And if the Universe lets me cut a deal and sees fit to give me my life back, I will start helping Jo out in the charity shop at weekends. And not moan about it, like I normally do. And generally become a much better, kinder, more philanthropic member of society who gives free psychic readings in old folks’ homes in my spare time . . .
Oh for God’s sake, who am I kidding? I can’t just cut a deal; this is the Universe, not the Mafia, I’m dealing with.
‘Surely after all these years I don’t need to explain to you how valuable my time is?’ The Dragon Lady is still ranting down the phone. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you think it’s OK to keep me waiting for twenty-five minutes? When, as you well know, I have zero tolerance for unpunctuality in any form?’
Must be her accountant or her bank manager, I’m thinking, God help them. Although a tiny part of me wishes I could be as assertive as that next time I’m looking for an extension on my overdraft.
I come back down to earth as she winds up her call.
‘Right. Well, thanks for nothing, Mum, and I’ll see you for lunch on Sunday as usual.’
Bloody hell.
OK, deep breath and remember, I’ll do my level best to plead with her but if I am for the chop, I’m determined at least to leave here with my dignity intact. I will not let her bully me or reduce me to tears, if it’s the last bloody thing I do. I’ll save my tears for the dole queue.
‘So, Cassandra,’ she says, kicking off her horrible, chunky, sensible shoes and putting her feet up on the desk. I attempt a watery smile. ‘It’s very hard for me to compliment you on your television performance this morning since, as you are no doubt aware, your column personifies everything I resent in the print media.’
Now, although this is fabulously rude, it doesn’t actually come as a surprise, mainly because, for as long as I’ve worked for the Dragon Lady, which is . . . oh, years now, she has always told me straight to my face that astrology, palmistry, clairvoyance and basically everything that I write about are a complete load of dog poo. In her opinion.
(She would think that, though, because I happen to know she’s Virgo with Saturn as her ruling planet, which means she was bound to end up really cynical and disbelieving about anything remotely spiritual or other-worldly.)
‘However, I do know about selling magazines and for whatever dim-witted reason, readers seem to actually enjoy “Ask Cassandra”.’
‘Emm . . . well, emm . . . thanks. I suppose.’
‘Normally I tell my journalists what to write about, but with you I can’t. You’re an unknown quantity and I don’t particularly relish dealing in unknown quantities. However, people buy Tattle to read you and although personally I don’t get it, I can’t argue with it either.’
Am I hearing things or did that actually sound like a backhanded compliment? From the Dragon Lady? No, I must need my ears testing . . .
‘So all I’ll say about your TV debut this morning is, the duck took to water.’
I’m not imagining things. That actually sounded . . . OK. Quite nice, in fact. Didn’t it?
‘Oh right. Ehh, thanks. So, emm . . . I’m not in any kind of trouble then, am I?’
She looks at me as if I’m a few coupons short of a special offer. ‘Oh please, where do you think you are, boot camp? All I’m saying is, I know the media and how it works and, based on your performance this morning, I’d be astonishingly surprised if they don’t want to have you back on that show.’
Bloody hell, she should be the psychic, not me . . .
‘So. Am I right? Cassandra? Hello? Are you still in the room? Not having some out-of-body experience, or anything, I trust?’
‘Oh sorry . . . Well, actually . . . emm . . . well, you see, the producer did mention something about that, but I didn’t say yes or no . . . In fact, I didn’t give him any kind of answer . . .’
‘So here’s my question. Are you deserting us for the bright lights of television? Or to put it more bluntly, do I need to go out there and start hiring another psychic? Because if it’s a question of matching an offer that a TV company is making you, you need to let me know. Tattle magazine will not want to lose Cassandra.’
I’m actually beginning to feel a bit dizzy now. This is unbelievable. Not only am I not fired, I might even end up getting a pay rise out of this? Incredible. ‘Thanks so much . . . emm . . . Amanda, I really appreciate the . . . ehh . . . vote of confidence. As I said, though, I haven’t accepted any other offer, and to be honest with you . . .’
Bloody hell, good luck finishing that sentence, Cassie.
What am I supposed to say? To be honest with you, oh mighty Dragon Lady, I don’t think I’m in any position to accept any career offers seeing as how, in the last couple of hours, my gift seems to have completely deserted me?
‘You could do both, you know,’ she interrupts. ‘I see no reason why you can’t continue with your column as normal and do the odd TV appearance. Publicity for the magazine, publicity for you, a decent TV slot for them. Just think about it.’
Her phone rings again and I take this as my cue to leave.
‘Let me know what you decide,’ she barks at me, ‘and I’ll square things with the publisher. Shouldn’t envisage any problem with you appearing as “Tattle magazine’s Cassandra”, though. This seems to be one of those rare situations where everyone’s a winner.’
‘Emm . . . thanks, thanks very much, emm . . . Amanda,’ I stammer as I try to stand up. Which is easier said than done, as my legs have completely gone to jelly underneath me.
And then the miracle happens. The woman in my letter. I’m on my way out of the door when I get a clear flash.
She’s going to write a self-help book describing what she’s been through and how she coped with her awful break-up. It’s going to be a bestseller, a publishing phenomenon, a sort of bible for any woman who’s ever loved too much. It’ll be snapped up. Oh for God’s sake, this is amazing! I can even see the book’s title.
‘I Love You, But Don’t Push Your Luck,’ I blurt, accidentally out loud, on my way out the door.
‘What did you say?’ says her royal Dragon-ness, looking at me in that way she has, which makes me feel as if I should be committed.
‘Oops, ehh . . . sorry about that, just a letter I’ve been working on, that’s all.’
She rolls her eyes, goes back to her phone call and, I swear, I practically float back to my desk on clouds of sheer, unadulterated relief. Everything’s going to be just fine. I’m not unemployed and I’m not unemployable. I can still see things. Gift intact.
Sir Bob saunters over to me, looking a tad concerned. ‘Everything all right, old thing?’
‘Couldn’t be better, Bob.’ I beam back at him, fishing around my desk for the letter so I can scribble out my reply. Quickly, while I still remember what I saw. After what happened this morning, I’m not taking any chances.
‘Jolly good, glad to hear it,’ he says, smiling back at me and really looking reassured on my behalf, bless him. ‘Oh, before I forget, my dear, I took a telephone message for you while you were, shall we say, otherwise engaged. From reception downstairs. Apparently there’s someone waiting to see you so I said you might pop down as soon as you were free.’
‘Thanks, Bob,’ I say, half wondering who it could be. Jo? No, it’s too early for lunch; besides, I’ve already arranged to meet her at the vegetarian place we always go to, which is about the only place she’ll actually pay to eat in. Otherwise she just makes tofu sandwiches and we’ll eat them sitting on a park bench. Charlene? No, Charlene waits for no one; she’d just barge up here unannounced. Marc with a C is definitely doing fitness assessments, two divorcees this morning, I distinctly remember him telling me.
‘I wrote the name down for you, somewhere, oh yes, here we are,’ says Bob, handing me a slip of his monogrammed notepaper, covered in his beautiful copperplate handwriting.
I almost fall over.
‘11.30. Message for Cassandra. Gentleman waiting to see her dow
nstairs. A Mr Jack Hamilton.’
Chapter Five
THE TAROT DECK
THE KNIGHT OF CUPS CARD, INVERTED
Well, woop-di-doo for you. A handsome man will appear, possibly with an intriguing offer, which, initially, will dazzle you. This man could well be the total package, a warm-hearted soul, charismatic, deeply talented – oh, and did I mention incredibly good-looking? He brings joy and fun and will have you holding your sides laughing at some of the things he’ll come out with. For a single gal to pick this card signifies that he could well become a lover in time.
If you’re lucky and the card is the right way up, that is.
However, if the card is inverted, then it becomes a card of warning. Tread carefully. You might just look back on this guy and realize he was about as welcome as a fungus. Basically, he’s out of your league, honey; he’s out of bounds and you’d be well advised to move on and not get sucked into this particular Vietnam . . .
JUST AS WELL I haven’t got a lip gloss in my bag, I think as I stand nervously sandwiched into the back of the crowded lift as it shoots downstairs. I mean, I don’t want to look like I made any kind of effort. Why would I do that? He’s probably just popped by to . . . to what? Say thanks for this morning? To find out why I legged it out of there like a scalded cat? To (gulp) talk about the offer he made me?
OK, it is absolutely essential that I stay very cool and calm and remember at all times that Charlene is my friend. End of story. If he wants to talk business with me, fine, grand, I will be an absolute model of professionalism. The main thing is (a) I haven’t lost my column and (b) it was a close call, but, thank God, I can still see things and am not about to be propelled to the back of a dole queue.
Deep, calming breath.
The lift door glides open and there he is, sitting at reception flicking through a newspaper, looking all relaxed and casual. He spots me immediately and is straight over, shaking me warmly by the hand and making direct eye contact in that way he has which is just so magnetic and warm and . . . appealing.
‘Hi, Cassie,’ he says, a bit shyly.
‘Hi . . . emm . . . Jack.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping by your office? Please don’t think I’m stalking you or anything. I just wondered if we could have a quick chat? If you have time, that is.’
‘Ehh . . . yeah. That would be . . . emm . . . fine.’
Oh, well done, what a fab response. God, I should have been a speechwriter at the White House or somewhere really big and important. My witty dialogue would completely change people . . . from awake to asleep, that is.
‘It’s just that you left the station in such a rush, we never got a chance to talk properly. You practically left a glass slipper lying on the steps behind you.’ He smiles kindly. ‘All we were short of was a clock chiming midnight and a squashed pumpkin in the car park to complete the picture, you know.’
‘Oh . . . ehh, yes, well, I’m very sorry about that, but . . . I had to get back to work as quickly as possible. Meet an important deadline, you know?’ I say, trying my best to sound all serene and professional. As if meeting deadlines is a perfectly normal feature of my day, ahem, ahem.
‘Great, good for you. Oh, is it OK if we go to Starbucks?’ he asks politely. ‘It’s just that after a show I’m always in need of a caffeine hit the approximate size of Mount Rushmore.’
‘Lovely.’
Just stay nice and cool. Just remember that I’m not only über-confident, I’m also deeply relaxed and calm. Zen-like, you might almost say.
We head inside the coffee shop and lo and behold, there’s a free table by the window which I grab while he goes up to order.
OK, Jack Hamilton. So, you’re cute but you’re not that cute. Yes, in fairness, I freely admit that the body is fantastic, but you just walk past any building site in the city and you’ll see biceps just as tanned and toned on any builder. Oh, you know the type, the sort of guys who think vests should be worn as outerwear.
Come off it, Cassie, who do you think you’re kidding?
This guy could be a body double for Alec Baldwin, easy.
Nice cleansing breath.
I’ll be absolutely grand just as long as I keep reminding myself that he’s Charlene’s boyfriend. And Charlene is my friend. My great friend. My friend who I’ve been through thick and thin with.
Right, great, good plan. I’ll just keep repeating that like a mantra and I won’t go too far wrong. I’ll keep introducing her name into the conversation every chance I get, just so he’s aware of how close she and I are.
In no time at all he’s back, plonking two yummy frothy cappuccinos down and sitting right opposite me, doing his direct-eye-contact, you-are-the-only-woman-in-the-room thing. And I’m not joking; the eyes really are the colour of pure green emeralds.
Come on, cop yourself on, Cassie. Repeat your mantra . . .
‘Look,’ he says, smiling warmly, ‘first things first. Everyone back at Channel Seven has been raving about how amazingly well you did this morning. My God, you were like some sort of psychic caped crusader.’
I take a sip of coffee and giggle.
‘You should be out there fighting crime. The last time I saw our phone lines hopping like that was the time we gave away two free tickets to the World Cup final.’
‘Thanks . . . emm . . . So where’s Charlene?’
He looks at me, a bit taken aback at my . . . well, bluntness. ‘Charlene? Oh, her car got clamped and she said she was late for a very important meeting . . .’
With her eyebrow-waxing lady, I’m thinking, although, out of loyalty to my pal, I say nothing out loud.
‘. . . so I suggested she grab a bus but she refused to. She said something about how she never uses public transport because it should be like the way it is in Brief Encounter but never is.’
‘I know, isn’t she fab?’ I say staunchly. ‘I managed to get her on to a bus once and she said the last time she’d been on one, there were actual conductors.’
‘I did ask her what she was up to for the rest of the day and she said breaking in her new Manolo Blahniks.’
I gamely laugh at this, as if Charlene was only winding him up, although if the truth be known, she was probably being deadly serious. ‘Isn’t she hilarious? I just love her. She’s so amazing. I often think there’s no one in the world quite like our Charlene.’
I manage to stop myself short of coming out with, ‘It’ll be a lucky man who gets her,’ on the grounds that they have only known each other for a few short days and let’s face it, I’ve a rash on my arm I’ve had for longer.
Jack just smiles and gets straight back to the point. ‘Look, the thing is, I’ll be the first here to admit that—’
‘Do you know that Charlene and I have been friends since we were six years old? We met in primary school. And she hasn’t changed a day, you know, in spite of everything the poor girl has been through.’
OK, you need to shut that big mouth of yours right now, Cassie. It’s early days, so why would she have mentioned anything about family skeletons to Jack? If you’re going to yak on, then concentrate on her other wonderful qualities, quick . . .
‘Anyway, what I mean is, she’s still the same warm, wonderful person that she always was . . .’ I trail off, hoping he doesn’t pick up on my awful indiscretion. Which, luckily, he doesn’t.
‘Oh. That’s great to hear. But you see I really wanted to talk to you about—’
‘And she’s such great fun to be around. Don’t you agree? I mean, isn’t she just great, great fun? Even sitting in the back of a taxi with her is an adventure, I always think. She’s one of those rare people that the more you get to know her, the more you love her. Dunno what I’d do without that girl.’
OK, maybe now you need to tone it down a bit, you’re starting to sound like some crazed Jehovah’s Witness. Or maybe he’s thinking that you’re gay and have a long-standing secret lust for Charlene yourself.
‘Ehh, Cassie?’ Jack says, lo
oking at me like I’m only an olive short of a pizza.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m aware of the fact that you and Charlene are good buddies, but I’m actually trying to offer you a contract here.’
‘Oh. Right. Sorry, I’ll shut up,’ I say in a small voice, thinking, did he just say ‘contract’?
‘Anyway,’ he goes on, still smiling, ‘as I was saying, when it comes to anything remotely, you know, mind/ body/spirit, the best thing I can do is admit that I know what I don’t know – which is pretty much, well, nothing.’ A pause. ‘Well, no, actually, that’s not strictly true,’ he corrects himself, taking a sip of coffee. ‘I would have heard of the Dalai Lama by way of Richard Gere and past life experiences by way of Shirley MacLaine.’
I giggle and have to consciously order myself not to keep staring at the dimple on his chin which is just the cutest thing . . .
‘But I couldn’t tell you what my star sign is.’
Libra, I’m silently betting. ‘When’s your birthday?’
‘October the fifteenth.’
‘Oh, then you’re a Libra.’ I smile.
OK, so Libra is my five-star perfect astrological match in Western astrology, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it? Our Chinese animals could be diametrically opposed . . . ‘What year were you born?’ I ask innocently. ‘If it’s not too personal a question.’
‘Don’t laugh. Nineteen seventy-four. I know, I look older, but that’s what the stress of a TV career does to you. As you’ll find out in due course. I hope.’
Seventy-four, seventy-four, seventy-four . . . oh shit and double shit. Only the bloody Chinese year of the Tiger. My astrological equivalent of six numbers on the National Lottery. My perfect, perfect five-star match.
OK. Time to repeat my mantra: Charlene is my friend and he’s going out with her . . .
‘Look, Cassie, we really want to have you back on the show. On a regular basis, maybe starting next week,’ he says hopefully. ‘You just name your terms. Whatever day you want, whatever time slot, you just let me know what suits. I want the Breakfast Club to be the first TV show with its very own resident psychic and can I just say one thing to you?’ He leans forward, locking eyes with me, and I swear my tummy does an Olympic-gold-medal-standard backward somersault. ‘You have a fantastic personality which practically jumps off the TV screen, you look stunning and, based on this morning, the audience seem to love you. You’ve tapped a vein, you really have. Up until now, I would have had an image of anyone remotely mystical as being . . . well, no offence, but a lot older than you, and a lot greyer with, emm, maybe a crystal ball, a few teeth missing and an outstretched hand saying, “Cross my palm with silver.” Not a super-hot babe like you. So in short, Cassandra, you are the answer to my prayers.’
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 10
