I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘There’s always a mass exodus to the canteen the minute the show wraps,’ Lisa explains, leading me on through another door, then into the Breakfast Club office itself, which, thankfully, is deserted too. Before I know where I am, Lisa is knocking on another door, a kind of inner sanctum, and ushering me inside. ‘She’s all yours, Jack!’ she says cheerily. ‘See you at brekkie!’

  Right, here I go. As Charlene always says, when the going gets tough, let your smile be your umbrella, so I step inside with what I hope isn’t a deranged grin on my face.

  ‘Hey, good to see you,’ says Jack, leaping up from behind his desk and giving me a bear-hug. God, he looks divine today; crisp denim shirt and really cool-looking chinos, as if he should be on a billboard in Times Square doing Gap ads. He smells yummy too and boy, I really, really needed that hug.

  Anyway. I decide to get my spoke in first. ‘Hi, Jack. Look, I just wanted to say that . . . well, the thing is that I saw trouble ahead for the first two women who rang in . . . you know, and I didn’t want to give bad news . . . not on live TV . . . so I just thought, the best . . . and by the best I mean, you know, the kindest thing—’

  ‘Look, Cassie, I actually brought you up here because there’s someone who’d very much like to meet you,’ he says, gently cutting me off in mid-ramble.

  For the first time, I notice there’s someone else in the room with us. He’s sitting in a leather chair with his back to me and swivels round, James Bond baddie-style. Young. Hot. Fair-haired. And kind of familiar, somehow.

  ‘This is Oliver Hall,’ Jack says as we shake hands. ‘Oliver is a producer and a presenter too.’

  ‘Oh, hi there,’ I say, as if I’ve been part of the team for years and not just a complete blow-in. Who may or may not be on the verge of being ‘let go’ at any moment.

  ‘Hi, Cassandra, good to meet you,’ he says with a flashy, television-friendly grin. There’s almost an American twang in his accent, as though he’s lived there for years. This is driving me nuts; where do I know him from?

  ‘You might recognize Oliver from his TV reports?’ Jack chips in, politely filling in the silence and correctly interpreting my bewildered expression. ‘He’s come to us all the way from our Washington office. We’re very excited to have him back here at Channel Seven, although I’m afraid it’s not for much longer. He’s about to join the competition over at TV1, if you don’t mind. Did that sound bitter?’ he adds, messing. ‘I am thrilled for you, Oliver, but if I find out you’re getting paid more than me, it’ll be a completely different story.’

  That’s it, of course. Not that I’m a huge fan of news reports (well, in fairness, they always seem to clash with my soaps) but Jo would have them on all night if she could, and that’s where I know him from. He’s a reporter on one of those exposé-type programmes; you know, the sort where they put a hidden camera in the toilets of McDonald’s and then scandalize the nation with stories about how the employees don’t wash their hands properly. Sensationalist stuff that always gets followed up in the tabloids. Ooh, now I remember another one where he exposed all these airline pilots getting plastered drunk and partying all night on a lay-over in Dubai or somewhere, then secretly filmed them getting behind the controls of a 747 early the next morning, not just with alcohol in their blood, but with blood in their alcohol.

  ‘Wow, great to meet you,’ I say, wondering if he’s single.

  No wedding ring, good. This could be a lovely guy for Charlene, is my logic. You know, glamorous, tabloid journalist type. And cute. Except that . . . she’s not exactly single, now, is she? Ho, hum, back to the drawing board.

  ‘That was quite an interesting slot you had,’ he says to me.

  Shit, I almost forgot about that. ‘Ooh, ehh . . . yes, that . . .’ I mumble. ‘Well . . . yes, I admit, I have had better days, but the thing is—’

  ‘No, I found it very . . . interesting,’ he says in the American drawl. ‘In fact, I was just saying to Jack, your performance gave me a really great idea for a freelance report I’m hoping to shoot before I leave.’

  Chapter Eight

  THE TAROT DECK

  THE TOWER CARD

  Symbolizes that a disaster is about to strike. Maybe for you, or perhaps for someone close to you, who you will then be called on to help and support in their hour of dire need. The Tower can often signify an event or experience which, quite literally, will strike like a ‘bolt of lightning’.

  Sorry, but that’s what it’s going to feel like and that’s what you must prepare for. It can often be interpreted as a radical life overhaul that’s looming or perhaps even the end of a relationship. So, no, it won’t be an easy time, but if you resist going with the tide, remember, you’re only making it worse for yourself in the long run.

  In other words, this is a time just to roll with the punches, honey . . .

  THE THUNDERBOLT HITS that night.

  It’s about eight in the evening and Jo and I are both home, bickering over the TV remote control. (She wants to watch The Political Day in Review, live and unedited from Washington, DC, her fave show, whereas I was kind of hoping to catch up on EastEnders.) A taxi pulls up outside, there’s a loud banging on our front door and in comes a tear-streaked, very shaken-looking Charlene. She looks so pale and shocked, I almost get a fright as I let her in and usher her into our snug little sitting room. Fire roaring, candles burning; you couldn’t ask for a better, more soothing environment to blurt out troubles. Particularly for someone like our Charlene, whose personal belief system is that there’s no problem in the whole world that can’t be solved with a nice pedicure and a blow-dry.

  ‘What’s the matter, honey?’ I ask her, instinctively pouring her a glass of wine, which she almost grabs off me to down a huge big gulp. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh girlies,’ she says, slumping down into an armchair. ‘Girlies, I . . . I know . . .’

  ‘Shh, it’s OK,’ I say as soothingly as I can. ‘Come on, deep breath, whatever it is you can tell us.’

  She gives me a weak smile and squeezes my hand gratefully. ‘OK, here’s the thing. As you’re both aware, I never exactly’ – sniff – ‘expected my life to turn out like a Jackie Collins novel, but . . . but . . .’ The tears start welling up in her big saucery eyes and now I’m slowly starting to get an incredibly strong feeling about what she’s going to say.

  No, scrap that. Two incredibly strong feelings.

  ‘In the interests of saving time, just tell me, at the end of this sentence, will I roll my eyes?’ Jo says, a bit unsympathetically.

  ‘Two – no, not two, three disasters have hit me simultaneously,’ Charlene sniffs, whipping a monogrammed hanky from up her sleeve and dabbing her eyes. ‘And you’re my best friends in the whole world and I honestly have no one else to turn to.’

  OK, two of her disasters I can see, but not the third. Shit. And I’m not picking anything up either, which is odd.

  ‘Broken fingernail? Bad leg wax?’ says Jo, barely looking up from the screen.

  I grab the remote from her, firmly switch the TV off and throw her a look which I hope conveys ‘This is not Charlene’s normal histrionics; she’s actually genuinely upset, so just be a friend, shut up and listen. OK?’ All that in a single glance. Jesus, why wasn’t I an actress?

  ‘You always say that bad things come in threes, Cassie, and, as usual, you’re bloody well right,’ says Charlene, taking another slug from her wine glass. As ever, when excited or upset, she talks stream of consciousness, so Jo and I end up really having to concentrate just to keep up with her. ‘Well, first of all, my maid wakes me up this morning, at the crack of lunch, with Earl Grey tea instead of Japanese, so I had to get up—’

  ‘Sorry, just let me guess, could this possibly be the first bad thing?’ says Jo.

  I glare at her to shush her up, but Charlene keeps on yakking regardless.

  ‘So I had no choice but to haul my ass out of bed and come downstairs and there’s Dad and Marilyn sitting at the kitchen table look
ing like a pair of ghosts. I went to turn on my heel and get the hell out of their way, but he told me to sit down, that he had some big news for me, which I might find a bit shocking. Well, you both know how scary he can be, so I did what I was told.’

  OK, right. I think I might already know how this story is going to pan out, but I say nothing. I never told Jo about the flash I had the night of Charlene’s dinner party and, boy, is she about to get the surprise of her life.

  ‘So, then . . . then . . .’ Charlene pauses here to dab her eyes again. ‘Dad said that, for a while now, they’d been a little bit worried about Marilyn and how she’d been looking and feeling over the past few weeks and I was on the verge of saying, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her, I’m sure she spends vast amounts of your money to end up looking that cheap,” but something told me to shut up. Then Dad said that one of the reasons they came back to Ireland was so Marilyn could have some medical tests done here and so apparently they spent a full day at Blackrock Clinic, and then her test results came back and . . . and . . .’ Another sniff.

  ‘What? Tell us!’ says Jo, really concerned now and on the edge of her seat, with a look on her face that says she’s thinking the absolute worst. Jo’s quite fond of Marilyn, as am I. As is everyone who meets her really, except Charlene.

  ‘She’s . . . she’s . . . pregnant,’ says Charlene.

  There’s a stunned silence and Jo looks over at me, with her jaw somewhere around her collarbone, and I have to remind myself to look shocked too, as if I’d never seen this coming, so I end up smacking my hand off my cheek like some ham actress in a daytime soap opera.

  Jo is utterly speechless, which Charlene takes as her cue to keep on talking.

  ‘If you can believe that. I barely can myself; I mean, the woman must be pushing fifty if she’s a day—’

  ‘She’s forty-one,’ I say. ‘You know, these days that’s practically a spring chicken, fertility-wise. Look at Holly Hunter. She had twins at forty-seven.’

  Oh dear. No sooner have the words left my mouth than I regret them; poor Charlene’s eyes well up again and she starts to bawl. God love her, I could shoot my mouth off for being so tactless. Like me, she’s an only child, which is probably why we initially bonded so much back in school. Only children tend to get just as close to their friends as they would to siblings. So to be suddenly faced with a new baby in the family . . .

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to do but be happy for Marilyn,’ Jo says a bit more kindly, ‘and for your dad. I mean, it’s not as if she’s some kind of fling or one-night stand; they’ve been together for years. So isn’t this good news? New life and all that?’

  Then I chip in: ‘I know this comes like a bolt from the blue, honey, but there are some positives about the situation.’ But this only starts her off again, even worse.

  ‘And wh-what p-p-pooooositives would those be?’ she almost wails at me.

  It’s really hard to understand her when she’s this upset, but at least I think that’s what she said. Mind you, it could also have been ‘My life is ruined.’

  ‘Well, come on, I mean it’s not as if you’re going to be asked to . . . emm . . . change nappies or anything, is it?’ I say, my heart almost breaking at how stricken she is.

  ‘Or, you know, babysit,’ says Jo, who looks as if she’s scarcely able to believe it herself.

  ‘Or . . . emm . . .’ Jo and I are frantically looking at each other, trying to think of things to say, which is particularly hard given that neither of us would know one end of a baby from the other.

  ‘Do night feeds or burp the baby,’ says Jo helpfully.

  ‘Or take it for walks in one of those buggy thingies.’

  ‘Or have to get rid of your Porsche and get a four-wheel drive so you can get a baby seat in the back of it . . .’ Jo trails off, seeing the real devastation on Charlene’s face. ‘And those cars are complete rubbish for the environment too, you know,’ she adds lamely.

  ‘Girlies, I know you both mean well, but let’s face it, babies eat, sleep and poo. My God, I’d kill for that life.’

  ‘You have that life,’ says Jo without thinking. She shuts up, though, when she sees the crushed look on Charlene’s tear-streaked face. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out how it sounded.’

  ‘Anyway, Charlene, the thing to focus on is that you’ll have a brand-new half-brother or -sister,’ I say, in a vain attempt to lift this awful cloud of depression that’s hanging over the room.

  ‘Who are you telling? That’s the thing I’m trying very hard not to focus on. Yet another memory for me to suppress,’ she sniffs. ‘Can I please just go on with telling? That, believe you me, was only the warm-up story.’

  ‘There’s more?’ says Jo incredulously.

  ‘There’s more. Darling, I have generated enough scandal today to keep Max Clifford on a retainer.’

  We both look at her blankly and away she goes again, stream of consciousness.

  ‘So I’m there, reeling with shock, and I try to get up to leave the room, but Dad barks at me to sit back down again. Then he launches into this big speech about how this is a new start for all of us as a family and I want to scream at him: “A family? When were we ever a family?” but I’m too much of a coward so I just sit there and say nothing. Anyway, I think he must have taken my silence as a sign that I was OK with this because he goes on to say . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ says Jo.

  ‘That . . . that . . . he feels that . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That it’s only right that he and Marilyn should . . . should . . .’ She breaks down here and, I swear, Jo and I are almost on the edge of our seats.

  ‘Shh, shh,’ says Jo gently, ‘come on, whatever it is, you can tell us.’

  Charlene takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes. ‘They’re getting married.’

  Oh my God. In a million years I’d never have seen that coming and clearly neither did Jo, who’s looking about as shocked as I feel.

  ‘I know,’ says poor Charlene, seeing the look on our faces. ‘I can’t believe it either. Remember Mum’s anniversary last month? He never even called me, nothing. He pays for the upkeep of her grave, but that’s it. Typical him, throw money at a problem and just walk away.’

  There’s a stunned silence as Jo and I try to digest all this.

  ‘I don’t blame either of you for looking so stunned,’ says Charlene. ‘It’s a lot to take in. So I got up and Dad practically yelled at me to sit back down again, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t take any more. I staggered as far as the library to phone my boyfriend and tell him to drop whatever it is he’s doing, come quickly and bring vodka, except that he’s not answering his phone, so I leave a message, which he doesn’t reply to, so then I figure he probably never got it so I leave six other messages just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘And did he get back to you?’ asks Jo.

  ‘No, he bloody well didn’t. Honestly, girls, I did my very best not to sound like a complete desperado. I just said that the minute he listened into his voicemail, he was under starter’s orders to call me immediately so we could arrange to meet up, that I needed him urgently. So I waited patiently for a full twenty minutes and still no call, so then I got really upset and Dad and that bloody praying mantis kept thumping on the door to make sure I wasn’t opening a vein or anything and then I decided I just had to put as much distance between me and them as possible so I got dressed, jumped in a cab and went straight round to Anna Regan’s but she wasn’t a bit sympathetic at all, not like . . . not like . . . you guys . . .’ She has to break off the monologue here, she’s crying so hard, and both Jo and I hug her tight. In all my years, I’ve only ever once seen Charlene quite this shattered about anything.

  ‘Go on,’ Jo says, looking genuinely concerned about her.

  ‘What would I do without my two best girlies?’ Charlene says, hugging us both right back. ‘So, anyway, I told Anna everything but all she can talk about is her big engagement party and here’s m
e and I can’t even get my so-called boyfriend to return a simple phone call, so then I got even more upset and I practically left a trail of dust I ran out of her house so fast—’

  ‘Oh honey, why didn’t you call one of us?’ I ask. ‘We’d have dropped everything and come round.’

  ‘Well, first I went to Marc with a C’s gym to talk to him, but he couldn’t really give me his undivided attention, on account of he was giving a spinning class, so in total desperation I went round to Channel Seven and at reception I asked for Jack and they said he was in a production meeting but he was nearly finished and would I like to wait, so I did for, like, ages, and all the while Dad and Marilyn both keep phoning and texting and I keep snapping off my phone, because I’m just not in a place where I can talk to either of them right now.’ She breaks off, seeing the look on both our faces. ‘Oh girls, I know you’re both probably thinking that I’m practically stalking Jack, but all I want is to be happily married and have a normal family life, you know, about as different to what I come from as possible. Is that so terrible?’

  ‘No, of course it’s not,’ Jo and I chorus sympathetically.

  ‘So eventually Jack does come downstairs, looking all gorgeous the way he always does and he says he’s actually glad I dropped by because he really needs to talk to me too . . .’

  Oh shit. I think I have a fair idea of what’s coming next.

  ‘And by now I’m thinking, OK, at least he’s not avoiding me like the Black Death, this is good, everything is fine, if nothing else at least my relationship may still be salvageable. So we get into his car and we drive to a bar that’s close by which he says is really quiet and he sits me down in, like, only the most secluded part of the whole place and I’m just so bloody grateful to him that I burst into tears and he’s all, like, “Oh what’s wrong?” and so I tell him everything and he’s just . . . he’s just . . . he’s so unbelievably nice about the whole awful thing . . .’