About the Book
Cassandra never set out to become a famous psychic, with her very own magazine column, plus a glamorous TV slot thrown in for good measure. Let’s face it, it’s not exactly the usual career choice a girl might make, now is it? But, whether she likes it or not, ever since Cassandra was a little girl she’s been able to see into the future.
While she can make predictions with 100 per cent accuracy for everyone around her, her psychic gift floats right out the window whenever there’s a D.S.M. (decent, single man) around that she actually fancies herself especially when that D.S.M happens to be her hot, new TV producer boss.
It seems even being able to foretell the future can’t protect Cassandra from what destiny has in store, and sometimes fate won’t allow you to look before you love. . .
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Also by Claudia Carroll
Copyright
For Clelia Murphy.
The funniest person I’ve ever met, ever.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks, as always, to my miracle-worker agent, Marianne Gunn O’Connor. As if she didn’t pull enough rabbits out of hats for me, she’s also sold my last book, Remind Me Again Why I Need A Man, to Fox TV, which has optioned it as a series. The girl is just incredible. Best thing about being her client though, is that you also get to become her friend.
Very special thanks to Pat Lynch, always so patient, always so supportive, always ready for a Thursday night out on the town!
Francesca Liversidge is my wonderful editor and I owe her so much. She is beyond fabulous and just makes my job so easy. Thanks also to everyone at Transworld, especially Lucie Jordan, Laura Sherlock, Vivien Garrett, Richenda Todd and Rebecca Jones. I couldn’t be luckier to be working with all of you.
Special thanks also to everyone at HarperCollins in New York; especially Claire Wachtel, Jonathan Burnham and Loretta Charlton. And a big ‘Hi’ to the amazing Karen Glass; I can’t wait to work with you!
Thanks to Gill and Simon Hess, Helen Gleed-O’Connor and, of course, Declan Heeney for all their patience and support. Although I will continue to nag you all until I get an invite to the Christmas party.
I’m so grateful to Vicki Satlow, who I’ve never actually met but who does so much work selling my books around Europe, it’s unbelievable. I’m still proudly wearing the Italian T-Shirt!
Thanks to all my family for everything, especially Mum and Dad who put up with my bullying them into buying yet more books all the time.
Thanks to Susan McHugh for being the most patient reader alive. And Sean and Luke!
And thank you to my magic circle of old and dear friends: Karen Nolan and Larry Finnegan, Pat Kinevane, Marion O’Dwyer, Alison McKenna, Fiona Lalor, Frank Mackey, Sharon Hogan, Karen Hastings, Kevin Reynolds, Ailsa Prenter and all the Gunn family. How all our respective livers have survived these years, I do not know.
Special thanks to Anita Notaro, a great neighbour and a great friend. And huge thanks also to Patricia Scanlan, Sarah Webb, Morag Prunty, Geraldine Nolan and Derick Mulvey for all of your help and support.
And of course to Clelia Murphy, who really, honestly is the funniest woman alive.
In ancient Greek mythology, Apollo fancied Cassandra so much that he bestowed on her the gift of prophecy.
Unfortunately, Cassandra wasn’t all that pushed about him, so, as a punishment, Apollo twisted her brand-new gift into a curse. She could still foretell the future, but as long as she lived, no one would ever believe her.
In other words, she rejected him, so he made sure the rest of the poor girl’s life was a living, breathing misery.
But then, that’s fellas for you . . .
OK. To begin at the beginning . . .
Dublin, 1985
Our Dining Room
‘He claims that he loves me, he’s just not in love with me, which makes me think he’s put me into the sister category and that I’m just completely and utterly wasting my time with this guy. We’ve been going out with each other for nearly three years and do you know what he gave me for my birthday? A foot spa. I ask you. A foot spa. That’s the kind of gift you give to an elderly infirm relative that you don’t even like.’
‘Aunt Lizzie?’ I tried my best to interrupt her but she was still in full rant-mode.
‘All I want to know is this. When am I ever going to have what your mother has? A beautiful daughter, this beautiful home and a husband who actually wants to spend the time of day with her. So is there something fundamentally unmarriable about me? Why are the men I go out with such complete and utter wasters? Or am I the problem? Could it just be possible that I’M the problem?’
‘Is it my go yet?’ asked Aunt Lizzie’s friend, Mary, keeping her voice deliberately low so that my mother wouldn’t overhear in the kitchen. Mom didn’t approve of her pals pestering me for free psychic advice. At least not during homework time.
‘No, don’t even answer her,’ snapped Aunt Lizzie. ‘If I talk fast enough then you can’t interrupt me. OK, here’s the question. Is George the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with? Because if he isn’t, then I might as well cut my losses and get out now. So come on, Cassie, break it to me gently.’
‘It’s your perfume,’ I said simply.
‘My what?’
‘He hates the smell of your perfume.’
‘Are you kidding me? I’ll have you know I wear Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion, only one of the priciest ones around. Cost me a packet.’
‘Stop wearing it and within six months you’ll be married.’
Aunt Lizzie looked at me, stunned. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked, eventually.
‘Yup.’
‘Can you see it?’
I closed my eyes and screwed up my face. Yes, there it was. Clear as crystal. Easy.
I’m in Donnybrook church, standing beside the altar, trying not to trip over Aunt Lizzie’s big meringue of a dress. I look up and there’s George, sweating nervously and fixing his buttonhole. I can hear an organist playing the Ave Maria and I’m smelling – what is it? – something strong, pungent, a bit yucky . . . lilies. Yes, definitely lilies.
Then I look down and see what I’m wearing.
Oh rats. Serves me right for thinking all of this was too good to be true . . .
‘I’m certain,’ I said firmly. Aunt Lizzie beamed. She pushed aside my homework where it was carelessly spread out all over our dining-room table and hugged me tightly.
‘You’re a very special girl, Cassie, I hope you know that.’
‘Mmm,’ I said, pulling away from her. The stench of perfume was getting to me too.
‘And if there’s anything you want,’ she said, dropping her voice so that my mother wouldn’t overhear through the half-open kitchen door, ‘you know, a treat, or money – well, anything, really, just let me know.’
‘There is,’ I said.
‘Name it.’
‘Pleas
e, please, please don’t make me bridesmaid. You’ll only put me in lemon-yellow chiffon.’
‘Done,’ she said, all aglow, suddenly delighted with life again.
‘Right, you’ve had your turn, over to me,’ said her friend Mary, plonking herself down on the dining chair beside me and sounding like an even bossier version of Penelope Keith from The Good Life. If that was possible.
‘Aren’t you going to say congratulations?’ Aunt Lizzie tossed at her, a bit smugly. ‘You know, bride-to-be and all that?’
‘Yes, congratulations, whatever,’ snapped Mary, sounding about as far from delighted as you could possibly get.
‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that?’
‘Don’t make me say it again, it hurt my teeth the first time.’
Now, at the time, I thought Mary was an ancient, wizened-up old crone, who always wore heavy, paperweight glasses with her hair scraped back into a bun, almost a caricature of the prematurely ageing schoolteacher, who’d remained a lifelong spinster, completely devoted to her students. In actual fact, though, she was probably only in her late thirties, tall, imperious and, as my mother used to say, ‘a bit highly strung’.
Put it this way, you sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to go into her class without your maths homework done.
‘So, he’s called James,’ she said to me, cutting directly to the chase. ‘But that’s pretty much all I have to go on, for now at least. He’s the new art teacher in the school and we shared a moment in the staffroom yesterday.’
‘What kind of moment?’ asked Aunt Lizzie.
‘Eye contact,’ replied Mary defensively.
‘Eye contact? That’s it? You only ever looked at him? You mean you haven’t even spoken to him yet?’
‘No, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop pressurizing me, Lizzie, thank you very much. I’m slowly building my way up to a conversation. My way.’
‘So, you didn’t talk to him, you didn’t exchange numbers and he didn’t ask you out?’
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘A classic case of girl doesn’t meet boy.’
‘Shh,’ I interrupted the pair of them. I was getting another flash and they were distracting me.
‘What do you see?’ asked Mary.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her, but oh boy, this was when I really hated my gift.
I can see Mary in the staff toilets, bawling crying in front of the sinks. Her mascara is dribbling down her cheeks and then . . . yes, there’s another woman there, holding Mary’s hand and telling her not to worry, that it’s his wife they should all be feeling sorry for . . .
‘What is it?’ Mary demanded, clocking my fallen face.
‘I . . . I don’t think he’s the man for you,’ I said slowly, ‘but—’
‘Oh, that is so UNFAIR!’ snarled Mary.
‘Yeah, well, so’s my cellulite,’ said Aunt Lizzie breezily.
‘Shh, gimme a sec,’ I whispered, waving at them to keep it down.
‘What? What are you seeing?’ the pair of them hissed at me.
Another flash . . .
It’s Mary, but this time she’s looking an awful lot happier. She’s wearing a pretty summer dress and is . . . definitely abroad, somewhere hot and sunny, sitting at a pavement café drinking funny-looking pink stuff, with a very tanned, swarthy-looking guy holding her hand and saying words I don’t understand . . .
‘Eres la mujer de mis sueños.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Aunt Lizzie.
‘Sounded like Spanish,’ said Mary in her bossy schoolmarm voice. ‘Repeat clearly, please?’
‘Eres la mujer de mis sueños,’ I said slowly, not having the first clue of what I was actually saying. It could have been something rude for all I knew. ‘There’s a man in a flowery shirt holding your hand and saying it to you, and I don’t think you’re in Ireland somehow. It’s hot and sticky and your nose is all red and peeling. All I’m sure of is that you’re very, very happy.’
Mary looked at both of us, like someone having an epiphany. ‘You are the woman of my dreams,’ she said, stunned. ‘That’s what it means. You are the woman of my dreams.’
‘Oh please, there isn’t a man alive who would come out with that drivel,’ snapped Aunt Lizzie, a bit put out at all her new-found bridal thunder being stolen from under her. ‘Have you been confiscating Jackie magazines from first-years again?’
‘I think . . .’ I said, not quite sure how to articulate this overwhelming feeling I was getting.
‘What?’ both Mary and Aunt Lizzie demanded in unison.
‘Well, the man I’m seeing is definitely single now, but he . . . well, he might have been married before.’
‘Ha! A divorcee,’ sneered Aunt Lizzie triumphantly. ‘Isn’t that a bit like drinking out of someone else’s wine glass? Or shopping in the “reduced to clear” rack?’
‘He must be Spanish,’ said Mary, totally ignoring her. ‘He has to be. And there was me only thinking about spending the long summer holiday in Catalonia—’
‘Will you pair stop pestering Cassie and let her get on with her homework!’ my mother screeched from the kitchen, as Mary and Aunt Lizzie scarpered quicker than teenagers caught smoking, leaving me quietly to get back to learning my spelling.
I should point out that, when all of the above happened, I was seven years old.
Chapter One
Twenty-one Years On
‘ASK CASSANDRA’
ALL YOUR PROBLEMS, SPIRITUAL AND
PSYCHIC, ANSWERED
You can write to Cassandra care of:
Tattle Magazine,
Tattle House,
Fleet St,
Dublin 2
Dear Cassandra,
I am your number-one fan. No, really. Well, me and all the girls in my class, that is. Well, except for my friend Amy who says psychics are just lucky guessers half the time, but don’t pay any attention to her. Ever since she passed maths, she’s turned into, like, such a know-all.
Anyway, I’m not messing, me and all the girls get Tattle magazine every Thursday and yours is the first column we all, like, read. So, to cut to the chase, here’s my question. I was at Old Wesley to celebrate getting the Junior Cert results last Saturday night and I met the man of my dreams. For def-in-ite. He’s in fourth year at Clongowes and he’s, like, sooooo yummy. So far we’ve been to the movies (once) and his house (also once) for a DVD, so I’ve seen him twice, had three phone calls and forty-two texts (well, forty were from me, but two were replies from him, like, so that’s still cool). And it’s not even a week till our anniversary next Sat, so it’s really only our half-week-versary, so I reckon he must be pretty knickers about me too. Woo-hoo!
I’m in lurrrrrvvvvve and my friends are all mad jealous. So, here’s my question, and please don’t laugh ’cos I’d be totally, like, MORTO. Is it possible to meet your future husband at fifteen? When will we get married? How many kids do you think we’ll have?
Thanks a million,
Lovestruck in Loreto College
PS: my friend Sinead wants to know if you have any psychic feelings on whether or not she’ll get back with her ex. I can’t write his name because he could easily read this and then Sinead would be, like, totally devo. She’s hardly eaten since he dumped her and now the jammy bitch is down to eight stone.
OK. FIRST OF all, there’s something I need to explain. I never set out to be a psychic. I mean, it’s not as if it’s a career choice you might make or anything. But, whether I like it or not (and most of the time, I don’t; it can get a bit embarrassing at times and, in spite of what people think, it doesn’t work for either lottery numbers or Grand National winners), the thing is that ever since I was a small child, I’ve been able to see things. Not all the time, I hasten to add; it’s not something that’s on tap twenty-four hours a day. But when it does happen, it’s so vivid and clear, it can be, well, a bit frightening.
In fact, scrap that, it’s terrifying.
You see, the thing I need to explain i
s . . . I’ve never yet been wrong. Not once, ever. Which, you’ll agree, as responsibilities go, is kind of a scary one.
Anyway, I’m sitting at my desk in Tattle magazine’s busy Dublin office, letter in hand, madly trying to channel something, when in bursts my friend Charlene.
‘Why, oh why, are people so mean to the hot?’ she says, theatrically dumping her Prada bag on to my desk (the real thing, no fake leather for this chick) and throwing one immaculately fake-tanned bare leg over the other.
‘Charlene, it’s only four-thirty in the afternoon. Shouldn’t you be rolling over for your second sleep?’
‘Ordinarily yes, except that I’ve just been fired.’
‘Not again?’
‘Apparently our esteemed editor didn’t like my last book review.’
‘The one where you said, and I quote, “No home should be without this book, even if it’s just to prop up a wonky table leg”? Charlene, is it any wonder she fired you? You told me you never even read the book.’
‘What can I say? It had a really boring title and, anyway, I had something better to do.’
I know I sound a bit unsympathetic, but the thing about Charlene is, she’s always losing jobs. All the time, always. In fact, it’s fair to say that she loses jobs the way the rest of us lose car keys. So far, on Tattle magazine, she’s been the restaurant critic (fired because she doesn’t eat fish, wheat, gluten, meat or pretty much anything that’s ever been fermented, except alcohol) and the theatre critic (fired because she walked out of a performance of Hamlet at the interval and made up the ending. She might have got away with that one, except that, in her infinite wisdom, she mistakenly wrote that all ended happily at the Danish court, as if it were a kiddies’ panto.)
Anyway, a couple of things you should know about Charlene:
She’s stunning, and I really mean stunning, to look at, kind of like Nicole Kidman except with spray tan, all Titian corkscrew curls and big saucer-blue eyes, with a figure so tiny and perfect, you’d think Disney drew her. However, low maintenance this lady certainly ain’t. The hair alone takes her two full hours every day, so she can achieve that I-just-fell-out-of-bed look, not to mention home visits from her colourist every thirteen days exactly to maintain her I’m-a-natural-redhead-cross-my-heart image. Charlene has also been know to fly her personal make-up artist to all corners of the globe at the drop of a hat so she can look baby-doll perfect at all times. Which brings me neatly to point number two.
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 1
