Ballinn, County Kerry
September 2019
Ellie stopped the Micra across from the new place on the edge of the village, a little green-fronted shop with a sign advertising Great Coffee.
Her need for real coffee was desperate, as was her desire to gather her morning’s thoughts, scattered as they were like fallen leaves. She longed to rake them up, put them together in a pile, or let the wind blow them away. Her phone and its thousand emails were weighing down one pocket and Charlotte’s letter was beginning to burn a hole in the other. She had to tackle them both. And to do that, she needed caffeine. Real, bitter caffeine, from real, bitter beans.
She eyed the café suspiciously. Two people sat inside drinking coffee out of double-walled glass mugs. Ellie watched the woman bring her mug to her lips and close her eyes in pleasure.
It was too much. Her veins tingled in anticipation. She stepped out of the car and crossed the empty street.
The other customers nodded an acknowledgement as Ellie entered the café, the sound of a milk steamer piping her aboard. Twin scents of coffee and baking infused the warm room, and her shoulders instantly dropped. She could almost taste caffeine in the air.
The barista turned from his place at the coffee machine and gave her a hundred-watt smile. He looked like a Roman soldier. ‘You might have to wait,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘I am running off my feet, non?’ A continental accent ran his words together.
‘Of course, I’m not in a rush.’ She chose a table next to the wall and took out her phone. Then stopped and looked at his waiting face. ‘You were joking . . .’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not highly amusing, perhaps?’
Ellie put a hand over her eyes. ‘It’s been one of those mornings . . .’
‘Désolé. Coffee?’
‘Yes, black, please.’ She walked to the cabinet and perused its contents. ‘Does that say beetroot chocolate cake?’
‘Oui.’ He laughed at the look she gave him. ‘No one wants the beetroot cake in Ballinn?’
‘You never know . . .’ She looked uncertain, but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it. ‘I’d better have a slice.’ She wanted to add, so it doesn’t go to waste, but instead she said, ‘It looks delicious.’
He nodded as he packed grounds into the portafilter, his long fingers nimble. Glancing back over his shoulder he said, ‘You sound . . . how can I say? A little local?’
She wondered if it was a compliment. ‘A little local?’
‘Mais oui. You’re no tourist. But your jacket, those boots and that hair – non, I don’t think you are living here.’
‘No?’
‘I would have noticed you before,’ he said lightly, before turning back to the coffee machine.
She let it hang. Three years and she’d forgotten how to flirt. But making eyes at a man was the last thing she needed right now. ‘My mum has a farm up the hill.’
He plated up a huge slice of the chocolate beetroot cake. Slid it across to her. ‘You look nothing like a farmer.’
‘No, I’m a journalist. Although I’m . . . between jobs at the moment.’
Mock fear crossed his face. ‘You’re not a food critic, are you?’
‘No. But I look forward to criticising this.’ She winced.
He laughed lightly. ‘Nils,’ he said, holding out his hand.
She reached across the cake display. ‘Ellie.’
Three young tourists entered the café, their eyes lighting up at the timber-clad interior. They peeled off plump Puffa jackets, and as they approached the counter, Ellie retreated to her table and listened to their orders. Beetroot cake, vegan pumpkin slice and three soy lattes. Over their shoulders, Nils gave her a look. She shook her head. Perhaps the guy was onto something.
She took a bite of the chocolate cake. Not bad, not bad at all. She chewed slowly, savouring it. What a morning she’d had. After two weeks holed up at the house, she felt exhausted but somewhat invigorated to be out. And relieved that no one seemed to care. The contrary, actually. The people of the village – several walked past the window now, looking in with suspicion – were quietly getting on with their lives; it was she who’d been standing still.
She unlocked her phone, then withdrew the slip of paper from her pocket. The two phone numbers were written in a shaky sloping hand. She tapped Milo’s into the keypad.
The number you have dialled is incorrect.
She tried the second number, Hattie’s.
The number you have dialled is incorrect.
Poor Albert. All alone and several relatives who may or may not exist. She called Bernie’s number – no answer – and reminded herself to try again in an hour.
Then she took a deep breath. Opened her email and scrolled through the messages, looking for one sender in particular.
Nothing. She typed his name into the search bar. The most recent email was the last message she’d sent him. It made her mouth dry rereading it. She hadn’t thought for a moment he would agree to let her go. Let it hang. Allow everything they had, everything they’d been through, wash away.
It’s all your fault, Ellie.
She felt a familiar swell of anxiety and tried to bring herself back to the present. The fine autumn day, the smell of coffee in the air, the anticipation of its bitter taste on her tongue. She let the sounds from the warm café wash over her as she closed her eyes. Counted backwards from ten. When she opened them again, Nils was standing there.
He held out two mugs.
‘Both for me?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
One of the drinks looked delicious, the other rather unusual. ‘That one’s a funny colour.’
‘Turmeric latte.’
She made a face.
‘Good for the stress. It’s . . . how do you say? On the house.’
Had her distress been that obvious? She blustered, trying to think of a clever rejoinder, but her head was too jumbled and instead she replied simply, ‘Thank you.’ He gave her a nod, and left almost as quickly and quietly as he’d arrived.
She looked back to her emails, scrolled aimlessly through them, concentrated on keeping her face natural. But the silence from Dylan had cut a hole in her. She’d played at being okay, brushed aside her mum’s concerns. More than once. More than twice. Even to Bernie she’d almost said, ‘The wedding’s only delayed, sure it is.’ And maybe it was, she couldn’t be sure. Could she? Everything had been left . . . hanging.
She touched her hand to her stomach as she sipped her coffee. It was good. It tasted like the city, like the life she’d left behind. Like the long morning walk from home to office, coffee mug in hand. Her very own time to think. To breathe. Before the day stole her away.
Get a grip, Ellie. She turned back to her phone and performed inbox triage, selecting all the spam, junk and subscriptions and deleting them. Then she quickly read emails from friends: Where are you? I heard you were away. Haven’t seen you for ages. Why can I never get through to you? She opened WhatsApp and sent a group message: Sorry about the radio silence. Down at Mum’s – no reception. Having a slice of beetroot chocolate cake in an actual café in Ballinn, can you believe it? Anyway, I’m alive. Love, Els x
Amongst the remaining emails, there was one from Jeremy, her editor at The Irish Times. Or rather, her ex-editor. Reluctant ex-editor, she liked to think. A man who had been overruled and outmanoeuvred by the powers that be. ‘I’ll make this up to you, Ellie,’ he’d promised, as he delivered the blow. As he’d fired her.
She opened his email:
Ellie,
Not much to report from this end. I’m still fighting to have you reinstated but I fear all in vain. Vincent from that rag you said you would never work for has been asking after you; I’ve attached his email below. I’ve given you a glowing reference, of course.
Jez
PS I assume you haven’t been online down there in the bog, so . . . you’ve got to see this.
She frowned at the postscript link, then clicked it and was taken to a Twitter page. She stared at it, confused. Blinked once, twice. Then realised what she was seeing.
Oh God.
This wasn’t good.
There she was, her face Photoshopped onto a red-and-white-striped Where’s Wally sweater. Where’s Ellie, the account was named. The profile had over ten thousand followers and thousands of mentions. All were unconfirmed sightings. Printed cut-outs of her at the pub, in the park, on the beach. They were all posted under the hashtag #StanleyStreetScandal.
This was the last thing she wanted, the tattered remnants of her career ripped apart by a meme. As she scrolled down the page, her long-gripped dream of property editor for The Irish Times evaporated before her eyes. She returned to the profile; there, in blue text, was a link to Dubble.
She clicked on it.
Error 404.
At least she’d had the foresight to do something right during the whole debacle.
Dubble – a portmanteau of Dublin and bubble – had been her blog, started on a whim. Just a few disparate articles about the property market squeeze. Over time, the site gained a handful of loyal followers; millennials who insisted they weren’t buying avocado toast, boomers who didn’t want to downsize, renters who’d long abandoned the dream of owning their own home. She had given voice to them all, blending their thoughts with hers. It was a hobby, a record she felt might come in handy when the bubble burst.
That was all.
Until the email arrived. A tip-off from a disgruntled employee of the property developer Maxwell Cray. God, how she despised that man. Him and his pal Davy McCarthy. She couldn’t bear to think of them. Of how they’d won in the end. How she, and Dublin, had lost.
She tasted the turmeric latte, hoping Nils was right about it being good for stress.
Cray’s Abu Dhabi-based construction company, Maxibuild, had purchased a disused council depot in Stanley Street, a central Dublin location previously earmarked for social housing. One hundred and twenty flats.
Despite the Dublin Agreement, which forbade the sale of public land, the development arm of the council, headed by Davy McCarthy, sold the site to Maxibuild on the proviso the company deliver affordable housing. It was hailed as a great step forward for public–private collaboration, and Ellie herself wrote a couple of articles about it, praising the council’s foresight.
That was when the secretary in Cray’s Dublin office, tired of his sexual advances – and herself unable to get on the housing ladder – had emailed Ellie with the allegation that Maxibuild planned to delay development at Stanley Street until the building permit lapsed. A new planning application was in progress for thirty three-bedroom luxury apartments. The three penthouses alone would be valued at four million euros. Each.
Public housing, it seemed, was off the agenda.
Ellie got to work. She obtained a copy of the purchase agreement and found it contained an unusual clause: that Maxibuild would work to the best of its ability to provide social housing if economically viable. It was clever. With the growing property bubble, she was sure social housing was no longer economically viable in central Dublin. She was also sure it had never been economically viable. She befriended a Maxibuild architect, got hold of the new building plans. They were untitled, undated and unlocated.
That had told her all she needed to know.
Jeremy had salivated at the story when she’d laid the copy before him. He’d been sitting, she remembered, at his desk, a cup of coffee halfway to his lips, his trademark Hawaiian shirt as jarring as ever.
‘Ellie, this is gold.’ He’d looked up. ‘Your sources are good?’
Were they watertight? At the time she’d thought there might be a few leaky seams, but with the scale of the revelation, the story was thick enough to plug the holes on its own.
Jeremy went straight upstairs to get the go-ahead.
And ten minutes later, he was back.
He’d been overruled.
Maxibuild were key advertisers in the property section and editorial pushed the story aside with a wave of a hand. A bitter secretary isn’t a reliable source. An untitled schematic isn’t evidence. A contractual clause is just that, a clause.
And then Ellie made her mistake.
She’d put so much time and energy into the exposé that she couldn’t let it go. She had always considered her stubbornness a virtue. But now it became a curse. With the push of a button, she published the article on Dubble. Because people should know. But she didn’t expect anyone to care.
How wrong she was.
By the time she woke up the next morning, the post had gone viral. She’d gone viral. Dubble, Dubble, Toil and Trouble screamed a tabloid newspaper. People were angry. Outraged. They demanded the council revoke the sale. #StanleyStreetScandal trended on Twitter for a week.
But Councillor Davy McCarthy vehemently, and very publicly, denied the accusations. Claimed there was no proof of any wrongdoing. And in a way, he was right. All Ellie had was a legal clause in a contract and the word of an employee. No evidence of money changing hands. No tangible confirmation of collusion, no whiff of corruption.
McCarthy called on The Irish Times to answer for their staff member. Ellie was given a dressing-down and the paper published a letter saying it took no responsibility for the personal opinions of its staff.
The end.
Or so it seemed.
But Davy McCarthy was like a dog with a bone. His lawyer demanded Ellie’s dismissal. And to her horror, with his fingers crossed behind his back and cowering under pressure from upstairs, Jeremy complied.
Ellie had been thrown to the lions, and within six weeks she had gone from a respected, soon-to-be married journalist to an unemployed singleton sleeping in her mum’s spare room.
She sighed and closed her emails. The inbox had updated accordingly, its angry red numbers now filed away. But it had done nothing to put her thoughts in order. Nothing to calm her. In fact, the revelation that she had been made a meme sank her even lower than she’d been before.
She had several missed calls and she scrolled through them now: Jeremy, a couple of friends, some unknown Dublin numbers that were at best telemarketing, at worst lawyers. And one other, an hour ago.
Mum landline.
Moira answered on the third ring. ‘Ellie, where are you?’
‘At Procaffination. The new café.’
‘Bernie heard they serve coffee in glasses.’ Moira paused. Pregnantly. Then continued: ‘Listen, as you’re in the village . . .’
‘Yes?’ Ellie said with suspicion.
‘Would you stop by the village hall?’
‘It depends what—’
‘Good, because I said you would.’
‘Mum . . .’
‘There’s a fellow there who’s interested in your letter.’
The letter. Still in her pocket. ‘I did try to give it to Albert, but—’
‘Jules Bristole. English,’ Moira continued. ‘He’s started the Ballinn Historical Society.’
‘Good for him,’ said Ellie.
‘He’s a nice man.’
Was this a set-up? A bit soon even for her mum. ‘And how did he find out about the letter?’
‘Bernie told him.’ So the village telegraph had been at work. Moira rushed on. ‘Grand. Thanks, Ellie.’ There was a pause, then: ‘Now, speaking of Bernie, I was just . . .’
Ellie drained the last of her turmeric latte and grimaced at the cold grit at the bottom of the glass. She gave Nils a thumbs-up. Good, she mouthed.
She took a pen from her pocket – the occasional ‘mmm’ murmured to the gossip coming down the line – and jotted a message on her clean napkin.
Fantastic coffee, great atmosphere and cake. Rating? 9/10 :)
PS Get some mugs for the locals.
She left it on the table, waved towards the counter on her way out.
As she started down the street, her mum’s chatter still attached to her ear, she turned back to the café, saw Nils go to her table and pick up the note.
And smile.