Authors: Cecelia Ahern
‘Like what?’ Pete asked, and Kitty froze.
‘I don’t know.’
Someone sighed heavily.
‘Kitty, this twelve-page spread is to celebrate Constance. We have the rest of the magazine to create new stories,’ Pete said, trying to sound patient but instead sounding like a patronising father at the edge of his tether. ‘If you don’t have any ideas to offer then I’m going to move on.’
She thought long and hard, while all eyes were bearing down on her. Instead of coming up with ideas, all she could think was that she couldn’t think of anything. She hadn’t been able to think of anything for six months, so she surely wouldn’t start now. Eventually people began to look away, feeling embarrassed for her, but Pete kept the spotlight on her, as if to prove a point. She wanted him to move on; why wasn’t he moving on? Her cheeks burned and she looked down to avoid meeting anyone’s eye, feeling that she couldn’t possibly sink any lower.
‘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.
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.’