One Hundred Names. Cecelia Ahern

or see. People rarely know it themselves; they only know it after the fact. That is what creating something original is all about. Finding the new, not rehashing the old and feeding a market.’ She raised her eyebrows.

      ‘It was my story,’ Kitty said quietly. ‘I can’t blame anyone else.’

      ‘There are more people involved in telling a story than the writer, and you know that. If you had come to me with this story, well, I would not have covered it, but hypothetically, if I had, I would have pulled it before it was too late. There were signs and someone above you should have been able to see them, but if you want to take the entire blame, well then, you ask yourself why you wanted to tell that story so badly.’

      Kitty wasn’t sure if she was meant to answer then and there but Constance gathered her energy and continued: ‘I once interviewed a man who seemed increasingly amused by my questions. When I asked him what he found so entertaining, he told me that he found the questions an interviewer asked revealed much more about the interviewer than any of his answers revealed about himself. During our interview he learned far more about me than I about him. I found that interesting and he was right, on that occasion at least. I think that the story one covers often reveals more about the person writing it than perhaps the story is revealing itself. Journalism classes teach us that one must extract oneself from the story in order to report without bias, but often we need to be in the story in order to understand, to connect, to help the audience identify or else it has no heart; it could be a robot telling the story, for all anyone cares. And that does not mean injecting opinion into the pieces, Kitty, for that bothers me too. I don’t like it when reporters use a story to tell us how they feel. Who cares what one person thinks? A nation? A genre? A sex? That interests me more. I mean inject understanding in all aspects of the story, show the audience that there is feeling behind the words.’

      Kitty didn’t want to have to think about what covering that story said about her – she never wanted to have to think or talk about it again – but that was impossible because her network was being sued and she was a day away from going into a libel court. Her head was pounding, she was tired of thinking about it, tired of analysing what on earth had happened, but she suddenly felt the need to repent, to apologise for everything she had ever done wrong just to feel worthy again.

      ‘I have a confession.’

      ‘I love confessions.’

      ‘You know, when you gave me the job, I was so excited, the first story I wanted to write for you was the caterpillar story.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Of course I couldn’t interview a caterpillar, but I wanted it to form the basis of a story about people who couldn’t fly when they really wanted to, what it meant to be held back, to have your wings clipped.’ Kitty looked at her friend fading away in the bed, big eyes staring up at her, and she fought the urge to cry. She was sure Constance understood exactly what she meant. ‘I started researching the story … I’m sorry …’ She held her hand to her mouth and tried to compose herself but she couldn’t, and the tears fell. ‘It turned out I was wrong. The caterpillar I told you about, the Oleander, it turns out it does fly after all. It just turns into a moth.’ Kitty felt ridiculous for crying at that point but she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t the caterpillar’s predicament that made her sad but the fact her research then as now had been appalling, something that had got her into serious trouble this time. ‘The network have suspended me.’

      ‘They’ve done you a favour. Wait for it to settle and you can resume telling your stories.’

      ‘I don’t know what stories to tell any more. I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong again.’

      ‘You won’t get it wrong, Kitty. You know, telling a story – or, as I like to say, seeking the truth – is not necessarily to go on a mission all guns blazing in order to reveal a lie. Neither is it to be particularly ground-breaking. It is simply to get to the heart of what is real.’

      Kitty nodded and sniffed. ‘I’m sorry, this visit wasn’t supposed to be about me. I’m so sorry.’ She bent over in her chair and placed her head on the bed, embarrassed that Constance was seeing her like this, embarrassed to be behaving this way when her friend was so sick and had more important things to worry about.

      ‘Shush now,’ Constance said soothingly, running her hand gently through Kitty’s hair. ‘That is an even better ending than I originally wished for. Our poor caterpillar got to fly after all.’

      When Kitty lifted her head, Constance suddenly appeared exhausted.

      ‘Are you okay? Should I call a nurse?’

      ‘No … no. It comes on suddenly,’ she said, her eyelids heavy and fluttering. ‘I’ll have a short nap and I’ll be all right again. I don’t want you to go. There is so much for us to talk about. Such as Glen,’ she smiled weakly.

      Kitty faked a smile in return. ‘Yes. You sleep,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be right here.’

      Constance could always read her expressions, could dismantle her lies in seconds. ‘I didn’t like him much anyway.’

      Within seconds Constance’s eyes fluttered closed.

      Kitty sat on the windowsill in Constance’s hospital room, looking down at the people passing below, trying to figure out the route home where the fewest people would see her. A flow of French snapped her out of her trance and she turned to Constance in surprise. Apart from when Constance swore, in all the ten years she had known her, Kitty had never heard her speak French.

      ‘What did you say?’

      Constance seemed momentarily confused. She cleared her throat and gathered herself. ‘You look far away.’

      ‘I was thinking.’

      ‘I shall alert the authorities at once.’

      ‘I have a question I’ve always wanted to ask you.’ Kitty moved to the chair beside Constance’s bed.

      ‘Oh, yes? Why didn’t Bob and I have children?’ She sat up in the bed and reached for her water. She sucked the tiniest amount from a straw.

      ‘No, know-it-all. You’ve killed every plant you’ve ever owned, I can’t imagine what you’d have been like with a child. No, I wanted to ask you, is there any story you wish you’d written but for whatever reason never wrote?’

      Constance lit up at the question. ‘Oh, that is a good question. A story in itself perhaps.’ She raised her eyebrows at Kitty. ‘A piece where you interview retired writers about the story that got away, ha? What do you think? I should talk to Pete about that. Or perhaps we should contact retired writers and ask them to write the story that they never wrote, especially for the magazine. People like Oisín O’Ceallaigh and Olivia Wallace. Give them their opportunity to tell it. It could be a special edition.’

      Kitty laughed. ‘Do you ever stop?’

      There was a light knock on the door and Constance’s husband, Bob, entered. He looked tired but as soon as he laid eyes on Constance, he softened.

      ‘Hello, darling. Ah, hello, Kitty. Nice of you to join us.’

      ‘Traffic,’ Kitty said, awkwardly.

      ‘I know the feeling,’ he smiled, coming around and kissing her on the head. ‘It often slows me down too, but better late than never, eh?’ He looked at Constance, her face all twisted up in concentration. ‘Are you trying to poo, my love?’

      Kitty laughed.

      ‘Kitty asked me what story have I always wanted to write but never have.’

      ‘Ah. You’re not supposed to make her think, the doctors said so,’ he joked. ‘But that’s a good question. Let me guess. Is it that time during the oil spillage when you had the exclusive interview with the penguin who saw everything?’

      ‘I did not have an exclusive with the penguin,’ Constance laughed, then winced with pain.

      Kitty