I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Don’t be so ratty, you’re the one who hasn’t changed her look since we did the Leaving Cert,’ says Charlene defensively. ‘Here am I only trying to help and you’re just so ungrateful. Honestly, Josephine, I feel like sticking my finger in your coffee only I’m afraid I’d lose an acrylic nail.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sure you must need those for climbing up trees and warding off predators.’

  ‘You’re only jealous, but surely you know me well enough to know that I take all forms of jealousy as inverted compliments. Oh, look, it’s our resident TV star.’ Charlene beams at me as she clocks me padding in behind them, still wrapped in a towel. ‘Help me out, will you, sweetie? Here’s our darling Jo, screaming for a makeover and all I’m getting is a torrent of dog’s abuse.’

  ‘Leave me out of your squabbling, girlies,’ I plead, rummaging around in my wardrobe for my good Armani jeans and a crisp white Zara shirt that I’m pretty certain I washed last week. From bitter experience, I’ve learned to keep well out of the way when Jo and Charlene are at each other’s throats. It’s a very regular occurrence and I’m just not feeling well enough this morning to referee between the pair of them.

  ‘Josephine, it’s not often I compliment you,’ says Charlene imperiously, ‘but it’s just that underneath that’ – she pokes at Jo’s chunky-knit, bum-and-thigh-covering jumper – ‘you have the rack of an angel and the waist of a fifteen-year-old just waiting to be unleashed. So why do you insist on going around dressed like a refugee?’

  ‘Because I don’t care about the way I look,’ Jo almost shouts back at her. ‘There are far more important things in this world than appearances. I’m actually comfortable in my own skin and I just wonder if you can say the same. Now can we please change the subject? This conversation demeans women.’

  ‘I’m only trying to help. You’re like the ultimate challenge for me to make over. I look on you kind of like the dowdy sister I never had.’

  ‘One more crack like that and I’ll drag you downstairs and wash your mouth out with cheap wine.’

  ‘You’d have far more success with men if you reinvented a bit. Just look at me and learn by osmosis. May I point out that I am the only one in this room with a bona fide boyfriend?’

  A hint of a glance from Jo, which only makes my tummy churn even more. Jesus, I think there’s a very real chance I might be sick . . .

  Charlene goes on: ‘What I’m trying to say is that the only living person who changes their look more than me is Madonna.’

  ‘The only reason you reinvent is to compensate for your short attention span,’ says Jo. ‘Now get that flowery thing away from me and throw it over there, in the suck pile.’

  ‘Oh drama, drama, drama,’ snaps Charlene, deeply put out and beginning to get a bit upset, ‘and FYI? This dress is not some flowery thing, as you choose to call it. This happens to be vintage Versace.’

  ‘Great. Well, can you donate it to Oxfam? I’ll be sure to put it in our vintage crap section.’

  ‘Jo . . .’ But Jo’s on a roll and there’s no stopping her now.

  ‘Where did you buy it, anyway? The same shop Jordan goes to for all her clothes? You know, where the more money you spend, the worse you end up looking?’

  ‘Actually, that dress was Mum’s,’ Charlene says simply.

  There’s a long, long pause.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jo eventually says in a small voice, looking mortified.

  ‘OK. You weren’t to know.’

  ‘It’s, emm . . . Well, on second thoughts, it’s not actually that bad. Emm, the dress, I mean.’

  ‘Jo, please. You don’t have to do this. It’s fine. Really.’

  ‘Oh come here, you daft lass,’ says Jo softly, pulling Charlene to sit down on the bed beside her and hugging her tight. ‘Sorry for being an insensitive cow.’

  Charlene lets herself be hugged, looking absolutely tiny and frail and vulnerable. ‘It’s OK. I’m used to you.’

  ‘Are we still buddies?’

  ‘Course. Although there are times when I don’t know why I hang around with you. The ingratitude . . .’

  Charlene has a bit of a glint in her eye now, which Jo immediately picks up on and starts teasing her again, except more gently this time.

  ‘You hang around with us because we keep you normal. Ish.’

  ‘I know. Anyway, this conversation demeans my wardrobe, I suppose,’ says Charlene, doing a very accurate impression of Jo at her most Millie-Tant.

  A quick smile at each other and the tropical storm has blown over.

  ‘So, Cassie, what do you think about wearing the Valentino skirt— Oh my God, honey, are you OK?’

  The minute they notice me, like lightning they’re both over to where I’m now slumped against a chair, head between my knees, frantically gulping for air.

  ‘It’s only nerves, that’s all, I’ll be fine in a minute,’ I say, trying to convince myself as much as the pair of them.

  ‘You’re not a bit fine,’ says Jo, really concerned, ‘you’re as white as a sheet. Stay right there and I’ll grab you a glass of water.’

  ‘Charlene, I’ll make a deal with you,’ I say, slowly feeling the blood coming back to my head.

  ‘Whatever you say, hon,’ she says, patting my wrists and loosening the top button on my shirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘This is what they do on ER. Trust me, I watch a lot of medical dramas.’

  ‘Look, I’ll come in the car with you and go as far as the TV studios, but if I still feel like this when we get there, I’m chickening out. Deal?’

  She mightn’t look too happy about it, but then she doesn’t exactly have a choice. ‘Deal,’ she eventually agrees, with a big bright smile. ‘Hey, I’m your agent and you’re my star. Got to keep the talent happy, don’t I?’

  Channel Seven isn’t too far from our house, and by the time we get there I’m actually starting to feel a little better. This is mainly due to the fact that (a) while Charlene is busy on her mobile telling everyone she’s ever met in her entire life that I’m about to go on TV, the one person she can’t get hold of is Jack Hamilton. This makes me secretly hope against hope that I’ve hit the karmic jackpot and some eleventh-hour domestic/ personal/medical crisis has kept him out of work for the day. Also, (b) I managed to root out a bottle of Rescue Remedy from the depths of my handbag and am now taking huge, calming gulps of it, dispensing with the dropper-thing altogether. If this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.

  We drive past security and, although there’s loads of parking, Charlene pulls up right in front of the main entrance, in a space clearly labelled ‘Reserved for the Director General’.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say. ‘Actively trying to get clamped?’

  ‘Don’t be like that, you’re still a bit weak and you need minding. Oh and besides, I’m in my favourite suede Manolos and there might be puddles. Like them, sweetie? On a cost-per-wear basis they practically paid for themselves, but I still can’t walk in them.’

  I’m just not up to arguing with her, so we park, hop out and head, or in Charlene’s case, hobble, towards TV reception.

  ‘Morning, ladies! Are you here for the Breakfast Club?’ asks a smiling, friendly receptionist. ‘If you want to pop up to the make-up room, I’ll tell Lisa, the stage manager, to find you there. It’s just upstairs, first on your right.’

  And still no sign of Jack Hamilton, which is driving Charlene nuts, but helping me and my nerves considerably.

  My phone beep-beeps as a text comes through. Marc with a C, wishing me luck, bless him.

  HI MY LOVELY. B UR FAB SELF. HAVE THE TV ON IN THE GYM AND WE R ALL GLUED. HOW R THE BUTTERFLIES?

  ‘Ugh, butterflies?’ says Charlene, clinging to the banister rail as she limps upstairs. ‘Butterflies in my tummy are always a tell-tale symptom that I’m afraid of losing a guy and, let me tell you, Jack’s phone being off isn’t exactly inspiring confidence right now.’

  I’m actually beginnin
g to breathe normally now. This mightn’t be too bad. This, I might just be able to pull off . . .

  We head into the make-up room, where a guy with orange fake-tan-gone-wrong and lime-green trousers that really shouldn’t be seen either in daylight or outside of a dance floor bounds over to us.

  ‘Oh my Gowwd, you must be Cassandra!’ he says, waving a make-up brush with intent. ‘I know I must sound like one of those losers that meet William Shatner at a Trekkie convention, but I am just sooooo thrilled to meet you!’

  We all shake hands, he sits me down and immediately starts pampering me, which makes me feel even more relaxed, although I do wince slightly when Charlene refers to herself as my agent. It makes me feel a bit high-maintenance and I-go-nowhere-without-my-entourage-in-the-manner-of-Liza-Minnelli-ish, whereas all I really want to do is slip out of here, slink home, go straight back to bed and stay there, with my head well under the duvet, for the rest of the day.

  ‘I just love your column,’ says orange-fake-tan guy, vigorously lashing foundation on me, ‘you’re the main reason I buy Tattle magazine these days. Well, apart from all those fabulous dish-the-dirt photos they have of celebrities walking the streets without make-up, looking like total crap. I get through my day so much better knowing that I’m marginally cuter than Matt Damon when he’s caught off guard.’

  ‘Oh, emm . . . thanks, that’s good to hear.’

  ‘First time on TV?’

  ‘Yup. And to say I’m nervous would be a major understatement.’

  ‘Walk in the park, baby. Oh, I am going to have you looking so fabulous. Wish everyone I had in my chair had your cheekbones, it would make my job so easy. Hey, Joanie!’ he says, calling over to Joan Davis, a well-known newsreader I instantly recognize, who’s sitting in the chair opposite me having her hair blow-dried. ‘Honey, you won’t believe who I have sitting here! Only Cassandra, you know, the Cassandra from Tattle magazine!’

  ‘Oh wow! I’m such a big fan,’ she says, waving at me and shouting over the dryer.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ I say, hardly able to believe that an actual celebrity has heard of me.

  ‘Are you here for the Breakfast Club?’

  ‘If I manage not to pass out or throw up first, yes.’

  ‘You’ll be absolutely brilliant. Best of luck.’

  ‘Thanks. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you’re leaving here to go over to the BBC soon, aren’t you?’

  She immediately gasps. ‘Oh my God, can you see that in my aura?’

  ‘Emm, no,’ I mumble, a bit embarrassed. ‘I read it in the Star.’

  ‘Now, if you happen to see anything about me and my ex,’ says fake-tan man, still all bright and bubbly, ‘you will tell me, won’t you? No pressure, but we’ve just broken up and you know how there’s always, always, always a contest with any recent ex called “Who’s the happiest and who looks the best”, versus “Who’s put on two stone and who’s going to die alone and miserable”.’ He’s laughing but there’s something forced about it. ‘Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m fine about the break-up, absolutely tip top; I mean, it was very much a mutual decision, no question, but I just wondered . . .’

  OK, I’m not actually sure whether he’s protesting too much or if all his high-octane, in-your-face babbling sets me off, but before I know where I am, I get a flash.

  It’s him, fake-tan man, but, no, he’s not a bit fine at all. Far from it. I can see him lying in an unmade bed alone, cradling himself, rocking from side to side, with an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the bedside table and an overflowing ashtray stuffed with butts. He looks hollow, baggy-eyed, thin and frail and the feeling of absolute desolation I’m picking up from him is almost overwhelming . . .

  ‘Are you OK, love?’ he asks. ‘You’ve gone very quiet. Nerves, huh?’

  Please let me see something good ahead for this guy, I’m thinking as he lashes the mascara on to me, still yapping away. Something, anything positive, please, please, please.

  ‘Emm, yeah. Nerves. That’s all.’

  Shit, come on, Cassie, you must be able to pick up something.

  Meanwhile, Charlene is punching impatiently at buttons on her mobile phone. ‘Ugh, Jack, for the love of God, will you please turn your bloody phone on? Call yourself a producer and your phone’s switched off?’

  ‘Are you trying to call Jack Hamilton?’ asks fake-tan guy in surprise. ‘ ’Cos, honey, you’re wasting your time till we’re off the air.’

  ‘Well, do you think someone could take me to him?’ says Charlene, effortlessly switching on her best little-girl-lost voice. ‘Or maybe just let him know that his girlfriend is here? Please?’

  No kidding, she uses the GF word without even batting an eyelid.

  ‘Sure, I can do that for you, not a problem,’ says a bright, bubbly girl who’s just bounced into the make-up room, wearing a headset, combat jeans and a vest. She looks so young, you’d wonder if she’s even left school and she introduces herself as Lisa, the stage manager. ‘You must be Cassandra. Lovely to meet you,’ she adds, warmly shaking hands.

  ‘And you.’

  ‘It’s great to have you on. Nothing to worry about, you’ll be fab.’

  She waves over at Charlene, who’s now gone on to another call, making an appointment for her personal eyebrow-waxing lady to call out to her house later. Charlene completely blanks her, but then politeness towards strangers isn’t exactly her strong point.

  ‘I try not to talk to the little people,’ she once let slip, ‘because before you know where you are, they’re calling you by your first name and taking all sorts of liberties. That’s how the French revolution started, you know.’ She was pissed, but we haven’t forgotten and regularly slag her about it. Jo nicknamed her Marie Antoinette after this and every now and then throws the odd French word in her direction to annoy her and makes loads of gags about letting people eat cake. It never fails to get a rise out of her.

  ‘OK, our future TV star is good to go, hot to trot,’ says fake-tan man, whipping the make-up gown off theatrically.

  He’s done an amazing job on me; it’s done my confidence the world of good and I really can’t thank him enough.

  ‘All down to good raw materials,’ he says, cheerily waving us off. ‘Now, the very best of luck and remember you’ve absolutely nothing to be nervous about!’

  Lisa is just leading Charlene and me out of the door when suddenly, miracle of miracles, a flash comes.

  ‘On a beach,’ I tell him with absolute certainty, ‘it’s all going to happen for you on a beach.’

  ‘What did you say?’ says fake-tan man, all ears.

  ‘Your next relationship will start on a beach. There’s a party and everyone’s wearing Hawaiian shirts and drinking cocktails. He’s foreign, I think, olive skin, dark eyes, very athletic. It’s going to happen soon too, within . . . about six weeks. I can see it. Trust me, your days of drinking home alone are numbered.’

  Oh shit, did I just say that aloud? I wouldn’t want him to think I’d seen, well, what I saw.

  ‘Oh my GAWD, you’re just amazing,’ he says, bounding over to me and hugging me tight, really, genuinely touched. ‘I’m getting straight on to that internet to book the cheapest foreign holiday I can find. Eeeeek!’

  ‘Gotta move, people,’ says Lisa, tapping her wristwatch.

  ‘I’ll let you know when it happens!’ fake-tan man calls after us as we trundle downstairs, absolutely delighted with himself. ‘I’ll write to you care of the magazine!’

  Amazingly, I’m actually feeling all right by the time we get to the studio door. Cooler, calmer. No nausea, which is always a plus. And still no sign of Jack Hamilton which is an A plus plus.

  This is fine, this is . . . do-able.

  ‘Just be yourself and you’ll be grand,’ Lisa says, squeezing my arm encouragingly and holding open the studio door for me.

  I take a deep, calming breath and am about to step through when suddenly Charlene snaps her phone shut and seems to notice Li
sa’s presence for the first time.

  ‘Oh, hi there,’ she says, smiling angelically. ‘So do you think maybe now you could take me up to wherever my boyfriend is? Please? I suffer from an incredibly low patience threshold.’

  ‘First of all I need to get Cassandra settled,’ Lisa replies curtly. ‘Secondly, you need to switch your mobile off.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be cross. I absolutely had to make that call, it was a dire emergency. Do you think these eyebrows just wax themselves?’

  ‘And lastly, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to wait here. Apparently some idiot went and parked in the Director General’s space and now I have to pop outside to troubleshoot.’

  It’s pitch dark when we go into studio and Lisa whispers to me to watch out for the cables strewn all over the floor. A sound man with headphones strapped to him comes at me from nowhere and clips a tiny microphone to my shirt, silently giving me the thumbs up as if to say, ‘Good luck.’

  ‘They’re just wrapping up the last item, then we go to a quick commercial break, then you’re on,’ hisses Lisa, gently steering me over to a monitor so I can see what’s happening.

  Now, you mightn’t believe it, but I have occasionally been out of bed in time to see the Breakfast Club. Well, it’s kind of hard to avoid, as it goes out six days a week. Anyway, I’m able to recognize the two presenters immediately. One’s called Mary and the other is Maura and they operate kind of like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Good cop/bad cop, that type of thing.

  Mary is comfortably settling into middle age, warm, welcoming and with an almost motherly manner, whereas Maura is younger, sharper, brittle and caustic, with a bone-dry sense of humour, usually at the poor hapless guest’s expense. You wouldn’t think it, but the combination of two such polar-opposite personality types actually works and the Breakfast Club is one of Channel Seven’s biggest audience-pullers.

  ‘So anyone watching who fancies giving their home a nice bit of an upgrade, just remember, it needn’t cost the earth,’ says Mary, beaming into the camera. ‘And what do you call this lovely piece we have here?’ she asks a tall, lanky guy with his hair in a ponytail, who I can only presume is an interior designer. He’s proudly swaggering around what looks like the Tardis from Doctor Who in the middle of the studio floor, but it turns out to be one of those stand-alone shower cubicle thingies, perched precariously on a granite-stone dais.