The
reporter wouldn’t stop pressing his recorder into Molly’s face, wrinkling his
pig nose up as he pushed his head into her space. She shouldn’t have come; she
realised that now. She was an idiot to think she could have made it through the
whole ordeal without being recognised.
“Why
are you here at your father’s house sale Ms Butler? Isn’t it true Robert
Catholic disowned you and cut you out of his will? How do you feel to see all
his money go to someone you don’t even know?”
She
pushed all her strength into his shoulder. “Leave me alone!”
He
thrust in again, dangerously close to her face. “What’s your reaction to the
news that your mother may be going bankrupt?”
“I
don’t care!”
She
tried to walk away but he came after her, his recorder up at the side of her
face, but someone grabbed him, pulling him short. Molly stopped and turned. A
man was there, blond and muscular; attractive: holding the reporter’s coat.
“Leave her alone. Can’t you tell she finds you irritating?” He had an English
accent that came out as jarring until she recognised it; then she found herself
liking it.
The
reporter looked unbalanced for a second. The blond man folded his arms across
his chest. He was wearing jeans and a collarless white shirt. He looked like
the result of the homosexual affair between Michael Angelo’s David and Adonis.
He glanced at her and she smiled. He winked back.
“Wait
a minute...” The reporter regained his composure and lifted his recorder into
the man’s face. “You’re Jack Catholic aren’t you? I saw the pictures of you
arriving at the house last night. You’re the Englishman who’s inherited
everything.”
Molly
stared at him. The burst of hatred came that she had meant to feel, that she
had come here for, but it didn’t feel right now; it didn’t feel real. There had
been so much build-up to this moment and now she was here, she wasn’t prepared.
She wasn’t ready to experience the emotions she had planned to when she saw
him.
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