had bad dreams, the one who has cared for me and loved me all my life even if it has been via remote control most of the time.
But Stella is also the one who has set about closing St Francis’s Sanctuary, practically putting a death notice on the heads of all the animals there. And then there is poor Nora. How could she cope without her animals for company, and did Stella really mean it when she threatened to find a nursing home for Nora if she didn’t come and live with us?
‘So this blog.’
Caroline interrupted my thoughts which were hurtling along like a freight train with no brakes, desperately trying to reach justification point before it was derailed.
‘You’ve attracted quiet a following, I hear, hundreds of readers and plenty of commentators.’ Caroline leaned back on her leather swivel chair, crossing over her slender stair-climbing toned legs.
‘One of our interns brought it to my attention and I have to say you can certainly write. Of course, we would need to agree an editorial line in keeping with the magazine. What do you say? Are you on board?’
Flattery is everything.
Saturday 10.45am
Food wolfed: Ulster fry and tea from the café up the road.
Turns out Caroline, my editor (do you like how I dropped that one in?), used to know my mum or at least knew of her. Caroline is married to Michael, my mum’s first boss way back when she worked for the Belfast News. He was the one who set her up with the job on the sister paper in Leeds. Caroline said he often wondered how she had got on in life. She said to let her know they were asking about her.
It’s funny, but Caroline looked a bit funny, wistful even, when she mentioned her name.
Haven’t told Stella yet. Still waiting for the right moment; besides, the magazine is due on the stands next Friday so perhaps I would be better waiting until it is definitely in, then I can show it to her and see how she takes it.
Caroline has edited the first three blogs to make up the first column piece. I hope she doesn’t stitch me up and only put in all the really bad bits about Stella. But then I can’t remember writing any good bits about her. Oh hell, what have I done?
Matt and Ollie said they loitered around the building so long that the security guard called the police. They tried to explain that they were waiting on me but the policeman told them to clear off and if there were any break-ins they’d know who to lift.
They walked away and waited for me at the top of the road until the police had gone. Ollie offered to walk me home and Matt headed off to Gaelic training. We chatted about the Killers – his favourite band.
When I got home I found a note in my pocket: ‘I think yr cool’
No name but I think it must have been Ollie. Can’t believe that the other notes must have been him too. Boys are weird – why can’t he just say if he likes me?
* * *
Note to Pop Tart: Yes, Dylan is still on the scene but he has been busy in London doing an advert for Lynx deodorant. It looks like the Colin Farrell movie has fallen through due, according to Dylan, to Brexit – they can afford Dylan but not Colin Farrell. Never mind, Stella says his career is only one personal hygiene advert away from stardom.
30
On the stands
Friday 1.10pm
Food: croissant with blueberry jam.
O>M>G. It is in the magazine! I am a real, published writer.
I stood gazing up at the magazine stand. There it was – Kiss.
The cover had a young model with glossy dark hair, her pink lips pushed tight into a Kardashian-styled pout. The straplines (I have picked the media jargon up from Stella over the years) included: How to have a social life and study. Why he hasn’t called: reasons boys don’t come through, and new hair accessories to suit every style. And beneath the headings, as ridiculous as it seemed, there was my name: Miss Print, new columnist Tara Hunter makes her mark.
I lifted the magazine down and flicked through looking for my piece. It was buried on page twenty-six but still, there it was in black and white with my first ever by-line. Sick with fear of what I had written and how Caroline had pasted it together, I quickly sped through the piece.
Since Kiss has been published my name has been a blaze of something – if not glory then at least notoriety. The Jessica crowd has heard about it, probably from Matt, and sent me a congratulations card. I am secretly thrilled at this and put it up on my dressing table.
