Hopes & Dreams

by Claudia Carroll

  Anyway, something in my expression must give Sharon the hint that this is one of those deeply painful, out of bounds topics because next thing she’s looking at me, almost with kindness in her eyes. ‘Do you want a Crunchie?’ she offers, fishing one out from the pocket of her tracksuit. Like a baby gorilla in a zoo thrusting out a spare banana at a teary child.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I don’t care what you say,’ she says firmly. ‘Sam can’t have been that bleeding perfect. There must have been some things about him that annoyed you. You know, the kind of things women are always bitching about in problem pages. Are you telling me that he never once, ever … like left the toilet seat up, or something?’

  She means well, so I haven’t the heart to tell her that his house has approximately seven bathrooms at the last count, so toilet seats were never really that much of an issue. I’ll say this much though, I’m getting to like this more humane side of Sharon. The side you never get to see when Maggie’s around.

  ‘It’ll get easier, you know,’ she eventually says, stubbing out her fag on the pavement.

  ‘It is easier. Look at me, I’m dressed. And out of the house.’

  Anyway, right now a subject change would be really good, so I get back to asking Sharon what’s on her boyfriend ‘cosmic ordering’ shopping list.

  ‘OK then. I’m assuming you’re going after the big three?’ I ask her, trying to sound efficient and business-like. ‘Looks, manners and money.’

  ‘Jessie, I’m a realist. I live at home with my mother and sister and I flip burgers for a living. What the feck do you think I’m doing with my life anyway, living the dream? And you might have been too dazzled by personality to notice, but I’m not exactly Scarlett Johansson in the looks department either. Now if women’s magazines have taught me anything it’s that you have to punch your weight in relationships. So all I really want is … just … just someone who doesn’t make me miserable.’

  ‘Come on, you’re setting the bar way too low! You can do far better than that. What you want to find is a soul-mate.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, but she’s gone off on a bit of a tangent. ‘I’m back on my diet. I lost three whole pounds when I was sick, you know. And I was doing really well yesterday too. I’d a Smiley Salad in work for lunch and then the low-fat Smiley Chicken Soup for dinner. You saw me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes … yes … I did. You were, emm … a model of discipline and self-control.’ We’re getting on well here so it’s probably not the best time to remind her about the fish supper she had right before she went to bed. Washed down with three tins of Bulmers.

  ‘And I might join Weight Watchers too. They have meetings in the Whitehall Parish Centre and that’s only five minutes away from us. ’Cos, be honest with me now, Jessie. Do you think I’ve a better chance of meeting a fella if I can get a stone off me?’

  ‘Emm …’

  ‘Tell me the truth, now.’

  ‘Well … you see …’ There’s just no right answer to that question.

  ‘Then on the other hand, I look at you and think, sure you’re skin and bone. You go around the place looking like all you weigh is your keys and clothes and you’ve no fella to show for yourself either, do you?’ A vintage Sharon comment, but to be fair to her, she’s being honest, not cruel.

  ‘Do you want a Polo mint?’ I ask her, rooting around in my bag, all this talk about dieting making me suddenly aware that I’d no breakfast.

  ‘Yeah. Givvus two to make up for the hole.’

  Half nine on the dot and the queue slowly begins to shuffle forward as the doors are opened. More waiting, then as soon as we get inside, Sharon tells me I need to queue up again at hatch fifteen. New claims. So yet more queuing as we slowly inch our way forwards. At the very top of the queue there’s a woman stridently saying at the top of her voice, ‘But you can’t do that to me! I know my entitlements!’ Then, at the hatch right beside her, there’s a little kid of about four scribbling on the walls in crayon while his dad signs on.

  ‘Could you kindly ask your child to refrain from drawing on my office wall?’ asks the welfare officer, a youngish guy with roundey glasses that kind of give him a look of Harry Potter.

  ‘What do you mean, your office wall?’ he retorts. ‘This is government property and the government work for me, so when you think about it, this is really my office, isn’t it?’

  Sniggers from everyone in the queue behind. And still more sniggers from Sharon when I naively ask whether or not I’ll get any actual cash today.

  ‘No, eejit. All you’re here for now is to make an appointment to come back to see the welfare officer. Then you come back in a few weeks and they’ll means test you.’

  ‘You mean we’ve queued for this long just to get an appointment? Couldn’t I have just … I dunno … rung up instead?’

  ‘Where exactly do you think you are, Cinderella Rockefeller? The hairdressers? The beauty salon?’ she almost guffaws into my face.

  ‘So when do I get to see any money is what I really want to know.’

  ‘Depends. Your claim will be backdated to today but if they feel sorry for you, then they might give you an emergency payout.’

  ‘So … is there any chance they might give me some of that emergency cash today?’

  ‘Are you joking?’ she nearly guffaws into my face. ‘You have to go to the local health centre to apply for it from the HSE. Oh yeah, and you have to be sure to tell them you’re actively seeking employment or else you won’t get a bean. And you have to say it like you mean it. You’ve no idea what a shower of suspicious bastards they can be.’

  ‘But how am I supposed to actively seek employment when no TV show for miles will touch me with a bargepole? Even my agent says there’s nothing for me at all until … well … until what happened blows over. Can’t I just explain to them that I’m like … a unique case?’

  ‘Well excuse me, your majesty. For feck’s sake, Jessie, just look around you. Everyone here is a “unique case”. Now build a bridge and get over yourself. And would you ever take off the sunglasses? Only Goodfellas wear sunglasses indoors.’

  ‘The point I’m trying to make,’ I argue back at her, reluctantly taking off the glasses and shoving them into my bag, ‘is I’m an un-hireable TV presenter. Which has to make me a special case.’

  ‘Listen to you, Little Miss Oh Don’t You Know Who I Am. Everyone here is in the exact same boat as you, except none of them got fired for being greedy and grabbing free cars in front of half the country. Now shut up and sign on.’

  It’s at this point that I’m about to give up, run outside and open a vein, but lo and behold, miracle of miracles, my turn finally comes. The dole woman is brisk and business-like as she hands me out a UB90 form to fill out, completely uninterested in who I am or what my ‘special’ circumstances are. When she sees the name on my passport, it’s the first time she actually makes eye contact with me, with a tiny flicker of interest in her eyes.

  ‘You’re Jessie Woods? Oh yes, well, under question fourteen of the Jobseeker’s Benefit Form, where it asks why your previous employment ended, just put that your employment was suddenly terminated.’

  Living in total isolation from the world at large as I am now, I’m inclined to forget that the dogs on the streets know all my business. Anyway, expertly groomed by Sharon, I must have answered all her questions right because after less than five minutes she’s going, ‘Next!’

  And that’s when it happens.

  I turn around and head over to where Sharon’s grabbed a free seat for herself, delighted to be done and dusted, and with a ‘can we go now?’ expression etched onto my face. But there’s two women standing right beside her, one with a buggy and one with a stroller, with about three kids each hanging out of them.

  ‘It is her!’ one of them says, staring at me like I’m some kind of exhibit in a wax museum. She has tattoos of all her kids’ names on her forearm written so large that even from a few paces away, I can still read
them clearly: Kylie, Britney and Rihanna.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ says her pal, who looks like she’s dipped her head in waaaay too much peroxide.

  ‘It definitely is! Sure she got fired from her TV show, didn’t she? Makes sense that she’d be here to sign on.’

  ‘Jessie Woods is miles better looking than her,’ says Peroxide Head. ‘That one looks like death warmed up.’

  Next thing, one of the kids is over to me. ‘Givvus your autograph, will you?’

  ‘Emmm …’ I stammer. ‘Well, actually, if you don’t mind, you see, I’m in a bit of a rush …’

  ‘If she takes off the baseball cap, then we’d be able to get a decent look at her. Tell her to take it off!’ says Tattoo Woman bossily.

  ‘Ehh, excuse me? Take off that baseball cap there for us, will you love? We can’t see your face.’

  Just get us out of here, I semaphore furiously over to Sharon, who seems to take the hint and slowly peels her bum off the seat to leave. But now it’s like a ripple has spread through the entire welfare office and all I can hear is, ‘Jessie Woods? From the TV show? For real?’

  Next thing there’s people whipping out mobile phones and taking photos. One guy is even videoing me on his iPhone.

  ‘Maybe she’s doing this for one of her dares!’ some bright spark at the back of the packed room calls out, as I battle my way through the crowd to the door. I’ve lost Sharon and now I can’t even see her.

  ‘Feck, does that mean there’s hidden TV cameras here?’ another guy with white emulsion paint streaks in his hair mutters to his pal as I inch my way past them. ‘I don’t want to end up as an extra on the telly. I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m working.’

  ‘She can’t be doing it for her TV show!’ yells a woman’s voice from the very back of the queue. ‘She got fired and the show was taken off the air. And now there’s nothing to watch on a Saturday evening except for bleeding Ant and Dec. I hate that pair of gobshites.’

  Christ alive, it’s a nightmare. By now I’m a public spectacle and what’s worse is I’m still a good ten feet from the bloody door. There’s people grabbing at me and in the mêlée I lose my baseball cap but I just keep battling my way through the throng thinking getmeoutofheregetmeoutofheregetmeoutofhere.

  I’m not joking; at one point a tall girl who looks a bit like a model actually thrusts a CV into my hand. ‘I always wanted to work in TV,’ she almost shrieks at me, ‘so if you wouldn’t mind passing that on to your agent or, you know, any producers you might still be on speaking terms with …’

  Then some joker sitting with the paper on his knee pipes up at the top of his voice, ‘What’s the difference between Jessie Woods and a pigeon? At least a pigeon can still make a deposit on a Mercedes, waa-haaa!’ He cracks up at his own gag and so do half the dole office and I swear I’m this close to bawling when out of nowhere, a rough hand grabs me, grips me tight and strongarms me towards the door, almost lifting me as we barge our way out. I look up gratefully to this knight in shining armour … and it’s none other than Sharon.

  ‘Will you all relax for feck’s sake?’ she yells at the crowd at the top of her voice. ‘She’s only a look-a-like! Used to make a fortune on the side doing twenty-firsts and thirtieths, but now God love her, she can’t get a gig to save her life on account of what happened to the real Jessie Woods!’

  I don’t know how she even does it, but somehow she manages to shove me safely outside with the speed of a presidential bodyguard and all I can do is gratefully whisper a barely audible ‘Thank you’ as I try to catch my breath.

  ‘No worries,’ she says, cool as you like, fishing out a fag from the depths of her tracksuit pocket. ‘Now all you have to do is find me a boyfriend and we’ll call it quits.’

  *

  Later that evening, as soon as she’s home from Smiley Burger and after all her soaps are finished, I go for it. Because let’s face it, after today, I owe her big time and I’m determined not to renege on my end of the deal.

  ‘Sharon? Can we go upstairs? I need to talk to you. We might also need to use your computer, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Oh, right. Eh … would this be about … emm, you know what, by any chance?’ she asks, hauling herself up and bringing a tin of Bulmers with her. ‘Yeah, sure, OK then.’

  Maggie’s antennae immediately shoot up. ‘What are you two at?’

  For a second Sharon and I lock eyes.

  ‘Nothing,’ Sharon mutters.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Well, something all right, but not really … emm … anything.’

  ‘Oh, if I begged you, would you share?’ says Maggie, thick with sarcasm and, I swear to God, Sharon actually looks mortified.

  I’m looking at the pair of them, thinking how bizarre and ridiculous this is. I mean, Sharon looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps. Like she’s actually embarrassed to tell Maggie what we’re up to. And OK, so maybe she did sneak down in the middle of the night to ask me about this but for God’s sake, it’s not like what we’re doing is something we have to keep as classified information, now is it?

  ‘As a matter of fact, Sharon has asked me to help her find a boyfriend,’ I say firmly, ‘and I need to talk to her about it privately, that’s all. The only reason we’re going up to her room is so we don’t disturb you watching What Not to Wear.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’ says Maggie, so shocked you’d swear I’d said, ‘Oh, Sharon’s anxious to join a local Al-Qaeda cell and I might just have a few underworld contacts who might help her out.’

  ‘Emm … well, you see …’ mutters Sharon weakly.

  ‘You want a boyfriend?’

  First time in my life I think I’ve ever heard Maggie being cutting to Sharon.

  ‘Come on, let’s get going,’ I say, leaving the room first.

  But Sharon stays behind me and when I’m half-way up the stairs I can’t help overhearing Maggie growl at her, ‘And you’re taking dating advice from Cinderella Rockefeller? The most publicly dumped woman in the country? Isn’t that a bit like taking PR advice from Princess Anne?’

  ‘Just back off and leave me alone, will you?’ says Sharon, slamming the door behind her.

  Tell you one thing. That is one helluva dysfunctional relationship.

  As soon as we’re safely up in the privacy of her room, she plonks down on the bed and launches into me. ‘What did you have to go and tell Maggie for? Now I’ll never hear the end of this.’

  ‘Well, excuse me, I hadn’t realised it was a state secret.’

  ‘You don’t know what she’s like. She’ll slag me about this for weeks.’

  ‘That’s daft, why would she do that?’

  ‘I dunno. I suppose she just wants, well, someone who’ll always be here to watch TV with her in the evenings. She doesn’t want me out and about, meeting fellas and dating.’

  ‘But what about when you were out with other boyfriends you had before?’

  She looks at me sheepishly. ‘That’s the thing, you see. I’ve never really … well … you know.’

  I don’t believe this. ‘Sharon! Are you telling me that you’ve never gone out with anyone? Ever?’

  ‘No! I’ve had loads of snogs and flings,’ she says defensively, ‘but never really anything … sort of … long term. Like you had with that Sam fella. Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting not to bring him up.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘But I think Maggie’s afraid that if I do meet someone, then I’ll be out gallivanting with him every night of the week. And then she’ll be stuck here on her own. Or worse, on her own with Ma.’

  ‘Not necessarily on her own. She’ll have me, won’t she? Come on, it’s not like I can afford to go out anywhere.’

  We both crack up laughing at the thought of me and Maggie cosied up together in front of the TV, without managing to gouge each other’s eyeballs out.

  ‘Seriously though,’ I say, ‘I don’t get it. Why neither of you ever want to get out of the house now and then, is what I mean
. It’s … well … it’s …’ I have to stop myself from saying, ‘… it’s beyond weird,’ so I just trail off into silence instead.

  ‘Well … Maggie says she’s only anti-social when she goes out, then finds there’s no one there that she actually wants to talk to. And we’re close so it’s just comfortable and easy to stay in. Tell me the truth, do you think we’re a bit odd?’

  ‘No, you’re not odd, you’re … emm … special. I mean, maybe it’s … you know, a bit unusual to see sisters quite as tight knit as you both are, but it’s … nice.’ Nice being the only euphemism I can come up with on the spot for ‘freaky’.

  ‘And then you see, the other thing is I’m always so knackered when I get in from work, I can’t face getting dressed up and going out anywhere. Not when I can just get a takeaway, a few tins and relax here.’

  ‘Well, then my next question is, how exactly do you ever expect to meet someone? Eligible guys tend not to go around knocking on doors wondering if there’re any hot, single chicks home. You’ve gotta get out of your comfort zone and put yourself in the line of fire. Which is why I’m suggesting that we go online and start you internet dating. Right now. Tonight. I’m throwing the baby into the paddling pool and not taking no for an answer.’

  ‘Internet dating? Ah Jessie, no,’ she almost splutters on her cider. ‘I want to meet normal fellas not perverts.’

  ‘It’s not like that any more,’ I reassure her. ‘When I was at Channel Six, half the women on the production team were at it. From the office, when they were meant to be working, more often than not. There’s no stigma about meeting people online any more you know, it’s just a way for busy people like you who work long hours to meet people from the comfort and safety of home.’ I threw in the ‘comfort and safety of home’ bit on purpose to try and lure her in.

  ‘Hmm,’ she says suspiciously. ‘But don’t some of these fellas have websites that say things like “Retired farmer seeks nubile young lass for fun times. Must have own chicken.”’

  ‘If they do, then we just ignore them. Simple as that.’

  ‘But supposing I do meet someone and I go on a date with him and he turns out to be a total weirdo?’