I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘I know, I know, I know eventually it has to be, but I thought, just this once? I just don’t know if I’m up to credit-card cold turkey. And by the way, you didn’t see the Diane von Furstenberg silk wrap-over dress in Harvey Nicks that I didn’t buy today. You should have seen me on the ready-to-wear couture floor. I was like some kind of Tibetan monk. An absolute model of discipline.’

  Marc with a C sighs so deeply, it’s almost as if it’s causing him physical pain. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, babes, but it’s time for you to pursue gainful employment.’

  ‘I don’t need a job, I already have one.’

  On cue I walk through the kitchen door.

  ‘And what job would that be?’ Jo asks dryly as I greet everyone.

  ‘You can just drop that tone right now and stop speaking in italics,’ sniffs Charlene, looking close to tears. ‘Look at me. In the space of twenty-four hours I’ve gone from having the world at my feet to the world at my throat and do you hear one single complaint out of me? I’ve spent all evening cooking for you guys, even though you said I didn’t have to, just so I could be useful, and do I hear a single word of thanks?’

  But now an alarm bell is ringing in my head. ‘Sorry, Charlene, go back to the bit where you said you had a job?’ I ask, almost dreading the answer.

  ‘Well, I’m still your agent, sweetie, aren’t I? Oh, and by the way, I took a message for you earlier. Some guy rang from Channel Seven and says you’re to call him back.’

  Shit, I’m thinking. I thought she’d got bored and moved on from that idea ages ago.

  ‘Speaking for myself, I honestly can’t say what I’m more shocked by,’ says Marc with a C as I head out to the hall to return the call. ‘That you didn’t buy the Diane von Furstenberg, or that you actually cooked. Oh and Jo, dearie? You owe me five euro. I just won a bet that the three of you wouldn’t last twenty-four hours living under the same roof.’

  ‘Just out of idle curiosity,’ says Jo slowly, ‘what did you cook?’

  ‘Duck à la marmalade,’ she says proudly. ‘From the Nigella book. It’s meant to be duck à l’orange but we didn’t have any, so I just used Chivers from the back of the fridge instead. Like, there’s a difference?’

  ‘Charlene, you are aware that I’m a strict vegetarian?’

  ‘Well, yeah . . . but I did go to loads of trouble and I thought, maybe, just this once?’

  ‘My conscience does not take a day off.’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Haven’t you ever heard of tofu?’

  ‘You mean that’s an actual ingredient? I thought it was a small country in Africa.’

  Double shit, I think, closing the kitchen door so they can’t be heard sniping at each other while I’m on the phone. It’s going to be a long, long night.

  I pick up our gas bill which has a message scrawled on the back of it. ‘Cassie, some bloke called Oliver called. Here’s his number . . .’

  Oliver, Oliver, Oliver: I’m racking my brains to think where I’ve heard that name recently . . . Got it. He’s the guy I met in Jack’s office. The cute guy. Hmm.

  As I’m dialling his number, I’m trying to figure out what he could want me for. To slag me off for being such total crap on yesterday’s show? Unlikely.

  He answers after only two rings.

  ‘Hi, Oliver? It’s Cassandra here, from the Breakfast Club?’

  ‘Cassandra, hi! Great, yeah, good, thanks so much for getting back to me.’ He talks really fast, as if he’s thinking aloud, and it sounds like he’s pacing up and down a room. I can almost sense him waving his hands in front of his face, expressively, the way highly intelligent people in Mensa are supposed to do. And, of course, there’s the American twang. ‘Now, of course, I’m only throwing this at you, it’s just a pitch, but do have a think, won’t you? Basically, your performance on TV gave me an idea. I’m putting a documentary together at the moment, freelance, you know, and after seeing you, I thought about maybe looking into the whole psychic phenomenon and how popular it is, particularly among single people.’

  ‘Oh. Wow.’

  ‘Just the reaction I’d hoped for. So I just wondered, first of all, if you’d be interested in taking part and secondly if you might have anything coming up that I could shoot. I’m seeing maybe you doing a psychic reading for a punter, I’m seeing maybe you sitting in your dressing room getting flashes, I’m seeing maybe you advising people on relationship problems – that really seems to be your strong suit. Except face to face, instead of over the phone in a studio. I really want us to delve into the psyche of a person who’s looking for romance; you know, the type of women out there who aren’t just dating anyone, they’re dating everyone. And then, to balance the documentary, we’d talk to guys who see these women and are terrified and think, My God, there are cannibals out there less man-hungry.’

  He pauses to draw breath and I’m left thinking: Did he really say that? Did he really just compare single women to man-hungry cannibals?

  ‘I’m speaking metaphorically, of course,’ he adds apologetically, almost reading my thoughts. ‘It’s just that this is what the light entertainment market really seems to want and, based on what I’ve seen, you are the Breakfast Club’s very own resident psychic relationship coach. Just wondered where you stood on this, that’s all. Any thoughts? Anything coming up that we might be able to talk about?’

  Before I even have a chance to draw breath, he’s off again.

  ‘OK, now I’m seeing maybe you watching a monitor with a live feed from a bar or a nightclub, so we can see guy chatting up girl and then cut to you telling us, when he says X, this is actually what he really means and when she says Y here’s what she really means. So you’d be a sort of psychic dating detective, if you’re with me.’

  Wow, that’s a lot to digest. A lot of rubbish to digest, if I’m being honest. I have to think for a sec before answering.

  ‘Cassandra? Are you still there? I hope I’m not scaring you off?’

  ‘Ehh, no, it’s just that, well, you see . . .’ Oh shit, what’ll I say to him? I’ve only just got my foot in the door at Channel Seven and I don’t want to appear uncooperative to a big famous senior TV journalist, but at the same time I don’t want to get myself in too deep over my head. I mean, come on, a psychic dating detective? I think I’d rather have my toenails pulled out by a trained badger. The potential for humiliation is so monumental and, boy, if anyone knows about humiliation, I do.

  And then I remember. Something nice and straightforward that’s all lined up anyway. And it makes me look cooperative and interested in taking part in a big documentary and being a team player, without the awkwardness of actually having to turn down any of his awful pitches. ‘Well, there is something, emm, Oliver, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Yeah, shoot, go for it.’

  Now he’s beginning to sound like one of those high-energy executives you see on TV shows like The Apprentice. Except this guy would be the type to do the actual hiring and firing, not one of the poor eejits sitting opposite at a boardroom table, sweating and stressing and waiting to see who’s for the chop, as I probably would be.

  ‘Right. Now don’t laugh.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve arranged to call at a house tomorrow to see if I can help a very worried lady who wrote to me about some disturbances there.’

  ‘Brilliant! A haunted house, love it!’

  ‘I did not say that it was haunted, I don’t know what’s going on and I won’t know until I get there.’ Rats, why did I have to open my big mouth? But now he’s run away with the idea, almost as if he’s trying to create a story out of nothing.

  ‘Already I’m seeing a darkened room, candles, you looking fabulous all dressed in black at the head of a table touching hands with this woman and saying stuff like, “Is there anyone out there? Knock once for yes and twice for no.”’

  ‘Oliver, I have to stop you right there. I’m just having a
look-see, that’s all. Maybe a possible energy-clearing. Most definitely not a séance.’ Shit. He sounds like he’s expecting a dramatic re-enactment of a scene from Blithe Spirit.

  ‘Hey, just kidding,’ he says, although half of me thinks he wasn’t. ‘OK, now I’m seeing us shooting you on a night camera. Maybe we’ll find out a bit about the history of the haunted house – you know, whether Mary Queen of Scots ever stayed there. Audiences love that kind of thing.’

  ‘It’s a housing estate in Rathgar. I’d be astonished if Mary Queen of Scots was ever passing through.’

  ‘Just kidding. OK, now I’m seeing a dusty attic. Maybe we’ll get an actress to dress up as one of the Brontës in a white sheet or something. LISA? CAN YOU PUT A CALL IN TO WARDROBE?’

  ‘The Brontës? In a dormer bungalow in the middle of Dublin?’

  ‘Hey, just kidding. Although I do see you coming slowly into the frame telling the viewer about how you’re identifying with this spirit so much. God, this will make show-stopping television. I can practically smell the BAFTA . . .’

  OK, that’s quite enough. Foot down, now. And, while it may sound rude, I think this is someone you need to spell things out to, in bullet-point form so there’s absolutely no grey area or misunderstanding. ‘Oliver. Will you listen for one minute, please? Number one, yes, I am very happy to take part in your documentary. Number two, yes, you are very welcome to come along to this house tomorrow. Number three, the lady I’m going to see is, well, let’s just say a very private person and it’s highly unlikely she’ll give permission for her home to be filmed. So if you can respect that, we’ll all get along.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Oliver, smoothly. ‘You know, I am a professional and under no circumstances would I ask you to do anything you weren’t happy or comfortable with. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  We hang up and although outwardly everything seems fine, my instinct is saying something different. Something very different.

  Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans. What have I let myself in for?

  Chapter Ten

  THE TAROT DECK

  THE MAGICIAN CARD

  Wow, and i really mean WOW. The Magician can do anything, go anywhere, be anything his or her mystical, magical qualities can conjure. Wealth, power, fame, prestige, glory and success are within your grasp. Anything you desire is yours for the asking.

  Just maybe not the fella you fancy, but then you can’t have everything, can you? It is, after all, only a tarot card we’re talking about, not a magic wand . . .

  BEFORE CARRYING OUT an energy-clearing, as any psychic worth their salt will tell you, it’s advisable to go to a place of calm and serenity, empty your mind, breathe deeply and allow yourself to get in touch with your inner voice.

  This morning, I, on the other hand, have to put up with the following:

  CHARLENE (screeching from the bottom of our stairs and, even though my bedroom door is closed tight, she sounds as loud as a Hezbollah rocket attack): Jo? Cassie? Come on down! You’ll never guess what I made – brekkie!

  JO (shouting back at her from our bathroom, but again, clearly audible): Hang on one second. For you to be up and about at this hour can only mean one thing. You WANT something.

  CHARLENE (deeply miffed or, at least, sounding as if she is): Oh, welcome to cynical land. Population: YOU.

  Must tune out all distractions. Must focus on task ahead, a bit like the way Zen masters are supposed to. Must not get sucked into domestic squabbles. Breathe, breathe and breathe again . . .

  JO (to the sound of a flushing toilet): So why don’t you save us all a lot of time and energy and just tell us what it is you’re after?

  CHARLENE: OK, well, seeing as you’ve asked, I do need money, just to tide me over, just a few euro, just for now. Seeing as how you’ve all banned me from doing what I normally would. Taking my platinum card and charging myself happy.

  JO (her voice and my blood pressure rising): On principle, NO. What happened to all your big notions of standing on your own two feet?

  CHARLENE (defensively): It’s only to get me though a bit of a cash-flow crisis, until I really start making it as Cassie’s agent. I have a primal, basic need to shop, you know.

  JO: Oh, for God’s sake, if this is about dresses by Diane von Carlsberg or whatever it is she calls herself —

  CHARLENE (as though her religion has just been insulted, which, in a way, it has):That’s Diane von FURSTENBERG and FYI, Mrs Big Fat Scroogie-pants, the reason I need dosh is to buy household . . . emm . . . whaddya call them? Oh yeah, appliances. I happened to notice that Harvey Nicks have a sale in, you know, essential housey things like, emm, loo roll and . . . after dinner mints and . . . hand lotion . . .’

  Deep breath, focus on reaching a cool and detached state of Tibetan monk-like calm, must connect with my inner voice and block out all exterior distractions/discussions about loo roll, hand lotion, etc. . . .

  JO (almost spluttering): Are you seriously suggesting that you do the grocery shopping at Harvey Nichols? Charlene, even the royal family doesn’t do that.

  CHARLENE (almost apologetically): Don’t be cross with me, sweetie, I am trying, you know.

  JO (coming back down to earth a bit): Hmm. Very trying.

  Anyway, kind-hearted old Jo is obviously reminding herself of the huge upheaval Charlene has been through and feeling a bit guilty for snapping the head off her, because when she comes out of the bathroom and goes downstairs, she says to her, in far more conciliatory tones, ‘OK, OK, you guilted me into it. I can give you exactly one hundred euro. It’s not a lend, it’s for keeps, but you have to promise to pay it forward to an aid organization of my choosing. Not one of your trendy, glamorous save-the-lesser-spotted-whale charities. OK?’

  CHARLENE (playing down her victory): Thank you. You’re very kind. Oh, and one more teeny favour?

  JO: Go on.

  CHARLENE (OK, slightly pushing her luck now): Well, it’s just that I’m going to need clothes, aren’t I? And handbags. And don’t even get me started on shoes. And all my stuff is back at the house. And you can hardly expect me to go round there and collect everything, now can you?

  There’s a silence and I swear I can practically hear the sound of Jo’s eyes rolling.

  JO: Right, we’ll get Marc with a C on to it. After all, he’s our resident expert on conflict resolution.

  CHARLENE (meekly):You’re so good to me, sweetie. (Sound of dozens of air-kisses.) OK, now come on, hurry up, I want you to eat your brekkie. Bang on Cassie’s door, will you? I’d say she’s still asleep and we have a big day ahead of us.

  JO (suspiciously): When you say ‘I made brekkie’ what exactly do you mean? Because if it involves bacon or sausages, frankly I’d rather eat a Travelodge pillow.

  CHARLENE: Oh, keep your vegetarian smug-brella up. Especially for you, I opened a tin of pineapple chunks I found in the back of a cupboard.

  A full hour later, Jo’s long gone to work and I’m still waiting for Charlene to decide on what she’s going to wear. She’s standing in front of my wardrobe in her nightie, filching through my stuff with a ‘discard’ pile at her feet that’s mounting higher and higher by the second.

  ‘You don’t have to come with me, you know, I won’t be offended in the least,’ I say for about the thousandth time, in the vain hope that she’ll take the hint. ‘You’d be bored, it’s no fun and with any luck it’ll all be over in an hour or so.’

  She’s barely even listening to me. ‘What is it with you and the colour pink?’ she mutters, flinging my last year’s, really expensive, investment-buy cashmere cardigan into the ‘discard’ pile with abandon. ‘With my hair colour, it makes me look like a marshmallow.’

  ‘Charlene, we’re going to do an energy-clearing. It’s not like there’s a dress code. Besides, my stuff doesn’t even fit you properly.’

  ‘Welcome to my wonderful world of “Got no choice”. I need clean clothes. Supposing Jack is there?’

  ‘What did you say?’ Oh
shit and double shit. Never even thought of that. Suppose he is?

  No, he wouldn’t be . . . would he?

  ‘Well, you never know, sweetie. I mean, he’s the one who introduced you to Oliver in the first place, they’re both producers at Channel Seven, so who’s to say he won’t come along too?’

  Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger, she’s right. What’ll I do? I won’t be able to see a thing, I’ll be beyond useless, I’ll let everyone down and, worse than all that, I’ll have to tell Charlene.

  And won’t that just sound lovely?

  Yes, Charlene, my old friend, I fully appreciate that you’re going through a personal crisis at the moment, but, by the way, I think I fancy your fella, in the full knowledge that nothing can ever happen between us. However, the more immediate issue at hand is that whenever he’s in the room, my psychic gifts seem to fly out of the bleeding window.

  Yeah, great, best of luck with that speech, Cassie.

  Think, think, think . . .

  ‘But won’t Jack still be shooting the Breakfast Club?’

  ‘Should be finished by now. Can you believe it’s almost ten? How long exactly does it take you to get ready, Cassie?’

  I can’t even answer her back, I’m too busy racking my brains.

  Hang on. Oliver wants to film me this morning for – what did he say again? For a freelance documentary he’s putting together, wasn’t that it? Yup, sounds right. Which is brilliant. This is nothing to do with either Channel Seven or the Breakfast Club then. I hope. And nothing to do with Jack. Theoretically. And therefore there’s no actual, cast-iron reason for him to be there.

  Shit. Unless Charlene goes and invites him. That would just be my bloody luck, wouldn’t it?

  On cue, the phone rings and Charlene races downstairs to get it. Now, I’m only hearing one side of the conversation, but it goes something along these lines.