I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  We’ve all known him for years, ever since Charlene first converted a room in her house into a personal gym and then hired him to train her there, four times a week. He slags her off something rotten though, saying that the only reason she won’t use a public gym is so that no one will see her (a) sweaty and (b) without full make-up.

  ‘Are we still on this?’ says Charlene from the armchair across from us, sounding, if possible, even more pissed than I feel. ‘You broke up with a guy you went on three dates with, one of which involved him sitting through your spinning class, so that doesn’t even count. How long since you saw him?’

  ‘Four full days,’ says Marc with a C.

  ‘And how long since final contact?’

  ‘One text from me yesterday, to casually remind him about a fitness assessment we had scheduled, which he chose to ignore.’

  ‘Tell the truth.’

  A pause.

  ‘OK, seven texts. And before you judge me, just remember you had a fringe in the 1990s.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetie, but it’s hardly a tragedy.’

  ‘Cassie, I want you to ignore the Tipsy Queen over there,’ he says, ‘and just tell me if you see a knight in shining Armani in my future. I don’t ask for much out of this life, all I want is to be in a deep, committed, loving relationship, for . . . ooh, I dunno, about a week or so.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ I say, slurping away on a half-empty glass of champagne, all thoughts of my deadline gone right out of the window, ‘but I’m never able to see things when I’m a bit over my limit. You know, like the way you can’t drive or operate heavy machinery when you’re pissed, you can’t make psychic predictions either. Sorry, hon.’

  ‘Yeah, now drink your dinner and leave her alone,’ laughs Jo, my best friend and flatmate. ‘Cassie’s not a performing seal that turns tricks on demand. Besides, the week’s only just started; you know perfectly well you’ll be back in the saddle by the weekend, you big manaholic. Try walking in my shoes for a bit and you’ll appreciate how good you have it. Humpback whales do it more than me.’

  ‘Congratulations, Jo,’ says Charlene from where she’s now slumped into her armchair. ‘I think you just found the title for your autobiography.’

  Everyone cracks up laughing and we order another round. Tonight’s turned into one of those completely spontaneous evenings that are always far more fun than anything planned and I’m so glad Jo’s popped in for a few drinks on her way home from work.

  Let me tell you a bit about Jo. She’s probably as different from Charlene as you can get, both physically and personality-wise. Sharper than a chilli finger poked in your eye and smart as a whip, she’s dry-as-a-bone funny, the sort of woman who should be awarded a black belt in tongue-fu. Honestly, she can have you doubled over with some of her one-liners, although God help you if you find yourself on the receiving end of her merciless teasing, as Charlene frequently does. Looks-wise, she’s small and naturally pretty with croppy light brown hair which I cut for her (badly) as she point blank refuses to set foot inside a hairdresser’s until Tibet is free. To give you a quick mental picture, if ever they were casting for a Jodie-Foster’s-little-sister type, then Jo’s your woman. A fundraiser for Amnesty Ireland, she’s also hard-working, intense, disciplined, deeply passionate about human rights and with a social conscience that Nelson Mandela would be proud of.

  Put it this way: whereas Jo’s personal belief system is that the lack of political will to regulate the arms trade is a major contributory factor to the abuse of human rights in the world, Charlene’s is that if Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie can’t make peace, then what possible hope is there for the Middle East? Jo spends her Saturdays doing voluntary work in our local Oxfam; whereas Charlene believes that wearing second-hand clothes can give you hepatitis. Generous to a fault, Jo would give you her last red cent whereas Charlene practically makes you leave your driver’s licence if you dare to borrow anything belonging to her. Two full rooms in her house are devoted to her clothes, which are categorized according to season/day and season/night (not to even get started on her shoe collection, which is stored in a separate walk-in closet approximately the size of our living room), whereas poor old Jo still has the same battered pair of jeans she’s been wearing for about five years now.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love them both dearly, but you couldn’t find two women more diametrically opposed to each other, although Jo still has a sort of crusading zeal to reform Charlene. (Without much success; so far she hasn’t even managed to get her to switch to coffee with the Fairtrade logo.)

  Anyway, back to the Odessa bar.

  ‘Do you realize,’ says Marc with a C, sighing, ‘that for the first time since I can remember, all four of us are single at exactly the same moment in time?’

  ‘Oh great, thanks so much for that inspirational thought,’ snaps Charlene. ‘Now I have inner peace. I think you are all aware of my personal goal.’

  ‘To find a husband before you turn thirty,’ says Jo dryly. ‘Yes, we know.’

  ‘Correction, a rich, suitable husband,’ Charlene fires back, a bit narkily. One of her trust-fund-babe friends just got engaged last week and it’s really annoying her. ‘I mean, what is wrong with me? Look at me, for God’s sake. If I was a man, I’d marry me.’

  ‘Oh, will you stop being such a drama queen?’ says Jo. ‘You’ll only make me pretend to cry. Now can we please get off this subject? This conversation demeans women.’

  (Oh yeah, this is a phrase Jo uses a lot. She’s very politically correct, something you have to remember when you’re in her company; although most of the time we tease her about it and nickname her Millie, short for Millie-Tant. Gettit? She’s a good sport though, and is well able to laugh at herself.)

  ‘Besides, that still gives you nearly two full years, same as the rest of us,’ says Marc with a C helpfully.

  ‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ I say, taking another gulp of champagne, which immediately goes straight up my nose, making me cough and the others giggle. ‘What is the big deal about getting married anyway? Have you any idea how many letters I get from desperately unhappy women stuck in miserable marriages, all wanting to know if there’s some light at the end of the tunnel? I’m telling you, girlies, you’d need a heart the size of a marble not to feel sorry for them. I’d far rather be on my own than in a rubbish relationship, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘In a word, no,’ says Charlene primly. ‘If the noughties have taught us anything it’s that our mothers’ generation got it all wrong. They tried feminism and discovered they couldn’t have it all, so if it comes down to a choice, then the minute I get the ring on my finger, I choose to be a happily married, stay-at-home domestic goddess. What’s the problem with that?’

  ‘Sweetheart, may I remind you that you use your fridge to keep eye creams in and your oven for storage,’ says Marc with a C and we all laugh.

  ‘By your upward inflection, I’m guessing that you meant that remark to be funny, but . . . no,’ she throws right back at him.

  ‘Charlene, whatever you do, don’t move out of that chair,’ says Jo, teasing her. ‘I think you may just have stumbled on a portal right back to the nineteen fifties.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘In your eyes, the whole feminist movement was just something that happened to other people, wasn’t it?’ Jo is almost needling her now, sensing her weak spot and going in for the kill.

  ‘Excuse me, Josephine, what is so wrong with me wanting to do the wifey thing?’

  We’re all a bit high on the champagne now and it’s making Charlene defensive and Jo argumentative. Happens a lot with this pair, but it’s fine, I’m well used to refereeing between them. And invariably they’re back to being best buddies five minutes later. Honestly.

  ‘She doesn’t mean anything, Charlene,’ I say soothingly. ‘It’s just that up until now your domesticity has been limited to the sowing of wild oats.’

  ‘So, we’re all single,’ says Jo, matter-of-factly. ‘Big fat
deal. I’m certainly not going to lose weight worrying about it. I’ve been on enough crap dates to last me for a lifetime.’

  ‘Besides, we’re only twenty-eight,’ I say. ‘Sure we’ve years of crap dating ahead of us to look forward to.’

  ‘Sorry to break up the party, everyone,’ Charlene says, abruptly standing up, still in a bit of a snot, ‘but I need the bathroom.’

  That’s another thing about Charlene; she can’t use a public loo and always has to take taxis home whenever she needs to go.

  ‘Her Majesty has spoken,’ says Jo. ‘If she decrees the night is over, then guess what? So be it.’

  ‘Josephine, are you aware of the health hazard that public toilets can be?’

  ‘No need to get your training bra in a twist, Charlene, I’m merely pointing out that—’

  ‘OK, OK, OK, my darlings, in that case, I have a cunning plan which cannot fail,’ says Marc with a C, tactfully skating over the ding-dong that could erupt at any minute between the other two and putting on a ham-actor baddie voice. ‘I wouldn’t hear of letting you go home on your own, Charlene sweetie, so why don’t we all come with you, have a drinkie while you tinkle, then come back here and go to the nightclub downstairs? Odessa is just such a hotzone at the moment. It’s a one-hundred-per-cent target-rich environment, if you get my drift. So whaddya say, ladies?’

  There’s a pause as we all look at each other, weighing up who’s up for more devilment and who isn’t. All eyes eventually settle on me, as normally I’m the first to cave in to any messing that’s afoot.

  ‘Sorry, guys, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to count me out,’ Jo says eventually, stretching and yawning. ‘I can’t drink another bite. Besides, I’ve a fundraising meeting at eight a.m. tomorrow so no can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m going to call it a night too,’ I say to catcalls of ‘Fader! And who are you going to meet sitting in your kitchen at home? Come out husband-hunting with me!’ and Charlene’s favourite catchphrase, ‘Come on, Cassie, surrender to the random.’ ‘Oh, guys, I’d love to go on with you but I really have to behave . . .’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure we can’t twist your rubber arm?’ says Marc with a C with a mad glint in his eye. ‘Remember, honey, you’re only hot once.’

  ‘Ooh, it’s so tempting but . . . no. At this stage, I’m not just late for my deadline, I’m flirting with disaster and I still have sooooo much work to do . . .’

  ‘Fine, suit yourself,’ he says, fumbling with his jacket. ‘Go home to a nice cup of Darjeeling and a HobNob. Stay single. See if we care.’

  Now, I’m way too tired and tipsy to do any actual work tonight, but . . . oh, what the hell, I figure as we all drunkenly stumble around looking for bags and coats. I’ll just get up early tomorrow and I can still make it. Really early, like six a.m.

  Yes. Great plan. If I go straight home now, I can easily be up by six.

  Well, OK, maybe seven.

  Anyway, as I said, unlike Charlene I can’t afford to lose my job.

  All four of us jump in a cab which drops Jo and me back to the dotey little townhouse we share and then takes the other two on to Charlene’s mansion on Millionaires’ Row, as we’ve all nicknamed it, in the poshest, leafiest and most exclusive part of town (a twenty-first birthday present from her father, no kidding). Jo and I stagger upstairs, drunkenly hug each other goodnight and five minutes later I’m tucked up in bed, out for the count.

  Now, a wise man once said that the difference between fate and destiny is that while fate is the hand of cards we’re all dealt at birth, destiny is the way you play them. In other words, everyone always has a choice. Call it free will if you like, but people like me can advise till the cows come home and say, ‘OK, here’s what’s around you at the moment and here’s what’s likely to happen,’ but at the end of the day, everyone has the option to jump on a flight to the Outer Hebrides and start a new life there in the morning, if they so choose.

  That’s why I have to be so careful. When I tell people what I see, I always stress that it’s in everyone’s power to change their own future, at the shake of a lamb’s tail. Example: I had to choose whether to continue all-night partying with the others and I decided not to.

  At four a.m., I shoot up in the bed, suddenly wide awake. I’m seeing what’s happening in the Odessa, right now, as clearly as if I’m there. And I know with absolute certainty that what I’m seeing will alter the course of my life for ever . . .

  Chapter Two

  THE TAROT DECK

  THE TWO OF CUPS CARD

  Signifies the happy couple. A new love will appear, possibly within the next two weeks. If you are single and looking for romance, this person could well turn out to be your soulmate.

  On the downside, though, he might be involved with another, in which case you will have to spend the rest of your life knowing that the love of your life is with someone else and that, basically, it’s your own tough luck, because, hey, she got there first . . .

  ONE OF THE reasons why Jo and I live so well together (we’ve been sharing this house for four years now and still not a single cross word) is that we’re both not just single, but serially, chronically single. I honestly don’t know why in Jo’s case, she’s so smart and sharp and funny, except maybe that she feels it’s not right even to think about getting into a deeply committed relationship until Third World debt has been cancelled. Put it like this: if someone with a social conscience along the lines of Bono/Bob Geldof/the newly single Paul McCartney were active on the Dublin dating scene, they’d be her perfect match.

  My problem, surprise, surprise, is a tad more embarrassing.

  I see the end coming, ages before it even happens and, in the interests of self-preservation and not having my heart smashed, usually choose to cut my losses and get out quick. It’s a sad and sorry admission, but at the grand old age of twenty-eight, I honestly don’t think I’ve ever really been in love. You know, like movie love. The kind of love that makes you finally get what James Blunt has been warbling on about all this time.

  On the plus side, though, I have at least managed to stop seeing my single status as a big neon sign that I couldn’t get it right and keep reminding myself that I just haven’t met the right one . . . yet.

  Don’t think I haven’t been a brave little tryer, though.

  Take, for instance, the last guy I dated, all of a year ago. I was knickers mad about him and exhibited all three classic signs of a woman in love: (a) I couldn’t eat, (b) I couldn’t sleep and (c) I went out and bought all new underwear.

  We hadn’t been together all that long before we planned to go to Paris for a romantic, getaway weekend. I’ll never forget it; I was rummaging around Charlene’s fabulous walk-in closet (no kidding, it’s so huge, you’d need an overnight sleeper just to get to Narnia), filching handbags and shoes for the trip, delighted to have got a special dispensation from her to actually borrow stuff. Suddenly I got one of my flashes. Clear as you like, I saw myself sitting on my suitcase at the Air France check-in desk, alone, bawling crying and clearly stood up.

  Needless to say, that was the end of that. Nor could I even tell the guy the real reason why I wanted to break up with him (‘I had a premonition and now I want out’ just sounds so made up) so, in the end, I gave him a load of drivel about how I wanted to concentrate on my career and be on my own for a while and blah, blah, blah, none of which he even remotely believed, but I still figured anything would be better than ending up alone and crying and dumped at an airport.

  Ho hum. Nothing for it then but to put a brave face on it, trot out my time-honoured, face-saving catchphrase and just get on with life.

  I never fancied him anyway.

  Trust me, if you say it often enough, you eventually start to believe it.

  Besides, as Jo pointed out at the time, when she was weighing up the cost/benefit analysis of him as a boyfriend (every best friend’s unwritten duty) in retrospect, the guy had all the charm and charisma of a flesh-eating Ebola vi
rus.

  Bless her; I think she meant to cheer me up.

  Then, before him, I briefly dated a guy I met at Marc with a C’s gym, a gorgeous-looking Matthew McConaughey-type solicitor who texted me one night to say he was working late in his office with a client, only for me to get an immediate flash of him in a nightclub, at that very moment, wrapped around the same very young, very pretty, very blonde ‘client’.

  Needless to say, very soon I found myself single again, but it was absolutely fine. I never fancied him anyway.

  But there is a lesson here: never, ever, ever lie to a psychic. Really bad plan, on every level.

  Then, before him, there was James. Alas, poor James. In the early days, I genuinely believed that my luck had changed and that I had finally, finally met a D.S.M. (decent single man). When I first met him, I’d just read an article in Tattle magazine about how, just before you go on a first date, you should tell yourself that you’re not looking for a soulmate, only a potential friend. Apparently this is supposed to take the pressure off and stop you from dwelling on the possibility of babies with the guy before the waiter has even had a chance to bring the pepper and parmesan.

  Anyway, he invited me to his flat for dinner and, hey presto, my new attitude worked like a charm and we started seeing each other and I liked him and my friends liked him and even my mother liked him and it took me weeks to finally put my finger on what was wrong with him.

  He never, ever, ever took me out in public. Or introduced me to his family and friends. I had become almost the girlfriend equivalent of a capsule wardrobe; kept on a hanger labelled ‘for sex and fun’, but always worn on my own and washed separately. On the rare occasions when we were walking down a street together, he’d behave almost like he was on the witness protection programme, and on one occasion, when I had the temerity to suggest going away for a weekend together, he looked at me as if I’d just fouled the pavement. I was always there for him, but always kept conveniently in the background. As far as he was concerned, I was as handy as Sky Plus. Or a ready meal. Or a wrap-over dress.