I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  I don’t hesitate for a single moment longer. I pick up the phone and dial.

  Chapter Six

  THE TAROT DECK

  THE HIGH PRIESTESS CARD

  Signifies that a wise woman of keen intelligence and understanding will be close at hand, counselling you, advising you, looking out for you. She is more than likely to be an old soul, deep and conscientious, with a rare talent for understanding people and their motives. This amazing woman is in your corner, one hundred per cent behind you, with no other purpose than to guide and steer you away from trouble.

  So you’d better make bloody sure that you listen to her . . .

  ‘NO PRESSURE ON anyone, it’s all going to be very relaxed and informal, just a typical, normal evening in the mansion. A typical black tie normal evening, that is. And, of course, a sit-down dinner. I think you’re all aware that I’m allergic to buffets.’

  It’s only lunchtime on Saturday and already Charlene has gone into introduce-the-new-boyfriend-to-everyone-I-ever-met-in-my-entire-life overdrive.

  ‘Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘tonight’s the night when Jack will realize that I have an undisputed reputation as a CH.’

  ‘Celebrated hostess,’ Marc with a C chips in, correctly interpreting our blank expressions, as we all finish up brunch, or our bi-monthly bitch-brunch as he insists on calling it.

  ‘Hold on one second,’ Jo thunders across the table at her. ‘Does Jack Hamilton actually realize that he’s going to be centre stage in some sort of sick parade ring for the night, with everyone gawping at him? Or maybe you’re actually physically trying to drive the poor guy away? Could that be your cunning master plan?’

  ‘Josephine, I’ll have you know I’m operating a watertight schedule here. If I want to be married by thirty, then I need to get engaged this Christmas, because, number one, I want to be a fiancée for as long as I can. I mean, everyone knows all they do is have parties thrown in their honour whilst getting showered with fabbie-dabbie gifts. And number two, it takes a minimum of two years to book a wedding – at least, the kind of five-day extravaganza that I’ll be hosting, Liz Hurley eat your heart out. Try to keep up, will you, sweetie? This is hardly advanced maths.’ Charlene smiles sweetly back at her.

  ‘My God, you’re like some kind of heat-seeking romance missile. And how, might I ask, does Jack feel about a fancy, posh dinner party being thrown in his honour barely a week after you even met him?’

  Charlene looks a tiny bit shifty and her freshly exfoliated face starts to blush a bit, which eagle-eyed Jo instantly picks up on.

  ‘Oh, I do not believe you. You haven’t even told him, have you?’

  ‘Now don’t be cross, but you see, the thing is . . . well, I didn’t want to scare him off. He thinks he’s popping in for a glass of wine and a slice of pizza on his way home from work.’

  ‘Poor Jack Hamilton,’ says Jo, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I never would have thought it possible that I’d feel this sorry for someone I haven’t even met yet. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have a heart attack on the floor of your one-hundred-thousand-euro conservatory.’

  ‘Besides, can I remind you that you’re still only twenty-eight?’ I say, munching on a Danish and, if the truth be told, hoping we can get off this subject, which is starting to make me feel a bit queasy. Fat chance, though, as Jack has pretty much been Charlene’s sole topic of conversation for the past few days. It’s almost as if, now that she doesn’t have the bothersome distraction of a job to go to, she’s channelling all of her considerable energies into her quest to become a bride. And I’m going to have to go to this bloody dinner tonight whether I like it or not. There’s just no way out of it.

  That is, not unless I think of something, very, very fast . . .

  ‘Quite apart from the fact that you’ve only just met him, what’s the mad rush?’ I add lamely.

  ‘I’m one hundred per cent with the girlies on this one,’ says Marc with a C, who’s looking very fetching today in a black Lycra Spandex all-in-one gym suit, which leaves next to nothing to the imagination.

  ‘Please, not girlies, women,’ Jo interrupts him. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Sorry, Millie-Tant. Excuse me for breathing. Of course I meant to say women. Anyway, let’s face it, Charlene, I’ve seen you let good men go and bad men stay. And the ones in the middle, you’ve been mean to. So can I just be frank here, please?’

  ‘Only if it ends up with me getting what I want,’ says Charlene, looking angelic.

  ‘Will you please tell me what’s so special about this one? What makes you think that Jack Hamilton is a keeper?’

  Jo shoots me a tiny, barely perceptible look.

  Needless to say, neither of us has breathed a word to Marc with a C about the flash I had/the whole Jack Hamilton situation. We jointly decided that, in this case, discretion is most definitely the better form of valour, mainly because, much as we love Marc with a C dearly, he’s genetically incapable of keeping anything to himself. Even labelling something as ‘highly confidential’ is absolutely no use; that just means he’ll only tell one person at a time.

  ‘Because I’m a romantic,’ Charlene says a bit defensively, ‘and he just is, that’s all there is to it. And when the happy day comes when each of you meets THE ONE, you’ll know just the way I do. A woman’s instinct is never wrong.’

  ‘Would that be the same instinct that chose those shoes?’ says Jo.

  ‘Shut up, you. Look, so far, of all my friends, Jack has only met Cassie and look how well that turned out for all concerned. When I called him last night all he could talk about was Cassie this, Cassie that. All his big plans for her TV slot, which as we know, is largely down to me.’

  Another glance from Jo, which only makes me redden even more.

  ‘But I want him to meet you guys as well as my other, shall we say, less economically challenged friends,’ Charlene goes on, luckily not noticing that I’ve turned the colour of gazpacho. ‘And I want him to see my humble abode slash mansion. The theme of the night, people, will be L.A.M.B.’

  ‘L.A.M.B.?’ we all chant in unison.

  ‘Yeah. Look at my billions.’

  Jo shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Charlene, I know the cornerstone of your whole belief system is that there’s very little money can’t buy, but a husband?’

  ‘Jo has a point, babes,’ says Marc with a C, nodding in agreement. ‘Apart from the night you met, and the morning you took Cassie into the TV studio, may I point out that not only have you not slept with him, you’ve only been on one date. Which was a quick drink, entirely arranged by you, so that doesn’t really add up to much, now does it?’

  ‘Kindly clarify, please?’ says Charlene, playing with a long Titian coil of her hair. It’s a characteristic gesture of hers, whenever she feels the rest of us are ganging up on her and she knows, deep down, that she’s in the wrong.

  Marc with a C sighs as if he’s trying to explain quantum physics to a six-year-old. ‘Everyone knows that one dinner date equals three drink dates, which in turn equal half a dozen coffee dates. So you do the maths, sweetie.’

  ‘If I give you money, will you stop talking?’

  ‘Now, don’t get angry with me, babes,’ says Marc with a C, cool as a breeze. ‘You look older when you’re angry.’

  ‘My Lycra-clad friend here has a point,’ says Jo, with just the teeniest glance in my direction.

  ‘Not Lycra, on a point of order, this is Spandex actually,’ he replies, snapping the fabric off his thigh. ‘And if we ever manage to get off the everlasting subject of Jack Hamilton, I need you all to tell me honestly whether or not you think I’m gaining weight. I feel beaten into this like a blood sausage. Why oh why can’t I be manorexic?’

  ‘Sorry to have to spell it out to you,’ says Jo, completely ignoring him, ‘but let’s be brutally honest here. Jack isn’t exactly jumping in feet first like you are, now is he?’

  ‘Thanks so much for that, moment-stealer,’ says Charlene, making a winced-up fa
ce at the direction this conversation is taking. ‘Could you back me up here, please, Cassie? Seeing as how you’re the only one who’s actually met my boyfriend?’

  Shit. I’ve got to think of something fast. Something that won’t upset her but at the same time sounds vague and non-committal and might, just might, get her to cancel or at least postpone tonight . . .

  Yes. Got it.

  ‘Well . . . emm . . . what’s wrong with taking things nice and easy?’ I say, doing my best to sound supportive in a casual, disinterested way, if you know what I mean. Bloody hell, it’s like walking a tightrope. Over a minefield. During an earthquake. ‘After all, you don’t want to put pressure on the guy, do you? He gets enough of that in work, I’d say. Why not have this big, scary, formal dinner another time? Down the line, I mean, maybe in a few months, you know, when you know each other a bit better.’

  Charlene looks at me a bit funnily. ‘You’re not getting any flashes about Jack, are you?’ she asks me directly and I swear I want to crawl under the table and die.

  There’s a horrible pause and they’re all looking at me and I just catch Jo’s eye and see her shaking her head and silently mouthing ‘no’.

  ‘Because, if you are,’ Charlene goes on slowly, ‘under no circumstances are you to tell me. I don’t want to know. Number one, it brings dating bad luck and number two, you’re the one who’s always saying we choose between fate and destiny, aren’t you? So Jack Hamilton is my destiny and I’ve chosen him, whether the Universe likes it or not.’

  There’s another pause while it sinks into the rest of us. Shit. She’s serious. Deadly serious.

  But that’s just fine, I hastily remind myself. After all, what have I done wrong? Nothing. All I’ll be doing is working with him. That’s it. All above board with absolutely no hidden agenda. Yes, he’s attractive, but then so are loads of other fellas. We all have control of our own fortunes and, while wishing Charlene the very best of luck, I choose to stay as far away from this icky situation as I possibly can.

  Great. All I need to do is keep saying that over and over and I’ll be absolutely grand. Now if there was only some way I could get out of going to this God-awful dinner tonight . . .

  ‘OK, darlings,’ says Marc with a C, ‘time for me to say BFN, bye for now.’

  ‘But you can’t just leave, sweetie,’ says Charlene pleadingly. ‘I absolutely, positively need you to come back to the mansion and help me for this evening. I’m totally relying on you.’

  ‘Help you?’ says Jo incredulously. ‘Charlene, you have a maid, a housekeeper, a full-time cook and a butler. And on top of that, you’re probably hiring caterers in for the night. What help could you possibly need?’

  ‘I need help getting into my outfit,’ she replies, not looking even vaguely embarrassed about it. ‘It’s a basque. Vintage Vivienne Westwood. And besides, my staff never tell me the real truth about how I look, like you guys do. And I’m tired of relying on digital cameras all the time.’

  Jo rolls her eyes to heaven but says nothing.

  ‘Oh, come on, pleeeeese?’ says Charlene, batting the eyelids at Marc with a C. ‘I mean, otherwise, what’s the point of having a gay best friend if you won’t help dress me?’

  ‘OK, OK, you emotionally guilted me into it,’ he says, getting up to go. ‘I’ll call round early and be your personal dresser, if that’s what it takes for you to get a husband, O girlfriend with an agenda. One condition, though: after I’ve finished kitting you out, I’ll need enough time to dash back home and put on my Tanfastic. Last time I went out without my false tan on, some smartarse asked me how much I charged to haunt a house.’

  ‘Where are you off to in such a rush?’ I ask him, faux-casual, as he gathers up his stuff to leave, hoping against hope that we can talk about something other than Jack Hamilton. Middle East politics, the price of oil, the state of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s relationship, for the love of God, anything. ‘You haven’t even told us your week’s news yet.’

  ‘I’m taking my granny to the beauty salon for a wash and blow dry.’

  ‘Marc with a C, I am so proud of you,’ says Jo, beaming. ‘I always knew there was a caring, civic-minded, upright member of the community inside you, just bursting to get out. Maybe when you’re done at the hairdresser’s, you’d like to pop in to help me at Oxfam for the afternoon? I could always do with an extra pair of hands.’

  ‘Ehh . . . bit of a crossed wire here, Jo,’ he says, looking a bit embarrassed. ‘It’s just that there’s a hot hot hottie from the gym who takes his granny to the salon every Saturday too and I was kind of hoping to bump into him. And you know how I’m still healing from my last disastrous liaison, so as I always say, if you wanna get over someone, get under someone.’

  ‘Come on, Jo, I’ll give you a hand,’ I say, taking a last gulp of coffee and reminding myself of the soul contract I made with the Universe that if I got my gift back, I’d help her out every Saturday and not moan.

  ‘Good girl,’ Jo says appreciatively as she throws us all our bags and coats, which are strewn around the table under us.

  ‘Sweetie, do you mind not manhandling my bag?’ Charlene says to her. ‘That’s a limited edition Hermès Birkin. I had to go on a waiting list for it.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, it’s a handbag, not a hospital bed,’ says Jo, dumping it unceremoniously on the table in front of her.

  ‘Right then,’ sighs Charlene, slinging it over her shoulder, ‘I’m off to meet Anna Regan for a snipe of fizz. I want a second opinion about Jack from someone who tells me what I want to hear. And to work out a table plan for this evening, naturellement.’

  Marc with a C, Jo and I all shoot panicky glances at each other. There’s an awkward pause. It’s a known fact that none of us can stand Anna Regan, who is probably the richest, snottiest and most spoilt of all Charlene’s trust-fund-babe pals. And that, believe me, is really saying something.

  ‘She’s going to be there?’ says Marc with a C dismally.

  ‘Of course, why wouldn’t she be?’ asks Charlene innocently. ‘And her . . . fiancé.’ She’s barely able to get the word out. ‘And all of her gang.’

  ‘So why are you asking us then?’ Jo demands. ‘You know how we feel about her and you know the way she looks down her nose at us. Are we part of some poor-friends outreach programme you’re running or something?’

  Then it hits me. Finally. The one amazingly simple, clear-cut way to get all of us off all hooks. Especially, if I’m being really honest, me.

  OK, so maybe not a brainwave worthy of Stephen Hawking, but it’s the best I can come up with under pressure.

  ‘You know, Charlene,’ I say, ‘none of us will take the slightest offence if you want to keep tonight just, ehh, wealthy pals. You know, friends who can talk about their limited-edition sports cars and ski trips and houses that cost millions, all of that stuff. It might be better all round. I mean, Jack can meet up with us any time, can’t he? For a coffee or a drink or . . . something a bit less formal. More relaxed and low key. Not to mention cheap. None of us will take the slightest offence if you want to leave us out. Honestly.’

  Brilliant. I’m officially a genius. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?

  ‘Fab idea, love it, great, let’s do that,’ Jo and Marc with a C almost sing together, both looking at me very gratefully.

  ‘Sorry, honey, too late,’ says Charlene firmly, getting up to go. ‘I’ve already given a final guest list to my housekeeper. Besides, I think you’re all aware of the lengths I’ll go to for even seating.’

  ‘I really couldn’t feel sorrier for Jack Hamilton,’ Jo says for about the tenth time, as she, Marc with a C and I share a taxi on our way to Charlene’s that evening. ‘Anyone care to place a bet on how long the poor unfortunate will last tonight?’

  ‘No takers, honey,’ I answer dismally, absolutely dreading the night ahead and only hoping the three of us can leave as early as possible without it seeming rude. Like the minute the dessert course is ov
er or something – that would be OK, wouldn’t it?

  Oh hell, who am I kidding? It’ll be midnight at the earliest before we can scarper. Last time Charlene had one of her excruciating dinner parties, the guests arrived so late it was well after eleven before the main course was even served. And, just for the record, by ‘main course’ I mean yet more champagne, which is mostly what her pals seem to live off. Charlene, in her defence, is well able to put away a burger and chips with the best of us, but her friends appear to survive solely on weeny bits of lettuce with shavings of cheese. Apparently all you’re allowed to eat if you’re a bona-fide trust-fund babe.

  Besides, I remind myself, let’s face it, I am going to be working with Jack for the foreseeable future. So I’d better start getting used to nights like this, hadn’t I?

  ‘Can I please get something off my chest? Something that sounds incredibly disloyal, but would be on my conscience if I didn’t say it aloud?’ Jo says slowly.

  ‘Go ahead,’ says Marc with a C. ‘I’ll try not to judge you. Besides, every time I do, you all remind me that I used to work out to Milli Vanilli.’

  ‘I know Charlene is our friend,’ says Jo, ignoring him and looking deadly serious. ‘But, Jesus, at times like this she really, and I mean really, drives me nuts. I can put up with all her superficiality, I can put up with her complete and total self-absorption, all I’m saying is that there are times when she really pushes it a bridge too far. Viz, tonight.’

  ‘I know just how you feel, sweetie,’ says Marc with a C, patting her knee, ‘and you all know there’s nothing I love more than a good old-fashioned bitch-fest, but friends love each other unconditionally and that’s what we all have to remember.’

  ‘Besides, she does have a heart of gold,’ I add. ‘If you scratch deep enough.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Jo sighs. ‘If you scratch deep enough, you can see her . . . right the way down to the surface.’

  ‘Remember the time I broke up with Greg from the gym because he didn’t call me for three weeks and then when we did meet, he reintroduced himself as if he didn’t even remember who I was, and to save face in front of everyone I had to say, “Oh yes, Greg. I seem to remember an answering machine that went by that name,” just to avoid the public humiliation?’ says Marc with a C. ‘She was such a support to me after that. Flying me to the Bahamas in her dad’s private plane and everything. You know, so I could heal my wounded heart and get a tan at the same time.’