Marc with a C gives me a round of applause. ‘Brave, brave lady,’ he says. ‘So now over to you, Charlene. Come on, let’s try to find some common ground here.’ Now he’s starting to sound like a relationship counsellor. ‘Cassie has been honest with you, so – maybe – you could meet her halfway and admit that you have moved on as well, with whatshisname, that reporter guy, so can’t we just all put this behind us and go back to being a happy family? For my sake?’
‘Brilliant,’ Charlene snaps back at him, a bit ungratefully considering that all he’s trying to do is help. ‘Tell you what, when you’re finished here, why don’t you go out to the Middle East and solve that little problem with a nice big group hug?’
There’s a very long, very ugly pause.
Big mistake coming here, I’m thinking. She’s not prepared to listen to reason, in fact, she’s probably prepared to drag this out till Christmas. At least I tried. Conscience clear. Well, clear-ish.
I’m just about to say my goodbyes when she comes right in tight to me in a move I’d swear she copied straight from Joan Collins on old re-runs of Dynasty, which I happen to know she knows almost every line of by heart.
‘I just have one thing to say to you, Cassandra, before you go. There is a thing called karma and what you’ve done will come back and bite you in the arse. And when it does, all I can say is, I hope it bloody well hurts.’
Chapter Eighteen
THE TAROT DECK
THE TEN OF SWORDS CARD
Awful, just awful. The card has a picture of a person lying face down in the snow, with ten swords stuck into their back and blood oozing everywhere.
A Distressing and very upsetting time for all concerned. The only chink of hope is that if you look closely enough at the card, there are stars twinkling in the dark night sky giving some hope that time heals all wounds and that the dawn will, eventually, come. Mind you, you do have to look really, really closely . . .
MARIA VON TRAPP has just come on stage in her nun’s habit singing about the hills being alive with the sound of music and Jo’s sitting beside me in the freezing parish hall, nudging me to stay awake. Thank God too, because I was about to drift off and the next scene is when Mum makes her grand entrance. According to the programme, she’s playing Sister Mary Bernadette and her big chorus number is ‘How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?’
OK, so maybe the scenery is a bit shaky and maybe the singing is not up to Broadway standard, but, still, we’re all here to support her and cheer her on. Well, Jo and I are here, that is, with my proud dad sitting in the row in front of us, digital camera at the ready, all set for Mum’s big scene.
Charlene didn’t come and Marc with a C elected to stay at home with her. She never even phoned to say she wasn’t coming. Nothing. It’s like I’ve been completely dead-headed. It’s been a horrible, horrible week, best summarized in the words of my friends, or at least my friends who are still speaking to me, as follows:
JO:We are constantly giving in to Charlene and her emotional blackmail and I for one have had enough. In much the same way as it’s wrong to negotiate with terrorists, this time we need to stand firm, whatever the cost. Charlene is acting like a spoilt five-year-old and, trust me, the best thing all round is not to let her appalling behaviour win the day. In the long run, we’re doing her a favour. A true friend would have seen that you and Jack genuinely seem to like each other and would have selflessly stepped aside. The good old Tipsy Queen, however, is acting as if she was married to him for about five years. You’d swear she owned him and, as you know, I am opposed to ownership on every level. Stay strong, Cassie, and whatever you do, don’t budge an inch.
MARC WITH A C (still doing his best Florence Nightingale impression): OK, so I’ve been staying at the mansion and the lie of the land is thus. Yes, she’s still doing the whole martyr/ betrayal act but I do think, in time, she’ll come round. As I always say, patience is a virtue as well as an opera. There have been an awful lot of phone calls toing and froing between her and that guy Oliver, but I think she’s mainly ringing him to give out about you and Jack. No offence, sweetie. Don’t take it too personally.
Oh shit, I better stop daydreaming.
The nuns have just come out now and there’s a huge round of applause, dragging me out of my reverie. There’s Mum and her friend Margaret, looking, well, actually a bit over made-up and glamorous for two nuns who live in a convent in Salzburg circa 1938. Dad’s on his feet with the camera just as they burst forth into song. Anyway, before you know it, they’re done (flawless performances, everyone remembered their words and Mum only winked down at us twice, very professional), Maria’s been dispatched off to the von Trapp residence to take care of the seven children and . . . whaddya know, I’m drifting off again.
I haven’t been able to concentrate on a single thing these past few days. I’m way behind with work, I’ve yet another deadline looming and I haven’t even begun to tackle the mound of letters that’s waiting for me. I did, however, hear from Jack. He called me when I was supposed to be working but was actually more gainfully occupied gazing out of the window. One of those days.
He was sweet and funny and lovely, as usual. Asked how I was and I told him. About my awful, misguided visit to Charlene’s house, the guilt that’s been laid on with a bloody trowel, the whole works. Plenty of guys would have tried to talk me round, but he didn’t and I really liked that he didn’t. Honestly. We were both very adult and grown-up about the whole thing, really. I think he’s feeling like a bit of a heel himself, in fact.
He said he felt awful that I was feeling so awful but understood what I was going through, or rather, being put through. Anyway, I can’t remember if he suggested it or if I did, but we agreed not to see each other. For now, anyway.
‘Let’s let the dust settle a bit,’ I think I may have said to him. I can’t be sure, it was all a bit of a blur. Anyway, he was fine about it, absolutely cool, and agreed that was the best thing all round.
Yes, I know I’ll have to do the Breakfast Club soon enough, but it’s possible to avoid him until then, isn’t it?
Course it is. A bit of breathing space is what we all need right now, just till things blow over.
Yes. This is unquestionably the right thing.
What I can’t figure out then is: why does it feel so wrong?
I must have been daydreaming for ages because Jo actually has to nudge me awake for the interval. She’s absolutely brilliant, as usual, chats away to Dad as if there’s absolutely nothing amiss. He does ask what happened to Charlene and Marc with a C and she covers beautifully. ‘Unavoidably detained,’ she smiles and gets away with it. Luckily, Dad’s too busy going around talking to neighbours and pals to give it too much thought and before you know where we are, Mrs Walsh from the refreshments committee is ushering us back into our seats for Act Two.
Pretty soon, I’m drifting off again, except this time to the strains of ‘Edelweiss’.
Valentine did finally turn up at the office, looking like he hadn’t slept in days, which, in fairness, he probably hadn’t. I took one look at him and immediately dragged him down to Starbucks for a badly needed max-strength cappuccino.
I’m not joking, for the half-hour or so that we were sitting there chatting, his mobile must have beep-beeped about a dozen times, all women, all looking for dates, all wanting a piece of our Valentine. He looked kind of embarrassed every time it happened, but also delighted at the same time. Anyway, it seems Danish girl has now been replaced by his next-door neighbour in the apartment where he’s staying while he’s in Dublin. Blonde and very pretty, according to him, although at some breakfast launch do only that morning, he did meet yet another gorgeous girl who runs her own PR company. Phew. I have a hard job just keeping up.
Anyway, sweetheart that he is, he asks about Jack and I tell him. Everything. I omit no detail, however trivial. I’m glad I did too, because it’s brilliant to get a man’s perspective on the situation. Well, a straight man’s perspective, that
is. What’s even more brilliant is that Valentine was there, in our house, on the night in question, your honour. So, as I pointed out to him, he saw first hand how much Charlene was driving me completely and utterly scatty.
Not that it’s a defence to say she was driving me nuts, I’m only reminding him of my mental state at the time. Oh yes, and not to forget that I was pretty much off my trolley with cheap wine.
Wine and dementia. Lethal combination.
He listens to every word I’m saying and doesn’t rush to judge. ‘Charlene is your friend and all you owed her was the truth and that’s what you told her. Friends want their friends to be happy, don’t they? She’ll come round in time, you just wait and see. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing with Jack,’ he said to me, gently squeezing my hand. ‘Bit of time out is no harm. Sure, if you were to go out to dinner with him tonight, you’d be so riddled with guilt, you’d both end up miserable. Just remember this, Cassie: if he’s a nice guy and if he genuinely likes you, he’ll wait for you. You’re a girl that’s worth waiting for.’
I keep saying it over and over in my head, like a mantra. It’s the advice of the millennium. If he’s a nice guy, he’ll wait for me.
Won’t he?
Shit, as usual, there’s never a psychic flash handy when I actually could do with one. Another sharp nudge from Jo and I realize that everyone’s clapping and the show’s actually over. The von Trapps are safely over the Alps and everyone’s on their feet cheering.
God, at times like this I really don’t know what I’d do without Jo. She’s just so fab, coming back to the dressing room with me and Dad afterwards to congratulate Mum and the rest of the cast. Boy, do I owe her big time.
The dressing room is actually just a big storeroom off the side of the stage where nuns and Nazis are all cracking open the champagne, high as kites on the euphoria of finishing a show where nothing went wrong.
We eventually find Mum, wearing the Japanese kimono I gave her last Christmas, with, I’m not kidding, an actual turban on her head, as she takes off one layer of make-up and replaces it with another.
‘Does this make you feel like Liza Minnelli?’ Jo whispers to me. ‘You know, and she’s Judy Garland? Mother and daughter both in showbiz-type thing. Just think, you’re playing Carrie Fisher to her Debbie Reynolds.’
‘Oh, there’re the girls!’ says Mum, spotting us and giving each of us a huge hug. ‘Thanks so much for coming! Did you enjoy the show? Did you see me waving at you? Oh, what did you think of the costumes? I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but Mrs Nugent our director thinks Margaret and I might very well get a nod for a nomination for the best costume design award this year! Could you imagine? Us, winning an award! Oh Margaret! Look, it’s Cassie and Jo, come on over here and say hello!’
Then Margaret our next-door neighbour is over, still in her nun’s costume, glugging back a glass of champagne. Dad’s busy photographing everything and everyone and Jo and I politely shake hands with Margaret, congratulating her on a great performance. Oh, and the costumes too, of course.
Mum is still on a stage high and barely lets anyone get a word in. ‘Can you believe the girls came all this way to see us, Margaret? Aren’t they just great, now? Oh, and remember Cassie has a big night ahead of her on Halloween! Nothing for you to be worried about now, love,’ she says, misinterpreting the worry lines across my face. ‘Sure, you’re well used to television at this stage, aren’t you, love? Walk in the park. I just can’t believe our little Cassie is going on the Late Night Talk show! We’re so proud, darling. I’ll make sure the whole musical society is watching and don’t you worry, Daddy will have the VCR recording.’
Oh, bloody hell. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.
Chapter Nineteen
THE TAROT DECK
THE DEVIL CARD
Not good. Symbolizes a vicious, strong and forceful element in another, which is about to be unleashed with devastating consequences. Can indicate a power-hungry person, who will stop at nothing, absolutely nothing, to succeed, even if that success is at the price of another’s downfall.
The devil is considered a trump card, meaning that it’s pretty much unstoppable.
In other words, there’s only one thing to say: good luck. You’re going to need it . . .
GOING INTO CHANNEL Seven at night-time is a weird experience. And it’s Halloween and there’re bonfires everywhere and fireworks going off all over the place and kids with their little faces painted trooping around the streets trick-or-treating. Normally I’d be excited and looking forward to the night and, well, feeling anything other than the way I do right now. Which, to be honest, is numb. Completely numb.
I got a call earlier to ask me to turn up at the station about an hour before transmission, just to get made up and settled, I suppose. I’m not in the least bit nervous, which is unlike me. I think I’m still just too punch drunk with recent events even to be worried about this. So, I park my car and head to TV reception, and the only thing that’s going through my mind is how quickly I can reasonably get out of here.
Jo, bless her, has agreed to sit in the studio audience, so I won’t see her till after transmission. Marc with a C is coming along too, as diplomatic as ever, just to prove that he’s absolutely not taking anyone’s side in the Great Barrier Reef, as he’s nicknamed this stupid bloody feud.
‘I’ve given this a great deal of thought,’ he said to me on the phone this morning, ‘and the fairest thing really is if neither of you see Jack, ever again, as long as you live. OK, sweetie? That’s my two cents’ worth and see you ce soir!’
I asked after Charlene and he immediately changed the subject, which is only making me think that she’s continuing to wish a pestilence on my house and that I put on two stone. Ho-hum.
Oh, and Valentine has promised to come along too, which I’m very grateful for, as are half the Tattle magazine office, mainly because I’m under strict instructions from all of them to suss out who he brings along with him as his date.
Anyway, I really am glad that I’ll have some support out in the audience tonight. Apart from them, I won’t know a single soul here. No, not strictly true, there’s Richard Bryan from the National Ghost Convention, who’s the person who put me forward for this in the first place. I’ve never met him but I’m presuming he’ll be here. I never made it to their convention either (if you could call it that) at Kilmainham Jail today. I could have, I suppose, only, well, I had to work, didn’t I?
Yes, of course, very busy working girl. I was in the office all day. Gazing out of the window for most of it, hardly getting any flashes and nearly jumping six feet in the air every time the phone rang, just in case it was Jack.
Which it wasn’t.
Not even a text, nothing. And no calls to do a slot on the Breakfast Club either, which, under the circumstances I suppose, is a good thing.
A stunningly productive day, as you see.
Anyway, the first person I see when I get to reception is, surprisingly, Lisa. ‘Hi,’ I say, hugging her warmly, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Hey, Cassie! Great to see you! I’m gonna be working with you tonight. Late Night Talk’s regular stage manager is out sick, so they rang me to see if I could fill in at the last minute. What can I say? I have no morals and I need the cash.’
I’m really delighted; it’s just great to see a friendly face before I go on. She leads me through reception and into a tiny dressing room with a big basket of fruit sitting there waiting for me. There’s a slightly awkward pause where I’m just hoping against hope she doesn’t mention Jack. The last time I saw her was the infamous night in the Comedy Cellar and I know that she knows what happened and, well, it’s just that there’s a very good chance that if she does give me the third degree, it might well end in tears.
She doesn’t though, which is fab.
‘Wow, this is all very A list, isn’t it?’ I say, indicating the towering fruit arrangement, dying to keep the conversa
tion away from – well, you know. Seriously though, it almost looks like something Carmen Miranda would perch on top of her head.
‘Only what you deserve.’ She smiles. ‘Emm, Cassie, do you mind if I have a quick private word with you?’ Then she closes the door, as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear what’s coming next.
Shit, she’s going to ask me if I’m seeing Jack.
OK, Cassie, keep the head.
This is a perfectly normal, lovely girl who isn’t out to cause me any upset or embarrassment, she’s just looking for a nice juicy bit of gossip, that’s all. As I probably would myself, if I were in her shoes. I mean, at the Tattle office, that’s pretty much all any of us do, all day long. Presuming the Dragon Lady isn’t in residence, that is. If she asks, I’ll just laugh the whole thing off and brush it aside.
Great plan.
Oh yes, and claim that I was pissed drunk. Which is the truth, anyway.
‘The thing is,’ she says so slowly that I’m now really starting to worry, ‘the producer was wondering, now – only if it’s absolutely OK with you . . .’
Shit. The producer. Shit, shit, shit, I forgot to ask who the producer was. Can’t be Jack. No, it can’t be . . .
‘The thing is, she has this idea . . .’
Phew. I’m safe. ‘Yeah?’
‘Well, it’s just because it’s Halloween and everything. She sort of thought . . .’
‘Yeah?’
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 30
