Jo, I should point out, has spent her whole day spearheading a campaign to stop the death penalty in China, where there’s evidence to prove that high profits from organs taken for transplant from the unlawfully executed might be an incentive for the government to keep capital punishment in place. She’s deeply concerned and is actually having sleepless nights about this. I, on the other hand, spent my day typing up my column, answering love queries from women (it’s rarely guys, believe me, and I’d conservatively guess that about ninety per cent of the questions I get asked are all relationship-based).
Oh yeah. That and fielding calls from Charlene, demanding that I speak to her/shop with her/go afternoon boozing with her on the grounds that she’s now my new agent. I tell Jo exactly what I’d seen the previous night, in glorious Technicolor. She’s a fabulous listener, and the minute I’m finished rambling, she reaches for a notebook and pen.
‘OK, let’s make a list and then whittle away at what’s worrying you, on a point-by-point basis.’
Lists, I should also tell you, figure very largely in Jo’s highly organized life. She’s always making them and I roar laughing at her, but she assures me it gives her a smug feeling of achievement every time she ticks something off, even if it’s only ‘Get up’, ‘Brush teeth’, ‘Remember to floss’. Lists and debates. Whenever there’s a topic on the floor for discussion, she’ll examine the pros and cons of each argument as forensically as Jeremy Paxman would on Newsnight. She’s just one of those people.
‘OK,’ I say, taking another slug of lovely, nerve-calming wine. ‘Jack Hamilton is – correction, could be – oh who am I kidding? – is, one hundred per cent . . . oh God . . .’ I almost drop the wine glass, the mental picture I’m getting of him at this moment is so pin-sharp, I can practically smell his aftershave. It’s almost like he’s standing right in front of me.
He’s tall, six feet, trim, jet-black hair and olive skin, but with deep green eyes, the most amazingly toned body I’ve ever seen on a man and a lovely, sexy, dimply smile that makes him look as if he’s distantly related to Michael/Kirk Douglas. And I think he’s in a car right now . . . I’m feeling him driving fast, but it’s only a short journey . . .
‘Jo, I haven’t even met him and already the physical attraction I’m feeling for him is . . . what can I say? Up until now, I thought I’d be perfectly happy just to settle for a guy with normal social skills, but this man . . . oh my God, this man is like the heterosexual Holy Grail. Come to Mama.’
‘Let’s leave emotion out of the equation for the moment and concentrate on the facts. Point one. You think—’
‘I know . . .’
‘Sorry, you know that Jack Hamilton is probably—’
‘Is definitely . . .’
‘Is definitely the first true—’
‘The first real true . . .’
‘Sorry, the first real true love of your life.’
‘Correct.’
‘OK. Point two. Your predictions have never yet been known to be wrong, so if you are right in your assumptions, then that brings us neatly to point three . . .’
We say it in unison. ‘He’s going out with Charlene.’
I look at Jo hopelessly but she carries on undeterred.
‘Point four. Much as we adore our dear friend Charlene, the Tipsy Queen herself, she has yet to have a relationship that lasts longer than her roots. Her boyfriends tend to have the same shelf life as a carton of milk.’
‘This is different. She’s deadly serious about this guy. I nearly gave myself an ulcer when I met her this morning, I was so terrified she’d ask me if I had any strong psychic feelings about him. Not about her and him as a couple, I mean, about just him as a person. I’d have had to tell her what I saw straight out. It’s an absolute miracle that she didn’t.’
‘Point accepted; she’s serious about him. Last week she was serious about giving up processed sugar. Next week, she’ll have moved on to something else. I love the girl dearly, but let’s just be searingly honest for a minute here. Focus and staying power are not exactly her strong suits.’
‘Jo, she’s so serious she went for a full Brazilian wax this afternoon. I had to hear all the gory graphic details when I was trying to work and believe you me, that is not a conversation you’d want me to repeat.’
‘Ugh, please, do you mind? That image is so distressing I want to go and exfoliate my eyes. I’m sorry, but I happen to find the idea of putting yourself through physical pain for the sake of beauty just so demeaning. Do you ever see guys torturing themselves purely to look good for the opposite sex? When I meet someone, I’m sorry, but it’ll be a case of love me, love my hairy legs.’
I choose not to get sidetracked into this particular discussion with her and top up our wine glasses instead. Not that I don’t enjoy debating with Jo, it’s just that right now I wouldn’t really be up to that level of concentration.
‘Well, I’ve barely been able to think about anything else all day. How I got my column delivered on time is nothing short of a miracle.’
‘I just thought of point five,’ says Jo crisply. ‘We have lumps of cheese lying at the back of our fridge that have been around far longer than some of Charlene’s boyfriends. Come on, Cassie, so she got there first. Big deal, fifty euro says she’ll dump him by the end of the week, have forgotten him by the end of the month and by the end of the year, won’t even care if you’re having his baby. This, after all, is the woman who broke up with her last boyfriend because he had a hairy back and a car that failed its NCT.’
‘I thought of that,’ I say, staring blankly into the crackling fire, ‘which brings me to my next question. Assuming that Charlene does dump him—’
‘I’ll take that bet,’ Jo chips in.
‘And assuming that free will doesn’t come into play . . .’
‘Explain?’
‘You know, that he doesn’t up sticks and move to the Outer Hebrides, then – Oh, how do I put this? – what is the statute of limitations on going out with a friend’s ex-boyfriend?’
We look at each other blankly. It’s virgin territory for both of us.
‘Well, I’d have no problem with you going out with any of the sad parade of losers that I ever dated,’ she says firmly. ‘And while we’re on the subject, can I just add that the thought of any of us clinging to the ghost of relationships past is completely abhorrent. That level of possessiveness over men, just because you used to go out with them, is just so demeaning to women. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course,’ I say, a bit worried now that this debate could go on into the wee small hours.
‘My point is that if a guy exhibited the same obsessive control over an ex-girlfriend, society would label him a stalker,’ Jo goes on, slowly warming to her theme. ‘Equality works both ways. Agreed?’
‘Agreed. My only concern is that none of my exes would be good enough for you.’
‘But then you never fancied them anyway, did you?’ she says, coming out of her Millie-Tant mode a bit and teasing me, which is a relief.
‘The thing is, this is Charlene we’re dealing with. You know what she’s like if you even borrow her shoes.’
‘Just thought of point six,’ Jo says, scribbling away on her notepad.
‘Shoot.’
‘Well, it’s obvious. You avoid contact with him at all costs. If you never meet him in the first place, then how can you fall for each other? Problem solved.’
‘Could be tricky. Charlene will wonder why I’m dodging her new boyfriend. Suppose she has one of her posh dinner parties so we can all meet him. Don’t you think she’ll wonder why I’m a no-show? Nope, there’s nothing else for it.’
‘What?’
‘I tell her out straight. Come clean. It’ll be tough, but at least it’ll all be out in the open. Now is the perfect time, before I’ve even met him.’
Jo is tapping her Biro against the notepad now, all of a sudden looking like she’s miles away.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘Don’t
you think that’s the best thing all round?’
‘Mmm,’ she says absent-mindedly. ‘I’m about to say an awful thing, but it would be on my conscience if I didn’t.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I just can’t help wondering if she’d do the same for you. How often have you thought there was a guy out there for you, Cassie? I’ll tell you how often – never. Not once, in all the years I’ve known you. And now here you are, convinced that there actually could be someone and what do you do? Walk away. You spend all day helping other people with their romantic problems and when the first smell of real love comes along, you run very fast in the opposite direction.’
There’s a silence as I try to digest what she’s just said.
And then my mobile rings.
Charlene.
Before answering, I let the phone ring in my hand for a moment, then turn to Jo. ‘I’m a great believer in signs from the Universe and here’s one right now. I’m going to tell her. Get it over with. Just stay here beside me in case it gets ugly.’
Jo just shakes her head as I answer.
‘Sweetie!’ Charlene trills. ‘I thought you’d never pick up! Oh, do I have the most fantabulous news for you!’
‘I’m really glad you rang,’ I say, trying to sound all casual and normal, ‘because there’s something I really have to—’
A disapproving look from Jo, but Charlene doesn’t let me get a word in.
‘I’m here with Jack now. Say hello, darling.’
‘Hi there!’ I hear him distantly, as if he’s driving and she’s just put me on speakerphone. His voice is deep, sexy. Like I knew it would be. And he’s Libra, I’m feeling, definitely Libra . . .
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ he says simply. ‘Can’t wait to meet you.’
‘And you,’ I say, trying to sound light and bright and breezy and not like a stammering schoolgirl, which is exactly how I feel.
Then Charlene comes back on. ‘As your brand-new agent, my darling, I’ve just got you your very first gig! Well, you know how Jack is from TV?’ she asks, making it sound almost as if he’s from another country. ‘Anyway, he had a free slot on the Breakfast Club tomorrow morning, all because of some soap-opera star I never heard of having a last-minute scheduling problem, so guess what? You’re the replacement!’
‘What did you say?’ My mouth is full of wine and I splurt some of it out, I’m so stunned.
‘You, my darling, who has practically been screaming to be on TV for years now, are finally getting your big break!’
‘Charlene, you have got to be joking, or let me rephrase, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE JOKING!’
‘Oh honey, there’s nothing for you to worry about. It’ll all be over in a few minutes, probably. And you won’t be on till well after nine-thirty so only housewives and the unemployed will be watching— Oops! Sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean that to come out like that, I’m sure you have a lovely audience made up of only the most discerning viewers.’
‘We’d really love to have you on,’ says Jack, coming on the phone again. Even at the sound of his voice, I swear my tummy is flipping somersaults. In my head, I’ve already cast him as a Baldwin brother. Billy, or Alec, maybe, when he was pre-Kim Basinger. You know, young, hot and really, really sexy . . .
‘It’s nothing really, just a quick chat. Think of it a bit like the interview section on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, except stretched out to ten minutes.’
I can’t help giggling. I knew he’d have a sense of humour, I just knew it . . .
Then Charlene comes back, putting on her best bossy schoolmarm voice. ‘Now just listen to me, Cassandra, this is a wonderful opportunity and only the start of big things for you!’
‘Charlene!’ I say, suddenly nervous. ‘I don’t think I can do this. I don’t know if I can go on television. There’s a strong possibility I could end up being a laughing stock for years to come.’
‘Too late, the deal’s done: Jack’s already put you into the programme schedule so there’s no backing out now. I’ll pick you up at eight!’
And, with a click, she’s gone.
Chapter Three
THE TAROT DECK
THE ACE OF WANDS CARD, INVERTED
Symbolizes a new beginning. It could be a business venture, a new work project or some other fortuitous, unlooked-for opportunity. All going well, you should prosper and do very well at whatever it is, unless of course the card is inverted, in which case it heralds bad news. The ace of wands then becomes a card of warning and the exact opposite will apply.
In other words, God help you, because you’re about to make a complete and utter show of yourself . . .
IN THE END, it’s Jo who talks me into it.
I sleep it out (surprise, surprise) and she comes walloping on my bedroom door to haul me out of bed and into Charlene’s car which, unbelievably, is waiting outside, punctual to the dot. (A limited edition Porsche GT, by the way, which she only drives when sober, invariably in the morning, before she heads off on one of her four-hour-long, girlie-boozy lunches.)
‘Jo, I’ll donate my entire next week’s wages to Amnesty if you go down there and tell her I’m not doing it, I can’t do it, I don’t want to do it,’ I say, groggily hauling myself up on to one elbow and squinting sleepily at Jo who, bless her, is plonking a lovely steaming mug of tea down on my bedside table.
‘Too late to back out now, I’m afraid,’ she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘The Tipsy Queen herself is downstairs with an armful of the most horrible-looking flowery dresses she’s brought for you to try on. God knows where she got them from. I wouldn’t even sell them at Oxfam.’
‘How horrible?’
‘Hyacinth Bouquet horrible. Barbara Bush senior horrible.’
‘Oh God, Jo, I sooooo don’t want to go through with this,’ I groan, slumping back against the pillow. ‘And believe you me, Charlene and her cast-off outfits are the least of my worries.’ Now that I’m fully awake, the overwhelming nervousness I’m feeling is nauseatingly unreal.
‘Oh come on, this could actually be a really good thing for you, Cassie. You’ve been given an amazing gift and it’s your duty to help people with it, isn’t it? So here’s a chance to help them on a much wider scale. Why would you not want to do that?’
I try to take a gulp of tea but am afraid it’ll make me throw up. ‘I dunno. In no particular order, one: sheer, paralysing terror. I’ve never voluntarily got up in front of an audience in my life, apart from the time I was at that awful play with you—’
‘Oh yeah, I’d totally blanked that out, the Reduced Shakespeare Company, wasn’t it?’
‘And there was audience participation and they dragged me up and made me be Ophelia.’
‘And you threw up, got weak and then passed out, in that order.’
I shudder just at the memory. ‘How I’m still not recounting that God-awful night on some psychiatrist’s couch somewhere is nothing short of a miracle. Number two, there’s the very real fear that I could make a total eejit out of myself, live on national television—’
‘You will NOT make an eejit of yourself.’
‘Jo, I regularly make an eejit of myself. I’ve hit my humiliation limit so many times, I should have T-shirts printed and coasters made. Or even upgrade to business-class humiliation. And let’s not forget point number three—’
‘You cannot avoid Jack Hamilton for ever,’ says Jo firmly, reading my thoughts with one-hundred-per-cent accuracy. ‘Besides, you’re the one who’s always saying that everyone has the power to choose between fate and destiny. Can’t you just decide not to fall for a guy?’
It’s an interesting point and now I’m actually kind of hoping Jo might turn this into one of her great debates. Anything to buy me a bit of time.
‘Mmm,’ I say, rubbing my eyes, ‘good one. Do we actually get to choose who we love—?’
‘Well, I for one refuse to believe what chick-flicks are constantly peddling to us,’ says Jo, not even letting me
finish my sentence, but then, this particular subject is something of a well-worn hobby horse for her. And don’t even dare get her started on the subject of the movies of Jennifer Aniston, her personal pet peeve. ‘All romance cannot be predestined. It’s just not possible.’
‘It’s not so much about predestination, it’s just that if fate has something specific in store for you, it can sometimes be incredibly difficult to dodge. But then, on the other hand, not a week goes by when I don’t write in the column that we’re all human beings with free will, not farmyard animals.’
‘There’s the Dunkirk spirit,’ says Jo, getting up briskly. ‘Now, are you going to lie there all day philosophizing, or are you actually going to get up?’
‘Yeah. Terrific. Great plan. That’s the answer. I’ll just keep telling myself over and over that if he’s not available, then he’s not available,’ I say, staring at the ceiling, repeating it like a mantra and making no attempt whatsoever to physically get out of bed.
‘Hmm. Not available for the moment. We’ll just see how unavailable he is in a week or so,’ says Jo, looking a bit disapproving. ‘Now, out of bed and hop in the shower, missy. Charlene’s in the kitchen downstairs and, I swear, it’s worth getting up just to feast your eyes on the sight of her trying to use our coffee maker.’
One lightning-quick shower and by the time I get back to my room, Charlene and Jo are standing in front of my full-length mirror, bickering over a pile of clothes that are strewn all over the floor. Charlene’s looking very businesslike today, with her mane of red curls tied back and wearing a beautifully cut Paul Costelloe trouser suit which I happen to know he gave her for free as a thank you, not only for being his bestest customer but for practically keeping him in business.
‘Just try it on, that’s all I’m asking,’ Charlene is pleading to poor old Jo, waving a revolting, garish, flowery dress with (I’m not messing) a corsage sewn on to it in front of her.
‘Charlene, if you don’t stop trying to change my image, I will go downstairs, open the oven door and personally shove your head in. I’m not a girlie girl and I never will be.’
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 5
