I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  Suddenly, I get a flash. Oh no. Please no, don’t let me be seeing this. If I thought what I saw for Joan was bad . . .

  I can see Julia, so clearly. She’s very pretty, with an air of crisp, no-nonsense efficiency about her. She’s wearing a dark-coloured business suit and carrying a briefcase. I can just see a BlackBerry peeking out of the top of her soft black Gucci handbag. She’s in her apartment building, stepping out of the lift, fiddling about for her door keys. She’s humming to herself, bubbly, in good form. Then she opens the apartment door.

  There are piles of cardboard boxes neatly placed in the tiny hallway, all stuffed full to the brim.

  Now Julia is moving towards the bedroom, suspicious, not quite knowing what’s going on, for a split second wondering if her cleaning lady has completely lost the run of herself. Or if she’s been burgled by incredibly tidy burglars.

  The door’s already open. On the bed, strewn messily all over the place, is a big pile of men’s clothes. Two packed-to-capacity suitcases are lying on the floor. A load of books are gone from the bookshelf by the bed, leaving gaping holes, like missing teeth.

  Now she moves over to the wardrobe and, I swear, I can physically feel her disbelief slowly turning to shock. It’s empty. His half of the wardrobe has been totally cleared out. I can even hear the sound of the empty wire hangers rattling away as she just stares, completely and utterly knocked for six . . .

  ‘I mean, Cassandra, I can tell you this because you’re a single woman too and you’ll understand. I’ve already jettisoned so much for this relationship to work. Romance has given way to reality. I’ve pretty much abandoned all hope of being whisked off my feet and proposed to and I’ve accepted that if things are to progress, then I’m the one that’ll have to do all the running. As per bloody usual. There are times when I feel more like his mother than his girlfriend, which is not exactly red roses and champagne, but that’s the way it is. So I just wondered what you saw in my future, Cassandra? Basically what I need to know is: if I ask him to marry me, will he say yes?’

  Jesus, now this flash is getting even worse.

  He’s left a note. The cowardly bastard left her a note. I can see her picking it up and I can feel her disbelief as the poor girl slumps down on the bed to read it. It’s full of all the usual clichés, the it’s-not-you-it’s-me type. I can even make out that particular old chestnut: ‘You’re a wonderful person, I just really need to be alone for a while.’

  Vomit city.

  ‘Cassandra, are you still on the line?’

  ‘Ehh . . . yeah . . . I mean yes, I’m here, sorry. Go on.’

  ‘Well, that’s it really, I’ve pretty much spelt it out to you. I’m absolutely certain this is the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with; all I need from you is the where and when. When should I ask and where will I marry him?’

  Her tone sounds weary and resigned, a woman who’s decided this is it, this is my destiny. OK, it may not be the fairy tale but it’s the best on offer so I may as well just get on with it because, frankly, the thought of getting back out there again and doing the whole clubby/pubby scene is just too exhausting.

  Right. So what in the name of God do I tell her?

  Another terrible silence fills the studio and I can see Mary looking at me, wondering whether or not she’ll need to jump in and rescue what could turn out to be the single most boring slot they’ve ever had on the show.

  ‘Cassandra?’ says Julia, and I get the most awful feeling that she’s beginning to cop on. ‘You don’t see anything bad, do you?’

  I can’t even answer her. I’m too busy trying to work out what the hell I’ll say.

  ‘You . . . would tell me if what you see isn’t good, wouldn’t you?’

  Shit. Right, nothing for it but to try and let the poor girl down as gently as possible.

  ‘Cassandra? All I’m looking for is a simple yes or no here. If I ask him, will he say yes?’

  Bloody hell, this is one direct lady. Think, think, think. ‘Em . . . well . . . the thing is . . . I can’t see whether—’

  ‘Can’t see or can’t say? Which is it?’

  Nothing for it. I’ll just have to be equally direct. At least, as direct as I can be on national television without scarring this poor woman for life. I take the plunge. Deep breath. ‘Julia, you sound like a highly efficient, organized person. And no doubt you’re very successful at what you do.’

  ‘Yes, yes?’ Now she’s starting to sound a bit impatient.

  ‘What I’m trying to say is, well, sometimes the worst thing that happens to you can turn out to be the best thing. You mustn’t cling too tightly to the idea that this man is the one who’ll make you happy. After all, there’s a whole world of guys out there . . .’ Oh God, that sounds like a line straight out of Dawson’s Creek.

  ‘So what exactly are you advising me, Cassandra? Is this your way of telling me that I’m not going to marry this man? A simple, straight answer would be really useful here.’

  Trust me, I want to say to her, a simple, straight answer would be impossible . . .

  ‘Um, Julia, all I’m advising is that you trust in the Universe. Relax and know that the right thing will happen. Maybe not in the short term, but you may look back on this period in your life and . . . and . . .’ I just stop myself short at saying, ‘And thank your stars for a lucky escape.’

  ‘Right. Well, if that’s all you have to say on the subject, then I really have to go.’ A short beep-beep and she’s gone. Not even a thank you, nothing. Not that I really blame her; ‘trust in the Universe’ is most definitely not what she was hoping to hear and now half the nation is probably watching me thinking what a load of dog poo being a TV psychic is.

  Even Mary is looking at me like I’m an out-and-out fraudster. Only a degree away from the kind of fortune-tellers you see at church fêtes, you know, the ones who tell everyone the same generic thing. ‘You may or may not take a holiday within the next year. You may cross water. You may change hairstyle, but that mightn’t happen for at least five years. Thanks very much, that’ll be fifty euro, please.’

  I shudder and look to the floor manager, hoping and praying I can redeem both myself and my tattered reputation with the next phone call.

  But then I clock Mary making a slightly pleading can-we-wind-this-up-for-the-love-of-God-please face at the floor manager. He glances at his watch and seems to be making a cut-to-a-commercial-break signal back at Mary (honest to God, you’d need a degree in semaphore) when suddenly she starts tapping on her earpiece. ‘What was that? Oh right, well, only if you’re sure then,’ she says in a low voice, which immediately makes me think she’s talking to Jack, up in the production box.

  At least, I hope he’s up in the production box. Bloody hell, as if I didn’t have enough to sweat about.

  ‘OK, ladies and gentlemen, it seems we’re going to take one final caller.’

  Now written all over her face is ‘although I can’t for the life of me see why’, and I swear, I want to bolt for the hills.

  Although . . . my instinct is telling me something different. I’m feeling Jack’s hand behind this, giving me another chance, another stab at winning the audience over, maybe even realizing that the crap I came out with for the last two callers was for a very good reason?

  No, come on, get a grip, Cassie; let’s not hold out for miracles . . .

  Anyway. A man’s voice fills the studio, which is also a surprise, given the ratio of women to men who contact me is approximately ninety-nine to one. Ish.

  ‘Cassandra? That you?’

  Ooh, he sounds lovely. I’m immediately picking up a strong West of Ireland accent, although you wouldn’t need to be psychic for that.

  So, absolutely no different to the rest of this morning then.

  ‘Yes, hi, it’s Cassandra here.’

  ‘Jaypurs, you’re not really having too good a day of it today, are you, pet? I hope I bring you better luck.’

  Ooh, he’s just adorable! I see him straight o
ff: he’s tall, well built, handsome in an unkempt kind of way, maybe . . . oh rats, this is hard . . . yes. Early thirties, I think. Pisces, plays soccer . . . very outgoing, I feel; I can see him surrounded by loads of friends in a pub with a brilliant atmosphere, laughing, all having great crack . . .

  ‘Cassandra, are you there? You haven’t hung up on me?’

  ‘Oh, no! I’m still here, I’m just trying to . . .’

  I’m trying to pick up his name actually, and I can’t. Although I’m feeling it’s something really unusual, with a V. Vivien? No . . . Vincent?

  ‘You have a very uncommon name,’ I say, slowly, ‘beginning with V . . .’ Shit, what is it?

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ he says laughing and I get a strong feeling that this is a guy who laughs quite a lot. Who enjoys life. Popular, loves horse racing too. ‘Now do you promise not to laugh?’ ‘I promise,’ I say, grinning.

  ‘It’s Valentine. I know, I know, probably the greatest irony you’ve ever heard; a fella like me who can’t get arrested when it comes to women, lumbered with a name like Valentine.’

  He sounds so jovial and good-hearted that I can’t help warming to him, you just couldn’t. I sneak a quick glance over at Mary and see that she’s smiling too. Good sign. Maybe, just maybe, I can turn the whole horror of this slot around . . .

  ‘Thing is, Cassandra,’ he says, and he sounds so friendly and open, I almost feel like we’re chatting over a drink in a cosy, quiet country pub. ‘I caught a bit of the show and, to be honest with you, I thought the male race weren’t coming out of it too well after listening to your last two callers. To put it mildly. We’re not all layabouts and some of us are very romantic, you know. Here’s me, single when all I really want is to be with the right girl. I’m thirty-three; I have my own business and a grand house by the sea. Now, I may not be George Clooney in the looks department, but all I’m looking for is a good-natured, easy-going girl that will want a nice fella to spoil her rotten, take her to all the fancy places, wine her and dine her and treat her like a princess. No kidding, Cassandra, I would put any woman who would go out with me up on a pedestal . . .’

  The more he talks the more I see. Well, well, well, this is certainly one for the books.

  I almost think Valentine can barely believe it himself. As a direct result of this programme, he’s become a bit like a cult figure in his own right. He’s been offered his own column in an upmarket magazine, chronicling the life of a hopelessly romantic bachelor looking for love and marriage, the whole package, instead of the normal, stereotypical lad on the town, wanting nothing more fulfilling than meaningless flings with as many different hot babes as possible.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Cassandra,’ he’s saying, ‘I’m not exactly the stay-at-home type, if you’re with me. I’ve a great bunch of lads I hang around with, but we’re after very different things. They all want to meet up in the pub on a Sunday after soccer training and brag about this one they were with the night before and that one they’d like to be with tonight. But that’s not where I’m coming from at all. I’m not looking for someone to go to bed with, Cassandra, I’m looking for someone to wake up with.’

  There’s a big ‘awwwww’ from Mary on the sofa beside me and I can practically see the thought balloon coming out of Lisa: ‘How cute. I wonder if he’d date me?’

  This is incredible. Now I see a TV camera following him around on a date, almost documentary style. It’s some time from now and Valentine is still single, still looking for love, but by God, he’s having the time of his life while he’s waiting for it to come along. Women are practically throwing themselves at him; everywhere he goes, he’s besieged . . .

  ‘This is no joke, Cassandra; the last girl I took out jumped out of a moving vehicle to get away from me.’ He’s laughing as he’s telling the story against himself, which is only making him, if possible, even more endearing.

  Now I see him singing for charity on one of those celebrity X Factor-type shows and the audience is largely full of women, all screaming, as if he’s some kind of a rock god. He’s singing that Queen song, ‘Somebody To Love’, and every woman in the audience is going bananas over him. This is amazing; I even see the name of his column, which I blurt out by accident.

  ‘“Valentine’s Day”.’

  ‘Sorry, pet, what was that?’ asks Valentine politely.

  ‘Nothing,’ I laugh. ‘I just hope you’re ready for fame and fortune, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah, pull the other one.’

  ‘No kidding. Valentine, you will be a household name within six months. I guarantee it. I just hope you’re ready for all the hot dates you’ll be going on.’

  ‘Ah, that is just great news, so it is. And do you mind me asking, do you see a special lady out there for me? Or do you hear the sound of wedding bells, even?’

  I have to be honest with him. I’ve no choice. But unlike my other two callers, at least this story has a happy ending, of sorts. ‘Valentine, I feel that in time . . . yes, yes . . . I think . . . you will marry, but while you’re waiting, your life is going to take you in a direction you’ve never even dreamt of. I see nothing but fun and laughter ahead; great nights out, a string of beautiful women all asking you out, for a change. You’ll play the field, like you never have before. I mean, what man alive wouldn’t kill for that Hugh Hefner lifestyle?’

  If Marc with a C is watching, he’s probably thrown up by now. He gets very jealous of anyone of any persuasion who multiple-dates, mainly because it’s the kind of life he actively covets for himself.

  Now I see the floor manager making a wrap-it-up-we’re-out-of-time signal, so I go for it. ‘Valentine, you’re a very lucky guy. While you’re waiting for Miss Right, I don’t see just one special lady out there for you, I see literally dozens.’

  ‘Right, well, thank you so much for that, Cassandra,’ says Mary, expertly taking over. ‘And good luck, Valentine! Maybe you’ll call again and let us know how you’re getting on?’

  ‘Will do and thanks again!’ he says cheerily down the phone, sounding all delighted with life. ‘And if I’m ever up in Dublin, sure I’ll be in touch!’

  ‘Well now,’ says Mary direct to camera, ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have time for this morning. Don’t forget to tune in tomorrow, same time, same place, when we’ve a very special feature to mark the beginning of Fashion Week.’ Then she taps her earpiece again. ‘Oh yes, and anyone who said patterned tights have had their day will be sadly mistaken, or so I’m told. Thank you very much for watching and it’s goodbye from me!’

  I’m so euphoric after being able to see such good things for Valentine that I almost have to stop myself from saying, ‘And it’s goodbye from her!’ Like The Two Ronnies.

  There’s an eerie feeling in the studio after the show has wrapped. After all the nerves and tension and bright lights shining in your face, Gestapo-style, suddenly the place goes deathly quiet, as cameramen, sound men and crew bolt for the door. God love them, presumably they’re all dying for a big, yummy, well-earned brekkie. No one comes near me or says a word to me – not even ‘That was good, bad or indifferent.’ Which kind of makes me a bit nervy. I mean, yes, the first two callers were a disaster, but that wasn’t exactly my fault, was it? And then the chat with lovely Valentine went OK . . . didn’t it? I mean, I’m back in the game . . . aren’t I?

  Anyway, I’m just about to unhook the tiny microphone that’s neatly clipped to my T-shirt when Lisa bounds over. ‘Hey, Cassandra! Boy, I’d say you’re glad that’s over.’

  ‘You said it. Do you think . . . well, do you think it went OK?’

  ‘Yeah! Yeah, definitely!’ she says, a bit too quickly. The ‘yeah’ makes me relax a bit, the ‘definitely’ makes me think I was complete and total crap. ‘Look, do you have a minute?’ she adds. ‘You’re not rushing back to the magazine or anything?’

  ‘No, I’m not in a rush. What’s up?’

  ‘It’s just that Jack asked if he could have a word with you before you le
ft. Upstairs in the production office. I can take you there right now, if that’s OK with you.’

  Oh right. Well, that can’t be a good sign then, can it?

  As ever, my psychic abilities completely disappear out of the window whenever they’d actually come in handy. Like now, for instance. I honestly have no idea what Jack wants me for.

  My mind races as I follow Lisa to the back of the studio floor, being careful not to trip over all the wires and cables strewn all over the place.

  I may as well face up to it. There can only be one reason I’m being hauled up to the production office. Jack wants to say something along the lines of: ‘Yeah, very sorry, you did well the first time we had you on the show, but you seem to have mysteriously lost whatever it was you had in the first place, so, basically, your contract’s terminated, goodbye, good luck, and kindly don’t bawl crying on the carpet on your way out.’

  Shit. He probably wants Lisa there as a witness in case I turn nasty.

  She leads me up a flight of steps and into the control booth, which, no kidding, is the nearest thing to Cape Canaveral I’ve ever seen; all mini-TV screens and desks and a bird’s-eye view of the studio below. It’s deserted but still boiling hot and sticky, probably from the whole production team sweating blood during my slot. There’re half-drunk cups of still-warm coffee lying all over the place. God, it’s almost like being on the Mary Celeste.