I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  I grab the letter from him and groan. Oh shit and double shit, how could I have forgotten? This letter must have been sitting on my desk for ages now and I know that I must have had a flash about it, because I’ve scribbled across the top of it in red Biro, as I always do whenever I see something, so that I’ll actually remember that it’s done and dealt with and not end up just shoving it into yet another pile at the back of my desk. As I obviously did with this one. ‘Writer desperately worried about the house she’s just moved into. Real fear at play here. Poor woman genuinely terrified.’

  That’s not what’s making me bang my head off my forehead in frustration, though. It’s this: ‘Memo to self: must phone her to arrange suitable time to call to house and possibly do an energy clearing. Important. Discretion required. Her husband sounds like a right bully. Do not shove at back of desk and forget about.’

  Rats, rats, rats, why am I so bloody scatty? Story of my life. It’s like the Erma Bombeck principle, which clearly states that the supermarket queue you’re not in is always the one that will move the fastest. Same with me. The more important and critical a job is, the more likely I am to clean forget all about it.

  OK, nothing for it but to ring this poor woman now and put her out of her misery. Right now, before I forget all about it again. Except I can’t because Sir Bob’s still here.

  ‘Shall I toss you a sneak preview of last night’s salacious news, my dear?’

  Oh, what the hell, that woman has already waited over a week to hear back from me. Sure, what’s another five minutes?

  ‘That you even need to ask that question shows just how little you know me,’ I reply, dying to hear all. God, I just love Sir Bob. Well, you couldn’t not. He’s so full of all the juiciest, grade-A gossip. He’s also a brilliant mimic, so when he’s dishing the dirt on some minor celeb, you almost feel as if they’re in the room with you.

  ‘Well, I had to attend the dreariest launch party yesterday evening, one of those ghastly soirées where one comes home and says to oneself, “Thank you, Satan.” Thing is, though, while I was there I did happen on the most amusing anecdote, concerning a certain acerbic breakfast telly-box presenter with whom, I believe, you were once acquainted, my dear?’

  I look at him blankly, a bit like early man being taught the meaning of fire.

  ‘Who, shall we say, enjoyed a dalliance with a gentleman who was married? Contract not renewed? Am I ringing any bells, my dear?’

  My eyes immediately light up. ‘Ooh, yes!’ Then I mouth a single word at him, silently. ‘Maura?’

  Sir Bob just taps his index finger sagely against his nose and nods like bookies do in their secret sign language at the races. No kidding, he’s getting more and more like John McCririck every day. ‘Well, she was, in polite parlance, three sheets to the wind last night and she practically assailed a certain ruggedly good-looking member of a rather popular Irish boy band, who seem intent upon world domination . . .’

  Ooh, yes, I know exactly who he means. Howard Woodward. Huge with pre-teens. His poster is probably hanging on the bedroom wall of every ten-year-old in the country. Oh yes, and a while ago, he went into one of those super-posh rehab clinics like the Priory to wean himself off what’s politely described as his very trendy ‘addiction to prescription painkillers’.

  ‘And she told him he’d never amount to anything because his name sounded like a dog farting in the bath.’

  I’m guffawing so much I have to stuff a tissue in my mouth.

  ‘To which he replied, in psychobabble of the highest order, “Excuse me, are you trying to derail my self-esteem train?”’

  ‘Oh Bob, you couldn’t make it up. Are you going to write about it?’

  ‘All in the line of duty, my dear. Do you wish to answer that?’

  Damn, my mobile’s ringing and I never know how to react when that happens around Sir Bob. Not that he minds, it’s just that he’s probably the only journalist in the country who absolutely refuses to use a mobile and has all these rules and regulations about the correct etiquette involved with them. When to take a call, when it’s impolite to, the general rudeness bordering on thuggery of people who insist on answering them in restaurants and don’t even get him started on phones that go off at the theatre . . . I’m telling you, it’s a social minefield.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I say, figuring it’s probably OK, given that I am in an office with phones ringing all around us. Plus, I have an overriding instinct that this call is important.

  Sir Bob nods and wafts off, hanky in hand, looking as if he’s off to tea at Buckingham Palace, as he normally does, and I answer.

  And thank God that I did. It’s the Dragon Lady, calling me from somewhere really noisy. I really have to strain to hear her. And then I get a flash.

  She’s at the airport, on her way to . . . somewhere mountainous. I can see green hills and pathways and a gorgeous chalet in the background . . . Austria. That’s it, got it. I knew it looked like the set of The Sound Of Music. All that’s missing is the von Trapp children running around wearing the curtains and singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’.

  ‘Cassandra? It’s me.’

  I recognize her voice instantly but, as usual, I have to rack my brains to come up with her proper name. Shit . . . ‘Hi . . . emm . . .’ Come on, think. ‘Emm . . . Amanda.’

  ‘Can you hear me? I’m at the airport.’

  Knew it. Bugger, why is she ringing me? Must be something really important. No, I’m not picking up a single thing, nothing. Rats. All I can see is a pair of hiking boots and thick woolly socks, which, come to think of it, she could very well be wearing right now. This is not exactly a woman who’s known and lauded for her dress sense and ability to accessorize. ‘Yeah, I can hear you . . . Amanda.’

  ‘Look, I’ll keep this short and snappy because I’m on my way to a very important work conference in London.’

  Oh, you dirty big liar, I’m thinking. You’re on your way to Salzburg for . . . it’s coming to me . . . yes, got it: for a mountain hiking trip. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: why do people bother fibbing to psychics? Such a waste of time, on every level.

  ‘That guy who rang into your Breakfast Club slot yesterday, do you remember? The one who couldn’t get a date for love nor money?’

  I remember immediately. Well, it’s not exactly a name you could forget in a rush, now is it? ‘Yes, Valentine, wasn’t he just so sweet and cuddly and adorable?’

  No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I instantly regret them. Note to self: the Dragon Lady does not do girlie talk, ever, ever, ever.

  ‘Ugh, please don’t start a puke fest with me,’ she snaps back. ‘I’m a bad enough flyer without your teenage imagery going through my head.’

  Serves you right, Cassie, you should have known better.

  ‘So here’s the deal. I want to offer that guy a weekly column, chronicling his adventures in the dating world. Sex and the City, except written from a man’s point of view, in a society where they’re in a buyer’s market.’

  God, she’s good, I’m thinking. Fantastic idea. I’m already hooked and dying to read it. In fact, I had a flash live on TV that this would happen. I just didn’t think it would happen on my own magazine, that’s all. Bloody hell . . .

  Anyway, Valentine really sounded lovely and this is great news for him. Ooh, added bonus: all the single gals in the office will get to meet him. Myself included.

  Well, aren’t I a single girl? Course I am . . .

  ‘Cassandra, are you still on the line?’ the Dragon Lady barks at me.

  ‘Yes, still here. So . . . did you want me to get his contact details from the Breakfast Club for you?’

  ‘Precisely. You can email them to me and I’ll pick them up on my BlackBerry. And you can tell everyone in that office, your best buddy Sir Bob included, to get straight back to work. Fortune does not favour the bone idle.’

  ‘Ehh . . . yup, will do. So, safe trip and enjoy Salzburg!’

  What can I say? The wo
rds are out of my mouth before I even get a chance to think. There’s a tiny, barely perceptible silence before she hangs up.

  Cassandra’s new and improved time-management skills in action

  Doddle, really. Easy peasy.

  My God, I should really be at some management institute, giving seminars, lecturing accountants and whiz-kid business types on how to extract the most out of each day. And all I had to do was not talk to anyone, skip lunch, switch off my mobile, not answer my office phone and limit my chatting time with Sir Bob to precisely five minutes. On the plus side, though, I’ve got through most of my letters pile, my column’s almost finished and all I have to do is write everything up. Which I can easily do at home, later on tonight. Great idea. Fab. Only one more call to make and then I can skive off for the rest of the day with a clear conscience.

  Well, a clearish conscience.

  I pick up the letter Sir Bob drew my attention to earlier, check the phone number scrawled at the bottom and dial. It rings and is answered almost immediately. A man’s voice, gruff, impatient.

  ‘Yes?’ With a single word, I swear, he almost takes the nose off me.

  ‘Emm, hello, I wondered if I could speak to . . .’

  Oh hell, what do I say now? The letter is signed ‘Worried in Rathgar’ and I can hardly ask to speak to Mrs Worried, now can I?

  Got it. God, I’m so smart. ‘I wondered if I might speak to your wife, please.’

  ‘In connection with?’

  Shit. His manner is bordering on rude and now I’m starting to feel like some kind of nuisance telesales caller. I also have a strong feeling that if I tell him the real reason for my call (‘Hi there, I’m a psychic and am ringing about a letter I got from your wife, where she tells me she’s really concerned that there may be some kind of energy disturbance in the beautiful house you’ve only just bought’) he’ll bang the phone down on me and call the nearest mental hospital to check they’ve no escaped patients wandering the streets. People who don’t believe in psychic phenomena tend to treat you like a cross between a weirdo and a con-artist and something is telling me that this man is most definitely a non-believer.

  ‘I’m calling in connection with a letter she sent me recently.’ There, did that sound OK? Crisp and businesslike is what I’m going for here.

  ‘Very well. Hold the line,’ he barks at me. ‘LIZ? PHONE CALL FOR YOU IN MY STUDY.’ Heavy footsteps, a door slamming, then lighter, more rushed footsteps, then his voice again, only a bit muffled this time, as if he has his hand over the receiver. ‘Who’s this complete stranger ringing you?’

  ‘I don’t know. How can I know until I speak to them? A friend, maybe?’

  ‘You don’t have any friends.’

  ‘Well, maybe one of the old neighbours. I really don’t know. Now please, Gerry, can I just have the phone?’ A disagreeable grunt, then her voice again. ‘Hello? This is Liz Henderson speaking.’ She sounds timid, a bit nervous. ‘Who is this, please?’

  I explain who I am and why I’m calling and all of a sudden it’s as if I’m on a hotline to the KGB.

  ‘Just one moment, please.’ Then the sounds get a bit muffled again, but I do hear her say, ‘Gerry? I wonder if you’d mind keeping an eye on the potatoes I have on the stove? Please? I may be a few minutes on the phone and you know how much you hate them when they get floury.’

  ‘You haven’t told me exactly who it is on the phone.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just . . . emm . . . a thing for a magazine.’

  ‘Why would a magazine possibly want to speak to you?’

  God, he sounds awful. ‘It’s a survey,’ I hiss at her. ‘Say you’re taking part in a survey.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, it’s . . . emm . . . a survey about . . . leisure activities for the over sixty-fives.’

  ‘Yes, so you said. It still doesn’t explain why they’d want to speak to you. And how did a magazine get this number?’

  ‘Please, Gerry, the potatoes will be ruined.’

  A grunt, then heavy footsteps, a door slamming, then I think he’s gone. Bloody hell, it’s almost like listening into a radio play. Now Liz’s voice again, but speaking a bit less nervously this time.

  ‘Cassandra, I’m so mortified about that, I don’t know where to start apologizing to you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s no problem, really.’

  ‘If Gerry knew I’d written to you about the goings-on in this house, he’d hit the ceiling. And things have got so bad here, you wouldn’t believe it. Only yesterday, I came home to find the fridge door ajar, vegetables strewn all over the floor, the cupboard doors wide open and bleach spilt everywhere. Gerry nearly went mad and kept blaming me, saying it was somehow all my fault. And that’s the very least of it. We have a lovely bedroom upstairs that’s an absolute no-go zone. I’m at my wits’ end here, Cassandra, and if you can’t help me, I honestly don’t know who can.’

  ‘Mrs Henderson, you mustn’t worry. I’m not quite sure what the problem is, but maybe I could come by tomorrow? I promise I’ll do my best to help.’

  ‘Oh Cassandra, you absolute lifesaver. Let me know whatever time suits and I’ll try to think of something to get Gerry out of the house. Say a prayer it’s a fine day because then, with luck, he’ll go out playing golf. And that’ll tie him up for hours too. We’ll be quite safe from him.’

  Which is an odd thing to say about your husband, I’m thinking as we say our goodbyes. The image I’m getting of Gerry is – well, put it this way: he’s starting to make the Dragon Lady look like a Relate counsellor. Anyway, I’m absolutely certain about one thing. I have to go there. I’m meant to go there. All in the line of duty.

  So, that done and feeling deliciously organized and on top of things (a rarity for me, you understand), I switch my mobile back on. Two missed calls. The first one’s from Marilyn, sounding, well, a bit wobbly and speaking so low that I almost have to strain to hear her.

  ‘Cassie? Hi, it’s me, Marilyn. I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now; I mean about’ – an even more hushed whisper – ‘the baby and getting married and everything. Have to keep my voice down ’cos no one in work suspects a thing. Look, the thing is, we know Charlene is staying with you and maybe – huge favour here – if you think there’s any chance that she might come round, would you call me? We all know what she and her father are like when they dig their heels in, but, personally, I’m holding out for the miracle. Perhaps you and I could meet up? I’m in castings all day, but text and I’ll get straight back to you. I’m really worried about her. It was a horrific row and, well, a lot of things were said that can’t be taken back. This is such a shock, but at the same time, we’re all the family she has in this world and we’re both anxious to build bridges with her.’

  Beep.

  Second message. Charlene, sounding in a panic.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. OK, OK, this may not exactly be my finest hour, but the thing is I was trying to clean the kitchen floor with that stinky stuff – whaddya call it? Oh yeah, bleach – and anyway, it brought out all my allergies. Well, you know what I’m like around cheap perfume and this is, like, a thousand times worse, so I didn’t know what to do so I fished out the Yellow Pages and got a contract cleaner to come and sort out the mess and she did and she was Polish, I think, just brilliant, did the insides of the windows, ironing, everything, while I caught up with my magazines. I never bother eating lunch, you know, mainly because I always figure that Vogue nourishes me far, far more, but now you see the awful thing is that I have to pay the cleaner and it’s really embarrassing because she doesn’t speak any English, well, apart from the odd word like Hoover and Mr Sheen, who I thought might have been relatives of hers, but anyhow, I don’t have any cash and she doesn’t take Visa, if you can believe that in this day and age, and now she’s starting to glower at me and is saying something about calling her three brothers, who apparently are all professional weightlifters, to get her money for her. Can you come home soon, sweetie, and make all of this go away? Pleeeeease?’r />
  I race home to find Marc with a C and Jo already in before me, troubleshooting and soothing irate Polish feathers.

  ‘OK, so maybe I made a poor judgement call,’ Charlene is squealing from the kitchen.

  ‘You call this a poor judgement call?’ Jo is yelling back at her. ‘You wanted to pay an honest, hard-working economic migrant who has slaved all afternoon in this house with a credit card?’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘My point being that if you don’t start to make some kind of effort in the real world, then I am going to force you to do voluntary work for me at Amnesty.’

  ‘I did make an effort. I decided that from now on, today is going to be called Champagne Tuesday. I’m thinking of making it permanent. You know, a bit like daylight saving time.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, what is that, Charlene-onomics?’

  ‘Don’t you raise your eyebrow at me, Josephine. May I remind you that I’m going through a terrible family trauma. So instead of trying to make me your pet project, why don’t you just go and, I dunno, adopt a cat, or something?’

  ‘Ladies, ladies, ladies, let’s just keep our powder dry here, shall we?’ Marc with a C is saying, but then he’s always great at refereeing. He’d have been amazing as a hostage negotiator in the Middle East. ‘Charlene, my sweet darling innocent, I have a teeny question for you. How do you normally pay for your credit card?’

  ‘I don’t. I send the bill to Dad’s head office in Switzerland.’

  ‘And who do you think foots the bill there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Never gave it much thought. It goes to accountants and then it goes to more accountants and then they write it off as expenses and that’s pretty much the end of my involvement in the matter. It’s an arrangement which has always suited me fairly well.’

  ‘Oh, my poor short-sighted girl, with you living in this house, who needs soap opera? If you’re determined to plough ahead with this whole I’m-financially-independent thing, then the credit card has to go. Because, let me enlighten you, it is ultimately paid for by your dad, if that doesn’t come as too much of a shock to you.’