Then best actor, which goes to a well-known theatre actor for a film where he played a gangland crime lord. I haven’t seen the movie but from the clip they showed of it, the award was well deserved; he was so impressive: terrifying, chilling, scary.
Jamie texts: OH PLEASE, THEY SHOWED THE ONLY DECENT BIT IN THAT WHOLE MOVIE AND NOW YOU ALL THINK THAT GUY’S FAB. REST OF THE FILM WAS TOTAL CRAP.
Then a text from Rachel: NEXT AWARD IS BEST PRODUCER. PUT LIP GLOSS ON NOW BUT CHECK NO CAMERA POINTING AT YOU FIRST.
Then one from Caroline. I CAN’T LOOK!!! AM HIDING BEHIND SOFA!!! GOOD LUCK DARLING. AM PRAYING FOR YOU!!!
‘She and her friends can’t go to the loo without texting each other twenty times,’ I hear Philip saying to Dave.
I take a deep, soothing breath.
There’s a hand-held camera pointing right at me, which I do my best to ignore, looking straight ahead to where Jay Jones is about to read out the nominees’ names. It’s as if everything is happening in slow motion.
‘Best producer time,’ says Jay, from the podium. ‘Don’t worry; all the nominees here will have plenty of time to buttonhole them and harass them for work later. We’re even showing close-ups so you all know what they look like.’
Big roll of laughter.
I look up at a TV monitor behind the stage and see myself, in glorious Technicolor. I smile and concentrate on breathing.
It’ll all be over in a few minutes.
‘The first nominee for best producer is Kevin O’Dea for Expensive Ireland.’
Thunderous applause. I know Kevin well – we trained as producers together – and I almost blister my hands I’m clapping so hard for him.
I’d so love it if he won. Then I wouldn’t have to talk in public.
A clip of his show follows, which was an exposé on how consumers are being ripped off in overpriced Ireland and was a huge ratings winner.
‘Hang on to your seats, folks, our next nominee is none other than Frederick Jordan-Murphy for Undersea Odyssey.’
Massive applause. Frederick Jordan-Murphy is probably the best known of all the nominees, as he scripts, presents and produces the series, which is a widely popular nature documentary with the most stunning camerawork you’ve ever seen. Sharks mating in shallow water, that type of thing.
‘Fifty euro says he wins,’ says Philip.
‘Our third nominee is Patrick Griffin for The Ward,’ says Jay to even louder applause. ‘Just about the only medical drama that can make ER look like a bunch of under-fives dressing up as doctors and nurses.’
I look around to where Patrick Griffin is sitting at the table directly behind us, looking like he’s had one or two brandies too many. He’s a big, florid man, sitting well back in his chair with his arms draped around two very pretty blonde girls, who look like they’re having great crack altogether. And then I see.
It’s one of those weird things, almost like an out-of-body experience, where you find yourself thinking: Is this really happening? Now? Tonight? To Me?
Striding through the ballroom door, looking like he owns the place, comes He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken.
Oh dear God, please let me be hallucinating …
No, it’s him. Being pursued at a discreet distance by a hotel security guard.
I want to either (a) pass out, (b) throw up or (c) break into a run and, as Rachel would say, GTFOOH as fast as I can in six-inch heels. But I can’t, because my award is about to be announced.
He spots me.
Before I even have time to wipe the beads of worry sweat from my face, he’s over to where I’m sitting.
It’s as if it’s all unfolding in sickening slow motion. First of all I hear Jay Jones calling out my name. I’m dimly aware that there’s deafening applause and a lot of foot-stomping from everyone at our table. Next thing, He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken is down on bended knee right beside where I’m sitting.
They cut to a clip of the show. Thank God, at least I’m not on live TV.
For the moment.
‘Amelia, will you look at me?’ he’s saying although the whooshing body-rush sensation I’m feeling is blocking a lot of it out.
Everyone at the table is staring at me and I just want to die.
‘What’s he doing here?’ asks Philip.
Someone must ask him who it is that’s kneeling on the floor like an eejit beside me, because then I clearly hear Philip saying, ‘Her ex-boyfriend.’
It’s like Chinese whispers all round the table; all I can pick up is: ‘Ex-boyfriend’; ‘What does he want?’; ‘Will someone get rid of him before the winner’s name is called out?’
Then Jay makes a huge show of opening the envelope.
By now, He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken has grabbed my hand and won’t let go.
‘Get off!’ I manage to hiss at him, but he just grips on tighter.
‘And the winner is … oh, I’m so happy!’
‘Amelia, I want to marry you.’
‘What did you say?’ I turn to him, mortified at the scene we’re causing.
‘I said I want to marry you.’
I look at him, stunned. So does everyone else within hearing distance and then …
‘Best producer is … Amelia Lockwood for Celtic Tigers!’
A roar of applause and now I think I’ll faint.
There’s a camera practically up my nostril and everyone is staring at me and my phone keeps beep-beeping as a load of texts from the Lovely Girls come through and all the time He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken won’t release this iron grip he has on my hand.
I stand up and try to shake him off, but I can’t.
I’m in deep, total shock but somewhere at the back of my mind, I know I now have to get up to the podium where Jay is standing with a big trophy, looking at me.
They’re all looking at me.
The applause gradually dies down.
The silence will haunt me to my grave.
‘I asked you to marry me,’ repeats He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken, slowly, calmly. You’d swear he had this planned. ‘I made the biggest mistake in my life when I let you go and now I’m asking. On bended knee. In front of all these people. Will you marry me?’
It’s a nightmare. On the huge screen behind the stage all I can see is a giant close-up of my face, scarlet with sheer mortification and what’s worse is that He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken seems to be getting a kick out of the fact that there are probably a million people watching this at home.
‘Come on, Amelia. Don’t all women love big, romantic gestures?’
I don’t know how, but somehow I manage to break free from him and stumble up to the stage. Jay reaches down for my hand and helps me up the steps.
I’m the only winner in history who has to walk up to collect their award in absolute, stony silence.
Jay hands me the trophy. ‘Quite a side show you had going there,’ he quips. ‘I’m the draw here, you know. There’ll be no upstaging.’
There’s a tiny ripple of laughter and I realize that I’ll have to speak. There’s no way out of it. Make a joke, says my inner voice. Just do it quick. Anything, absolutely anything’s better than the silence. ‘Thank … thank you all so much,’ I say into the microphone, in a tiny voice that you’d swear was coming from a continent away.
Three hundred faces are looking up at me. He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken is still at my table, just standing there.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘as you’ll all have noticed, I was very unprepared for this.’
A ripple of laughter.
‘If you saw that as a plot on Celtic Tigers you probably wouldn’t believe it.’
More laughs.
Then someone at the very front table shouts up at me, ‘So will you marry him? Poor eejit is standing there waiting on an answer.’
Murmurings and mutterings, which in my shocked state I can somehow still take in.
‘No, I won�
�t,’ I hear myself saying.
There’s an audible gasp.
‘I’m sorry, but if you all knew the full story, you wouldn’t either.’
More shocked ripples and murmurings.
‘Are you with this guy? Is that what the problem is?’ says He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken, pointing at Philip.
‘No,’ Philip and I both say in unison.
Then, for even further public humiliation on live TV, Philip adds, ‘I’m not her boyfriend.’
‘Ahhh, go on, marry him,’ someone shouts from the back row. ‘That’s very romantic what he’s doing. You can’t dump the poor guy in public like this.’
A sort of chant starts up. ‘SAY YES! SAY YES! SAY YES!’
‘You don’t understand, none of you understands,’ I almost wail. ‘He dumped me in the worst way possible and if it weren’t for my best friends I’d never have got through it.’
‘Why did he do that?’ asks Jay, who’s standing right beside me.
‘You know yourself, wouldn’t make the commitment. He said it wasn’t me, he didn’t want to be with anyone,’ I answer, almost forgetting that there’s a microphone in front of me. ‘And by the way, if there’s anyone watching who’s with a guy who says he doesn’t want to make a commitment, let me translate. It just means he doesn’t want to make a commitment to you.’
A few tsks-tsks from the audience.
‘Then, only a few months later he got engaged to a twenty-three-year-old.’
There’s a tiny bit of booing from the back of the ballroom now.
‘Then they moved in right across the road from me.’
Now the booing’s growing and beginning to get scary.
‘Then his fiancée got second thoughts about him and he tried to come back to me. He thought it was just going to be that easy.’
‘Don’t do it, Amelia!’ I can hear a woman’s voice shout. ‘Say no!’
‘I am saying no. No, all the way. He doesn’t love me. If he did, he’d have asked me to marry him when we were together. He’d plenty of opportunity. We were together years. He just wants someone to pick up the pieces for him. No. Not me. It’s not good enough.’
Tears are streaming down my face now and the audience start cheering. Now there’s a new chant. ‘SAY NO! SAY NO! SAY NO!’
My voice sounds stronger now. I can see He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken being forcefully escorted towards the exit by security, and I smile, relieved.
Mortified, but relieved.
They’re still all looking at me and I decide to go out on a gag. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m so sorry you had to witness that. I’m used to humiliation, but not quite on this scale or in front of so large a crowd. Believe you me, I will be recounting the last few minutes of my life on therapists’ couches for years to come. I will now use this award to bash my ex over the head with for putting all of you through the last few, excruciating minutes. Thank you all again!’
The applause almost raises the roof and Jay takes the microphone from me as I make my way back to the table. ‘Well, thanks for the cabaret, Amelia,’ he says, a bit stunned. ‘I think we’d better go to a commercial break after that!’
And we’re out.
They’re still cheering and clapping as I get back to the table. With all the dignity I can muster, I pick up my handbag and make to go.
Suzy hugs me, squealing. ‘I can’t believe what I just saw with my own two eyes!’ she screeches. ‘Way to go!’
‘That was some spectacle,’ says Dave. ‘This is the only gong show I’ve ever been to where the lifetime-achievement award is going to be an anticlimax.’
‘You’ll all forgive me if I call it a night?’ I say, trembling. ‘I … I just … I need to be where other people are not.’
There’s a chorus of: ‘No! Not at all! Congratulations!’ from the gang and it’s just brilliant. I so badly need to be out of there.
Shit. One thing I forgot. Philip.
I turn to him, aware that everyone’s still looking at me.
‘I really am very sorry,’ I say.
‘Not your fault your ex is a headcase.’
‘I meant about leaving now. You understand I can’t stay.’
‘Shortest date in history, then.’
I can’t even say: Yes, I’m sorry, let’s do it again sometime. Mainly because I don’t want to. ‘Goodnight, Philip,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you in work.’
I smile and am about to go when I hear him say, ‘And to think we gave women the vote.’ It’s a Philip Burkeism, but they’re not my problem any more.
I get a huge round of applause as I leave the ballroom and I wave as gracefully as I can. It’s only when I get outside that, with a trembling hand, I think to check my mobile phone.
Fifteen text messages.
Jamie: SO PROUD OF U MY DARLING! U R LIKE THE WINNER WITH FEET OF CLAY!!
Rachel: IT WAS EMPOWERING WATCHING U GIVE THAT BASTARD WHAT FOR ON LIVE TV! SO PROUD TO BE YR FRIEND! WHO DO U THINK WILL PLAY U WHEN THE EVENTS OF TONITE R MADE INTO A MOVIE?
I’ve made it outside the Four Seasons and the doorman, seeing the state I’m in, hails me a taxi. ‘Are you all right, madam?’ he asks, concerned. ‘Can I get you anything? Some water, maybe?’
‘I’m … I’ll be fine, thanks,’ I half whisper, taking in deep, soothing gulps of air.
He backs off, tactfully realizing that I need to be alone, and my mind races. Did that really happen? Did He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken really propose to me, live to the nation? And I turned him down …
And you know what the really funny thing is?
Now that the initial shock is wearing off and I’m starting to think straight, I’m absolutely rock-solid one hundred per cent certain that I did the right thing. It would have been so simple just to say yes and forget the past and hope he’d have a personality change and that I’d have some chance of a happy married life with him. I could have gone back into Ira’s class next week and gloated. I could have finally got a foot into the Vera Wang. But it wouldn’t have made me happy. The easy thing would have been to say yes; the hard thing is to hold out and believe that there has to be something better out there for me.
Then a text from Caroline: SWEETHEART U DID THE RIGHT THING. ONLY THING U COULD HAVE DONE. SUGGEST U LEAVE THERE RIGHT NOW AND COME OVER HERE. WE R WAITING FOR U WITH A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE TO TOAST OUR WINNER. A WINNER IN EVERY WAY.
My eyes start to well.
Bless them. Where would I be without my friends?
The taxi pulls up and I hop in, give the driver Caroline’s address and ask if he can get me there as fast as he can.
OK, I think as the car pulls off.
So … I’ve just turned down a proposal of marriage.
So … I walked out on a date with a guy I wasn’t really interested in and who sure as hell didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in me.
So … I spent the last few weeks chasing ex-boyfriends in the hope it would help me find a husband, all with zero-percent success.
So … I’ve been chasing rainbows.
There’s nothing to be ashamed of. There’s nothing wrong with me. I just haven’t met the right one.
Not yet.
But you know something? Watch this space …
THE END … ?
HE LOVES ME NOT … HE LOVES ME by Claudia Carroll
In the heart of County Kildare is Davenport Hall – a crumbling eighteenth-century mansion house, ancestral home to Portia Davenport, her beautiful younger sister Daisy and their dotty, eccentric mother, Lucasta. Disaster strikes when their father abandons the family, cleaning them out of the little cash they have managed to hold on to. But a ray of hope appears when Steve Sullivan, an old family friend and confirmed bachelor, suggests that they allow the hall to be used as the location for a major new movie.
So Davenport Hall is taken over by the crème de la crème, including the self-centred Montana Jones, fresh out of rehab and anxious to
kick-start her career, and Guy van der Post, a major sex symbol with an eye for Daisy. Throw in Ella Hepburn, Hollywood royalty and living legend, and soon there’s more sex and drama off-camera than on!
‘It bubbles and sparkles like pink champagne. A hugely entertaining read’
PATRICIA SCANLAN
‘Heatwarming and witty. A wonderful début from Ireland’s
new answer to Jilly Cooper’
MORAG PRUNTY
‘It made me laugh out loud’
ANITA NOTARO
‘Fabulous fun – a sparkling début’
KATE THOMPSON
9780553816648
BANTAM BOOKS
Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Page 33
