‘Can you keep a secret?’ I ask, smiling at her.
‘No, but go on anyway.’
I drop my voice to a whisper. ‘When I don’t like someone, I blank out. Completely.’
‘Really?’
‘Doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I’m worse than useless. Now, I could have sat here and told that one a load of drivel like, ooh, I dunno, some kind of needlepoint philosophy like “When you meet the right man for you, you’ll just know”, or “Trust to fate and destiny”, but I resorted to plan B. Just apologize, tell the truth and say, “Sorry, as far as your future is concerned, I’m blind as a bat”.’
Mary laughs. ‘I don’t know how you didn’t tell her where to go. Though that’s the trouble with live telly, isn’t it? Do you know, I’m almost twenty years at it and I’m still regularly surprised by people and what they come out with. Amazed, more often than not. Ooh, looks like we’re back.’
I look over my shoulder at a floor monitor, just in time to see the Breakfast Club logo reappearing on screen: a steamy, frothy, half-drunk mug of cappuccino and a croissant with a big nibble taken out of it, all shot against a bright yellow and red background, cartoon-animation style. And then . . . Oh shit, no . . . Am I seeing things?
Squinting through the darkness, beyond the camera and towards the back of the studio, I can just about make out Oily Oliver. And he seems to be filming everything that’s going on, good luck to him.
But that’s not what’s bothering me. Standing right beside him, looking fabulous and not hungover as a dog as rightfully she should be, as she did not two hours ago, is Charlene. I barely have time to react before we’re back on air.
‘Thank you, welcome back,’ Mary is glowing to camera, ‘and I think we just have time for one more call, if that’s all right with you, Cassandra love?’
I nod, dumbly. What the hell is she doing here?
No, no, she can’t have been serious about what she said last night, about Oliver being just her type, that was just drink talking . . . wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
‘Yes, we have Emily on line four. Good morning, Emily, you’re through to Cassandra.’
Come on, Cassie, eye on the crisis.
I have a hunk of credibility to regain after that last disastrous call. Plenty of time for Charlene and whatever mini-drama she’s playing out when we’re off the air.
‘Hello, is that Cass-Cass-Cassandra?’
Oh my God, it’s a little girl’s voice. Definitely. I can see her straight away. She’s wearing glittery jeans and a fleecy pink tracksuit top with a big ‘E’ pendant around her neck. And I’m picking up an overwhelming feeling of sadness.
‘Hi, Emily.’
‘I like your name, Cassandra.’
‘You have a pretty name too. How old are you, sweetheart?’
Treat her like a grown-up, Cassie, kids respond better to that.
At least, I think they do . . .
‘I’m eight and three-quarters.’
I whistle. ‘Birthday soon?’
‘Yeah. And I’m getting my ears pierced and heelies.’
‘Why aren’t you at school, Emily?’ Mary asks, all worried, and I can’t believe I never thought of asking the child that question myself. Spot the non-parent.
‘I’m sick. I couldn’t sleep all night and today my throat hurts.’
‘Emily,’ I say slowly, ‘does your mummy know that you’re calling me?’
‘She’s in work.’
‘And your dad?’
‘He doesn’t live with us any more. Though I see him sometimes and he always buys me treats.’
‘So who’s there with you?’
‘Ulrika.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My minder. She was watching you on TV and she says that you can do magic. She’s upstairs now talking to her boyfriend on her mobile so that’s why I’m ringing you. She’s always on the phone to her boyfriend. All the time.’
Mary and I just look at each other.
‘Is everything OK, Emily?’ I ask, gently as I can.
‘No.’
‘Is there something that’s making you a little bit sad?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Will you tell me?’
‘OK. It’s just . . . I’m a bit scared.’
‘Scared of what, sweetheart?’
‘Well . . . you see, there’s a bogeyman in my bedroom and I hate our new house that me and my mummy live in now. I want to go back to our old house where Daddy is so they can be together and I can have my old room and there’s no bogeyman under the bed but I told Mummy when I was scared last night and she said I was silly and that we’re not going back. She said, “No way, we have to stay here.” But I don’t like it here. I want to go home.’
OK, I may not be a child psychologist, but I think I can figure out what’s happening here.
Go easy, Cassie, remember she’s only a kid – who might just be having a tough time dealing with her parents’ separation.
‘Emily, can I let you into a little secret?’
‘Yeah. I like secrets.’
‘Are you listening?’
‘Mmm.’
I lean as close to my radio mike as I can. ‘There is no such thing as the bogeyman. He doesn’t exist.’
‘What about ghosts?’
‘Anyone who believes in ghosts is a big silly pants.’
‘Do you promise me?’ comes the little voice, sounding a little bit stronger now. ‘Pinkie promise?’
‘I pinkie promise.’ Whatever that is. ‘New houses can just be a bit scary in the beginning, Emily, that’s all, pet. Once you get used to it, you’ll be just fine. Hey, and I’ll bet you’ll make loads of new friends really soon. Wait till they all see you going up and down the road on the fab new heelies you’re getting!’
‘Thank you,’ she says in her little voice and, honest to God, I just want to hug her.
‘No more bogeyman?’
‘No. Can I go out and play now? My sore throat is all better.’
‘Course you can, sweetheart. You take care now!’
‘Well, I’m sorry to interrupt, Cassandra, but I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today,’ says Mary, on a wrap-it-up hand signal from the floor manager. ‘Thanks so much for tuning in and see you all tomorrow, bright and early!’
And we’re out.
I say my goodbyes to Mary and all the rest of the crew and look down to the back of the studio where Charlene is flirting her ass off with Oliver. I do not believe her; she’s even wearing my good Karen Millen strappy evening shoes. At ten in the morning.
I unclip my radio mike and stride down to her.
‘Hey, sweetie, here comes my favourite client. Well, OK, my only client, but, hey, I’m working on it. You were so fab! Wasn’t that little kid who rang in just so adorable? Hey, I wonder if the dad is single?’
I, however, am not really in the form for pleasantries.
‘Great, great slot, love it, went really well,’ Oliver simpers at me in the awful American accent, and I give him a curt nod. It did not go really well and he’s a lying toady git.
‘Wanna know some hot gossip?’ says Charlene. ‘Oliver has very kindly agreed to come to Anna Regan’s engagement party with me! I just asked him and he said yes! So are you stunned? I hope you don’t expect too much now, Oliver,’ she says, turning back to him in fullon flirtation mode, and I’m not kidding, her breasts are pushed up all the way from here to Ontario. ‘It’ll just be your average one-hundred-thousand-euro-soirée in the ballroom of the Four Seasons, that’s all.’
‘It’s my pleasure. Hey, can’t wait.’ He smirks at her. ‘Say, do you mind if I . . .’ He indicates the camera beside him and carries on filming whatever the hell it is he’s filming.
I don’t know and I don’t care.
Keep the head, Cassie, just stay cool . . .
I ask Charlene to walk me to my car, couching it in such a way that she can’t say no. I really need to get the hell out
of Dodge before Jack appears and I find myself stuck in whatever warped daytime soap-opera plot she has up her sleeve. Jesus, at times like this, I really could kill her.
I walk and she totters behind me all the way down the long corridor which leads to reception and on outside to the car park. We’re almost at my car before I can even bring myself to speak to her. I do my best to keep my tone calm and measured, mainly because this always works better with her. And by that I mean you’ve a fifty per cent better chance of getting through to her.
‘Charlene, please would you mind telling me what is going on with you? Why are you here?’
‘Honey, I’m your agent. Didn’t I promise you that by the time I’m finished revamping your career, you’ll be so famous you’ll end up as the centre square in Celebrity Squares?’
‘Charlene?’
‘OK, OK, don’t get so narky. Let’s all just be really grateful that this time I bounced back as quickly as I did from heartache. Thank God I’m an Aquarius, that’s all I can say. You know how it normally takes me months and months to heal from the pain of broken relationships.’
‘Name one occasion where that happened.’
‘Well . . . emm . . . ehh . . . Oh, leave me alone. I will not belittle this with tawdry examples.’
‘Please tell me that you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.’
‘If getting a date for Anna Regan’s big engagement night makes me some kind of monster then guilty as charged. I have downgraded my pain at being so unceremoniously dumped from “No man will ever love me” to “Ooh I think I’ll put on Mac eyeliner and face the day”, and you should be proud of me. Why are you being such a headgirl about this, anyway?’
‘Because you’re embarrassing yourself. And you’re embarrassing me.’
‘Oh, listen to you.’
‘Are you honestly telling me that this was the only place you could go to in the entire metropolis, surfing for a date?’ And stinking of booze, I could add, but I choose not to be bitchy.
‘There’s only one reason why you’re being like this about the whole thing,’ she snaps back.
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Well, this will make two of your colleagues I’ve dated now. And you’re still Little Miss Can’t-get-arrested-hasn’t-had-a-date-in-a-year. Little Miss Oh-I-never-fancied-him-anyway.’
OK, now I really wish I had hit her with the stale booze line. That hurt. That really stung.
However, I take a deep breath and do my best to keep cool. ‘Charlene, frankly you can bring a gibbon monkey with you to the engagement party for all I care. My problem is that you’ve asked Oliver. And he’s awful. And he works with Jack and that’s the only reason you’re even doing this in the first place. Teenagers in Wesley would blush to be seen carrying on like this. What – do you think, in the warped parallel universe you’re living in, that this will somehow make Jack jealous? That he’ll be hit with a road-to-Damascus moment and suddenly want to be with you? What are you, headless?’ I’m raising my voice now and I can’t help it. I’m out-and-out furious with her now.
‘Aren’t you at least thankful that I’ve bounced back? Do you realize that I told that bastard Jack Hamilton not to call me and, damn him, he hasn’t?’
‘Charlene, this isn’t something I get to say very often, but Oliver is not good enough for you. You yourself called him a pain in the arse, only last night.’
Yes, I know I did wish him for her, but . . . well, that was before I found out what he was really like and . . . well . . . that just comes under the heading: We all make mistakes, don’t we?
‘Oliver is single and he has a job. So, therefore, he passes the Charlene test. Why am I even talking to you, anyway? You’re not my target audience.’
‘Will you just listen? I’m getting a bad vibe from that guy and it’s not just that he’s so bloody irritating. It’s more. Much more. He’s just . . . I can’t put it into words, he’s . . . not what he seems.’
‘Fab, even better. Naughty boys need love too, you know.’
Oh shit, there’s no point in even talking to her. She’ll just go her own sweet way no matter what I do or say.
‘OK, Charlene, fine. Flirt your ass off with him. Go out with him if that’s what you want. Whatever blows your skirt up.’
‘Glad you finally see it my way.’
I’m just about to get into my car but she follows me to the driver’s door.
‘Oh, and one final tip for you, honey: this is happening whether you like it or not. Suck it up.’
That’s the other thing about Charlene. She is always expert at getting the last word in.
Chapter Fourteen
THE TAROT DECK
THE PAGE OF CUPS CARD
A Youngish Person, usually male. He’s good humoured and happy-go-lucky, invariably in top form, one of those people who just always seem to be delighted with life, whatever it may throw at them. This guy may be on the brink of starting a new career, which will be garlanded with great success. For a woman to draw this card means that you’re about to make a new best friend. He’s definitely in the friend category, this is not a lover, but he’ll be just lovely, everything you could wish for in a mate; he’s full of fun, and together you’ll have such a laugh.
This card symbolizes that a lucky man will enter your life. And as the old saying goes, better born lucky than born rich . . .
FOR ONCE I’M actually delighted to get into the office and put Charlene and her antics behind me. I make a mental note to phone Jo and arrange to meet her for lunch, mainly so I can let off steam before we get back to the house and face into yet more histrionics. Bloody hell. This sure as hell feels like a high karmic price to pay for fancying her ex.
Anyway, onwards and upwards. Have to put her out of my head. I’ve a full day’s work to get through.
The minute I step out of the lift and head into the office, I immediately sense that there’s something up. God, the place is really buzzing, Sir Bob is here, Lucy from Features and Sandra Kelly, our resident restaurant critic (ringlety red wig today, which makes her look very Nicole Kidman in her Tom Cruise days, by way of Little Red Riding Hood). Anyway, the gang of them are all clustered around the desk beside mine, over by the window.
‘And here’s our resident televisual star,’ says Sir Bob, in that cute way he has of making it sound as if television was only invented yesterday. God only knows how he ever came to terms with the internet or mobile phones or the three-pin plug. ‘Come over, dear, there’s someone we’d like you to meet.’
They part like the Red Sea and there he is.
‘Cassandra, this is Valentine. Valentine, meet Cassandra.’
Ooh, here we go . . .
Now I see what all the fuss is about. OK, so he may not be good-looking in a movie-star way, more cuddly in an introduce-him-to-your-mammy way, but he’s incredibly attractive, really tall, light brown hair, twinkly blue eyes and a lovely warm smile.
‘Ah, now, the famous Cassandra,’ he says, standing up to shake my hand and making direct eye contact – and it’s for real and not a put-on act, like some people do. (Well, when I say some people, I’m really referring to the professional slick-ass type of guy that’s out there, namely Oliver. Ugh.)
‘Sure, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even be here in the first place.’ Valentine smiles warmly at me. ‘You’re like my lucky star, so you are.’
I laugh, instantly liking him and his gorgeous soft West of Ireland accent. You know how sometimes you meet new people and you feel as if you’ve known them for years and years? There’s a theory that when this does happen, it’s usually because your paths have actually crossed somewhere before, in a past life. Well, I dunno, who’s to say? Maybe Valentine and I were slaves manacled together in ancient Egypt building the pyramids or something. Frankly, who cares. He seems like a lovely guy, I get a great feeling about him and – let’s be honest – sweethearts like him are fairly thin on the ground in this city.
‘Welcome to the wonderful w
orld of Tattle,’ I say, grinning at him. ‘It sucks; you’re going to love it.’
‘And if there’s anything we can help you with, please let me know,’ Lucy purrs at him, eyelashes batting like butterfly shutters on a digital camera. She might as well have a thought balloon coming out of her head, like you see on cartoons, that says, ‘Let me pinch you; you’re not real!’
‘Hey, maybe we could take you out after work?’ says Sandra hopefully. ‘You know, just to celebrate your first day here. I know a great Italian place, Dunne and Crecenzi’s, the best arrabiata in town, without question, no dress code, very relaxed ambience—’
‘Or else I just got an invitation to a fashion show this evening,’ says Lucy, determined not to be outdone. ‘It’s in CHQ, which is like this wayyyyy cool venue and there’s an after-show party . . .’ She trails off and this time her thought balloon is saying, ‘Wait up, hang on, get smart; if it’s a fashion show there will be models there, models equal competition; do I really want to introduce this hunk of West of Ireland gorgeousness to other attractive women?’
‘Or we could take you to a rather interesting gallery opening I’ve been asked to tonight,’ says Sir Bob, and I’m thinking, Et tu? God, if you’re a single man in this city, all you really have to do is pick and choose. Gay, straight, whatever your preference really.
Anyway, I don’t have any glamorous invitations to throw into the mix – well, apart from coming back to the madhouse I live in to chance his arm with Charlene’s cooking. Plus the cat fight we’ll most likely have later on. No, not a very tempting offer.
‘Ah, you’re awful good,’ says Valentine, smiling his big twinkly-eyed grin at them all. ‘But, sure, would you look at the amount of yokes I’m after getting asked to just this evening alone.’ He picks up just one invitation from a groaning pile on the desk and reads it aloud. ‘“You are cordially invited to an event to mark the launch of AROMATHERAPEE, our stunning new range of bathroom fragrances, for him and for her. Clarence Hotel, six p.m”.’
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 25
