Marc with a C chickened out too, claiming he had a fitness assessment he’d clean forgotten about. But he’s no actor, and I think being as hungover as a dog, coupled with getting to bed at six a.m. following the party, might just have had something to do with it as well.
Anyway, as I say, Jo wrote out one of her super-duper, über-organized lists for me and it went something along these lines:
Reasons for Cassie to be cheerful, optimistic and positive instead of getting herself into a right tizzy, like last time, about the TV show
The small matter of a signed, sealed contract. So unless I actually want to be sued and end up bankrupt and homeless, I’m going on. (Jo made this particular argument very forcefully, pointing out the laughing stock I’d be and the field day the papers would have. You know, headlines like ‘DAFT PSYCHIC FAILS TO PREDICT OWN DRAMATIC DOWNFALL’. Ugh.) So, a TV slot beckons, whether I like it or not.
If I’m being honest, half of me does like it, very much. I hasten to remind myself that up until I blanked out the last time I was on, I was really enjoying the whole experience. It was actually fun. Seeing things and helping people. I mean, isn’t that what I do for a living? Course it is. Jo’s absolutely right, time for me to toughen up a bit. Get practical.
On these grounds, I have therefore made an executive decision that the whole Jack Hamilton situation is a force completely and utterly beyond my control. You know, much like a hurricane or a tsunami, there’s pretty much feck all that I can do about it, so I might as well not sacrifice my whole career for the sake of a silly infatuation, based on one single late-night flash I had about him. We’re not one hundred per cent sure exactly what the state of play is between him and Charlene; all she told us before her father yelled at her to get off the phone is that he stayed in the mansion for a quick drink after we skedaddled on Saturday, then made his excuses and left not too long after us.
‘I only hope I didn’t go too far in my tipsy haze?’ she said before our conversation was rudely interrupted. ‘The plan was that I’d come at him from a position of strength, i.e., wealth, but I’m not sure that my strategy was an entire triumph. He said he needed to talk to me and that he’d call soon. So in boy language that means probably Saturday fortnight.’ She’s still sticking to her daft.com engagement schedule, though, and is making plans to cajole him into going away on a weekend break the minute her father and Marilyn have gone back to their paradise villa in Monaco. To my knowledge, Jack is blissfully unaware of any of this. Not that it’s any of my business really. Is it?
The stroke of genius, which I wish I could claim credit for but it’s all down to Jo’s laser-like thinking. (Honestly, she’d have made a brilliant military strategist, except that she’s fundamentally opposed to all warfare of any description.) Given that I can see bugger all whenever Jack is within a ten-foot radius of me, now proven beyond all reasonable doubt, here’s my one-hundred-per-cent foolproof strategy to extricate myself gracefully from that one.
Plan a: should I bump into Jack before we go on air
I walk right up to him, coolly and very calmly, and say something along these lines. ‘Jack. Being psychic isn’t an exact science. No offence, but I strongly suspect that when you’re around, my energy is being blocked. Of course, this isn’t your fault and I’m not in any way suggesting you’re doing it on purpose or anything, I just think that I’d work a whole lot better if you weren’t in the studio when I’m doing the slot.’
That sounds OK, doesn’t it? Not too, emm, rude, or anything? I mean, ‘My energy is being blocked . . .’ Does it sound like the kind of emergency you’d ring a plumber for? Or am I comparing myself to a sewage pipe unnecessarily?
Plan b: should Jack walk into studio while I’m on air, which, let’s face it, he is entitled to do, given that he is the producer and it is actually his show
This is a tad more embarrassing, but unavoidable. As Jo says, needs must when the devil drives. In this event, the plan is, I turn calmly to Mary, say I’m having a problem seeing things and request that we go to a commercial break. During this time, I then hop out of my seat, approach Jack and repeat the above speech (see Plan A, the blocked energy/sewage pipe speech).
So there you have it. Nothing like being prepared, is there?
Anyway, here I am back in the studio, feeling as if I’ve never been away and I haven’t so much as laid eyes on Jack yet, which is beyond fab. According to fake-tan man in the make-up room (who I’ve since discovered is called Damien and who I’ll really have to stop referring to as fake-tan man), he normally stays well out of the way up in the production box until after the show, as is the norm for any producer apparently (not that I’d know). And Lisa, the lovely stage manager, never even mentioned his name, not once.
Phew. So far, so good.
Mary is interviewing me on her own this morning, which is great because she’s just so relaxed and informal, you almost feel as if you’re sitting down for a nice cuppa with a favourite auntie. And if she’s missing having the awful Maura co-presenting with her, she’s certainly not letting it show. In fact, I’m so chilled out I’m almost inclined to forget there’s a camera pointing at me. This will be just fine. No, this will be better than fine. Confidence and serenity will win the day.
I take a deep breath and make a silent vow that I’m going to try to enjoy myself. And, of course, the calmer I am, the more I’ll see . . .
‘Well now, Cassandra, I know there’s already a list of callers all dying to talk to you, so without further ado, let’s go straight to line one. To . . . what was that? Oh sorry, yes. We have Joan here for you. Hello? Yes, good morning, Joan, you’re through to Cassandra.’
A thumbs-up sign from the floor manager telling me I’m good to go.
‘Hello? Is that Cassandra?’
‘Certainly is. Hi there, Joan. How are you today?’
‘How am I? I’ll tell you exactly how I am, lovey. I’m here at home trying to get through a mountain of laundry and ironing, you know, all the normal morning jobs, and I have a layabout husband in the living room next door who thinks it’s absolutely acceptable behaviour to sit around in a dressing gown till nine in the morning— Oh, hang on there, will you, just one sec . . . WILL YOU PLEASE USE A PLATE! AND A COASTER! IF IT’S NOT ASKING TOO MUCH! Sorry about that, Cassandra. I am hoarse telling him that the coffee table in the good room is solid mahogany and that a hot mug will leave a ring, but I might as well be talking to the wall. Now he says that I nag him so much it’s very difficult for him to zone in on which are the really important nags, as if that’s any kind of excuse . . .’
She chats on and I get an immediate flash. Thank God.
I see Joan, clear as day. She’s maybe sixtyish and has her hair permed so tightly it almost looks like someone has poured a tin of beans on top of her head. Her house is absolutely pristine, so spotlessly clean you could most probably perform surgery on her kitchen surfaces. The smell of bleach I’m picking up is almost making me cough. The husband is a bit older and looks exhausted, really worn out: his skin is grey and his hair is white, and for some reason I feel chest pain coming from him – tension, as if there’s a great weight pressing down on him . . .
‘DO I SMELL CIGARETTE SMOKE COMING FROM IN THERE?’ Joan is shrieking at him, nearly taking the ear off me, clearly audible to everyone in the studio and live to the nation. ‘DON’T TAKE ME OVER TO YOU, I’M WARNING YOU! Sorry, Cassandra, but at least you can see for yourself just what I have to deal with here. I’m not a nag, you know, but I swear to God, that man is slowly turning me into one.’
Another flash. Except this time I’m seeing her husband. Oh no, this isn’t so good . . . I’m getting the most awful feeling from him of desolation, of emptiness, of someone who’s worked so hard all his life and now doesn’t know what to do with himself and who’s being shouted at all day and who’s just sitting there, quietly taking it and hating every second of it . . .
‘He was made redundant five weeks ago,’ Joan is going on. ‘Five wee
ks and four days, to be exact. Anyway, ever since . . .’
Now I’m seeing him again, but this time he’s wearing overalls and covered in oil, in what looks like – could it be an airport hangar? I’m hearing an awful lot of noise, engines roaring, bustle, mechanics rushing around . . .
‘. . . now I don’t want to say the name of the company that George worked for, because quite frankly, after the way they treated him, I’d rather not give them the free publicity . . .’
Yes, it’s an airline. For definite. I can see the huge, distinctive shamrock logo on a parked Boeing 747 . . .
‘. . . let’s just say he worked in maintenance for a large semi-state body out at the airport. So, after forty years of having the house to myself all day every day, now all of a sudden I don’t. Not that I’m complaining, I’m not a moaning type, you understand, it’s just been quite a bit of a readjustment for me, Cassandra. It was one thing when he was coming home at seven in the evening, like a normal husband, but now he’s under my feet all day every day, from morning till night.’
Oh God. Now an awful flash . . .
‘It’s just that George is finding it very difficult to get other work, all to do with his age, you know. So my question is: do you see anything in the future for him? Not to sound impatient, but sooner rather than later? Because I really don’t know how much more of this I can take . . . NO, NOT THOSE COASTERS, THE OTHER ONES. THE ONES WITH THE FAMILY CREST ON THEM AND IF THAT’S THE SOUND OF YOU PUTTING YOUR FEET UP ON THE SOFA, THEN GOD HELP ME, I WON’T BE RESPONSIBLE.’
And I’m off again. Oh no, no, no. This is unbelievable. This is where being psychic is the greatest curse you could ever possibly be landed with.
I see Joan again, except this time she’s dressed head to toe in black. She’s outside a church and it’s packed. People are coming up to her shaking her hand and sympathizing with her, saying how tragic it was. To be taken so suddenly. So comparatively young. And just as he was settling down into a nice, cosy retirement too, with the rest of his life to look forward to. And who even knew he had heart trouble?
Behind Joan, I can see a hearse with a coffin, covered in flowers, about to be taken off to its final resting place.
I can even see that the flowers are spelling out a name in big red and white letters: one single word, George.
‘Now, Cassandra, of course I do realize that George has worked hard all his life. He’s the one who went out there and paid off our mortgage, but this has been a big readjustment for me as well, you know. I mean, take this morning, for example. I’ve had to cancel a lovely coffee morning I had planned with the girls because George was supposed to do a job on the front garden but instead spent the entire day yesterday lying in front of the TV watching a repeat of Manchester playing Sunderland. One simple little thing I asked him to do, one simple, little thing. ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD LISTEN TO THIS IN THERE, GEORGE? I can hardly entertain with the front driveway covered in leaves and weeds, can I? I’d be mortified. So what do you think, Cassandra? Do you see any light at the end of the tunnel for me at all?’
There’s an awful silence. Oh God, what am I going to say to her? I can’t tell her what I really see, it would be too horrible, just awful.
Think, think, think . . .
I’m dimly aware that the studio has gone eerily quiet and everyone’s looking at me. The cameraman, sound man, Lisa the stage manager, Mary, everyone is looking at me, just waiting for me to come out with something. But what? Shit and double shit . . .
Eventually Mary leans forward. ‘Ehh . . . Cassandra?’ she says gently. ‘If you’re not seeing anything, sure don’t worry. There’s a load of other callers dying to talk to you. Maybe you’d like to move on to someone else?’
I must look like a goldfish, with my mouth opening and closing every two seconds. I’m frantically racking my brains for some wise words, but for the life of me, I just can’t come up with any. This is just so excruciating. There must be something I can do or say, not to warn Joan, but in some way to give her an inkling of what lies ahead . . .
‘Cassandra?’ Mary is saying, looking at me, very concerned. ‘Would you like a glass of water, love? You’ve gone very pale.’
Come on, come on, say something . . . ‘Emm, no, thanks . . . can I just . . . it’s . . . well, you see . . .’
Brilliant, Cassie, just brilliant. Come on, get it together, try to remember you are on LIVE TELEVISION . . .
I take a deep breath, clear my throat and go for it. ‘Joan? Are you still on the line?’
‘Yes, still here. Oh, hang on a sec, our paper’s just been delivered. GEORGE? IF YOU COULD JUST PEEL YOURSELF OFF THAT SOFA FOR TWO SECONDS AND HAVE A LOOK AT THE JOBS SECTION OF THE TIMES? IT DOES EXIST, YOU KNOW, YOU’LL FIND IT RIGHT THERE IN BLACK AND WHITE, BESIDE THE RACING PAGES. Sorry, Cassandra, you were saying?’
‘I’m getting a very strong feeling that—’ Oh hell, how do I phrase this tactfully?
OK, got it. At least, I think I’ve got it. ‘What I’m trying to say, Joan, is that this time with George could turn out to be very precious. Umm . . . for both of you. I think.’
‘Sorry?’ Joan sounds incredulous.
‘So instead of focusing on the negatives, maybe you should both try to enjoy it. Do things together. Go for long walks. See a movie in the afternoon. Maybe even try to take a holiday?’
‘A holiday? Cassandra, my husband is unemployed.’ Her tone is clear: have you even been listening to a word I’ve been saying?
‘All I’m suggesting is that you cherish this . . . emm . . . phase in your lives. You might very well look back on this time together as a kind of gift.’
‘Excuse me, did you say a gift?’
‘Yes. I mean, how often do we get to spend real quality time with our loved ones? I don’t think you’ll regret it.’
Now everyone in the studio, including kind-hearted Mary, is looking at me as if I’ve completely lost it. That I can’t see a thing and am just trotting out inconsequential dribbles of superficial advice that anyone with a grain of sense could tell you.
‘Right. Is that it then?’ Joan is asking me, a bit impatiently. ‘You don’t see any lucrative job offers coming George’s way? Nothing at all? Not even anything part-time? At this stage I’d settle for him working on the check-out in Tesco’s.’
As she’s talking, or rather giving out, I get another flash.
This time, Joan’s sitting at her kitchen table with three other women, all drinking sherry, giggling and laughing. Spread out on the table is a pile of luxury cruise brochures, all glittering blue seas and ships that promise loads of light entertainment, Céline Dion/Liza Minnelli impersonators, bingo, bridge nights and a guaranteed seat at the captain’s table – that type of cruise holiday. And she’s happy. It sounds awful, but I’m really feeling that the life of a widow is agreeing with her . . . maybe even far more than the life of a wife ever did . . .
Right. Tactful phrasing required. Quick. ‘I see a lot of travel for you, Joan. For pleasure. Things may be tough in the short-term, but there are definitely happier times ahead.’
Even as I say the words, I’m aware of how twee it sounds, as if I’m bluffing, making it up as I go along. All I can think is anyone watching this who’s remotely sceptical about what people like me do for a living must be having a field day. I’m coming across as nothing more than a glorified chancer. But what else can I do? Say: ‘Yes, Joan, there are happier times ahead for you, spending your late husband’s life insurance?’
Sometimes I really, really hate being able to see things . . .
Joan doesn’t even thank me, she just clicks off the phone and whaddya know, before I even have time to get my head together, we’re straight on to another caller.
Please, please, Cosmos, let this be a nice easy one where I can see clearly, preferably information which I can actually communicate: a relationship problem, a teenager waiting on exam results; an answer I’d be happy to broadcast live to the nation . . .
‘And now we
’re going over to line two,’ says Mary, looking at me a bit – well, worriedly, actually. If she were a cartoon, there’d be a thought bubble coming out of her head right now, saying, ‘Be prepared to go straight to a commercial break if this con-artist lets us all down again.’
‘We have Julia here for you. Hello, Julia! You’re through to Cassandra. Go right ahead.’
‘Hi, Julia,’ I say, trying to sound confident. Bright. On top of things.
‘Hello, is that really Cassandra? Can you hear me?’
A woman. She’s maybe . . . early thirties. I’m seeing strawberry-blond hair and I think she’s calling me from a big, open-plan office . . .
‘Yes, hi, Julia! How can I help you?’ God, now I sound as if I work behind the customer-service desk in Marks and Spencer.
‘Can you hear me? I have to keep my voice down.’
‘Yes, loud and clear.’
‘I’m ringing you from my office. I’m on my own, but the partition is paper-thin and I’d die a thousand deaths if anyone overheard me. Anyway, I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve been in a relationship for nearly three years with my boyfriend and the trouble is that I’m the one who has to make all the decisions and I’m beginning to get bloody sick of it.’
‘Do you mean little things or big things?’ Please, please let me see some happy news ahead for this girl, because so far, I’m not picking up anything, good or bad . . .
‘Define little things.’
‘Oh, you know, like deciding what movie you’ll go to see or where to eat if you’re going out, that kind of thing.’
‘Yes, Cassandra, I make all of those decisions for him and more. Apart from letting him ask me out, which only really happened because I was heavily influenced by that Rules book we were all reading at the time, I have pretty much been the driving force behind this entire relationship. And it’s really starting to wear me down. I decided two years ago that the time was right for us to move in together, which we did, into my apartment.’ Nope, still not seeing anything yet, but on she goes. ‘I make more money than he does, so invariably I end up deciding where we go on holiday. And paying for it too, I might add. And now all of our other friends who are in couples seem to be moving on, getting engaged, getting married, starting families, and here I am, night after night, looking across the dinner table at this man who I do love, very much by the way. I’m just getting sick and tired of wondering when it’s going to be my turn. Where’s the romance, Cassandra? I mean, I can’t very well propose to him, now can I?’
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 15
