Hopes & Dreams

by Claudia Carroll

  So you can understand why at this very moment, I’m slumped down against the top stair, checking the number of the incoming call to make sure it’s not some eejit playing a cruel practical joke on me. Definitely Channel Six calling. No mistake.

  ‘So where would suit you to meet?’ she asks politely.

  Again, gobsmacking in itself. On the rare occasions when Liz wants to see anyone, they’re told to be at her office at X time and woe betide you if you’ve a problem with that.

  I manage to stammer, ‘Emm … well, you see, I’m over on the Northside now and I don’t have a car, so it would take me at least an hour to get over to you …’

  ‘Oh no, Jessie, not here. I’m taking you out to lunch. How about we meet half-way? The city centre, perhaps. I suggest Marco Pierre White’s restaurant. Do you know it?’

  ‘Umm … yeah.’

  Everyone knows it. Mainly because it’s probably the swishest, priciest restaurant in town.

  ‘Great. Well, I’ll book a table and see you there for 1 p.m. Until then, Jessie.’

  It takes me ages to get ready because I’m just not used to going anywhere posh. Bizarre, getting all glammed up for lunch, when these days all I live in is jeans. Like a flashback to the old days. Plus I keep having to slump down on the bed beside Sharon and say over and over again, ‘Why? Why does she want to see me?’

  ‘Because you’re a mad bitch and she feels sorry for you?’ says Sharon helpfully. ‘Or maybe she wants to recommend a good psychiatrist for you? You know, after you had to be hauled out of there by security men the other night.’

  ‘She already fired me. She’s done her worst. The only reason she could possibly want to see me is to read me the riot act about the scene I caused with Emma, but thing is, I don’t work for her any more. So why bother reopening old wounds?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ says Sharon, sitting up in bed and reaching out to light her first fag of the morning. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing. After everything the old witch put you through, the bleeding least she can do is treat you to a posh nosh-up.’

  ‘She’ll have to. You think I can afford Marco Pierre White’s on what Radio Dublin pay me?’

  I’m waiting so long for the bus that I arrive a bit late. But feeling strong and confident, I have to say, wearing my one and only Peter O’Brien suit which screams, ‘You may have canned me, but this phoenix has risen from the ashes and I have another job now … HA!’ I arrive at the restaurant, probably the only person lunching here this afternoon who used public transport to get here. I step inside and the maître d’ immediately guides me to a quiet window table where Liz is already waiting. She waves away my apologies for being delayed, which again is unheard of. Liz is famously punctual herself and therefore unbelievably intolerant of it in others.

  Mercifully, she comes straight to the point. ‘I’m fully aware of everything that happened the other night,’ she says, clipped and articulate as ever.

  ‘Liz, I know I was out of line, but you’ve no idea how furious I was with Emma.’

  ‘Perfectly understandable,’ she nods, waving the waiter away so we can have some privacy.

  ‘I knew it was the dry run of her show,’ I continue, determined to get at least this much out of the way, ‘and that I couldn’t have engineered a worse time to have it out with her, but believe me, I’d no choice. She kept walking away from me and over my dead body was I letting her get away with what she’d done.’

  ‘Quite right too.’

  I’m gabbling on a bit, so there’s a two-second time delay before it hits me; Liz is agreeing with me.

  ‘Thing is, Jessie,’ she says briskly, ‘I’ve read the email. And what’s more, I checked up on the facts.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I tracked down the infamous Joe de Courcey, Head of Mercedes Ireland.’

  Now my heart stops. ‘And?’

  ‘And once I assured him that this would be a private conversation which would go no further, he verified everything for me. But he was at pains to stress that he genuinely had no idea this constituted a breach of ethics until he read about it in the papers.’

  ‘After I’d already been fired. When it was too late.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. Trouble was, Mercedes by then had been name checked in every national paper, so he felt it best for the company’s corporate image not to pour more oil on the fire, as it were. He was most apologetic about not coming forward of course, but it would have meant a hugely negative press story for Mercedes. Naturally, the last thing they wanted.’

  ‘Exactly what Steve said,’ I say, thinking aloud.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. A friend. A good friend.’

  ‘But that’s not the main reason I asked you here, Jessie. There’s something else that you should know.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As of this morning, Emma Sheridan is no longer an employee of Channel Six.’

  My jaw falls to the table. ‘You fired her?’

  It’s at this point I have to remind myself to breathe.

  ‘I called her into my office and demanded a full explanation from her. Firstly about the contact she’d had with Mercedes Ireland and secondly, about her sly manipulation of a fellow work colleague. Astonishing really, she behaved almost like a politician. Even in the face of incontrovertible evidence, she denied, denied, denied.’

  OK, now I don’t know what to feel. Half of me is vindicated that Emma finally got her come-uppance but at the same time, it’s awful that another human being has to go through what I went through. Although, mind you, she had no difficulty standing by and watching me crash and burn.

  But still.

  ‘Liz, I never meant for Emma to lose her job over this, all I intended … I mean, all I wanted was to look her in the eye and tell her I knew what she’d done to me. That she hadn’t got away with it, as she’d thought.’

  ‘You’re completely missing the point, Jessie. You were fired for breaking an ethical code. And Emma was fired for breaking a moral code. I like to delude myself that we’re a team at Channel Six and she most definitely did NOT behave like a team player. You were constantly outpolling her in the audience popularity stakes and it seems this was her attempt to get you out of the way. Atrocious behaviour and I for one felt that I could never work with her again after that. Because how could I possibly work with someone I can’t even trust?’

  I slump back against the chair and take a gulp of water. Never in my wildest flights of fancy did I think that Emma, the model of professionalism, would do anything to endanger her precious career. In fact, I almost want to take a look out the window, just to check that the world hasn’t, in fact, come to an end.

  ‘However, my prime concern,’ Liz continues, fanning herself with the wine list, ‘is that this be kept out of the media. It’s highly damaging to us in the long run. I’m meeting with our PR people later this afternoon and we’re putting out a joint statement saying Emma Sheridan felt this was the right time for her to leave the station. For personal reasons. She’s reluctantly agreed to this, but then she has little other choice. From her point of view, it means she doesn’t have to leave in disgrace and at least it allows me to get rid of her quickly and quietly.’

  ‘Some chance of it not leaking out though, Liz. Even when I worked there, Channel Six was always more like a colander than a TV station. Stuff gets leaked all the time. And remember, a whole studio audience saw the sideshow for themselves. All it takes is for one person for go on Twitter and that’s the end of all containment.’

  ‘I agree. Which is why I’m asking you not to give any interviews to the press. Who I’m sure will be in contact with you in the days to come. Let’s at least try to limit this.’

  I’m about to do as she asks, mainly out of shock than anything else and then it hits me … hang on a second.

  My reputation is at stake here too. I was vilified in the papers and now I’m exonerated, so if the press ring me wanting the story clarified, why wou
ld I say no? It’s not like I’m an employee of Channel Six any more anyway, so shouldn’t I just be delighted at any chance to clear my good name? Plus, after everything Emma’s done, she’s getting to leave with her reputation intact, so why shouldn’t I grab at the chance to restore my own?

  ‘And now, the carrot,’ Liz continues. ‘In return for your full co-operation, I’d like to offer you your old job back. Subject to your agreement, Jessie Would can be back on the air, with a new co-presenter, within a matter of weeks. What do you say? Jessie?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  As soon as Liz sweeps off in a taxi, I find myself wandering aimlessly up Dawson Street and into the relative calm of St Stephen’s Green. Need air. Need headspace. Need to digest what’s just happened to me.

  I find a quiet park bench and sit down, taking deep, soothing yoga breaths. In for two and out for four. In for two and out for four. The offer on the table is thus (and frankly, it’s a miracle I was even able to concentrate on what Liz was saying, my head was swirling that much): I have my old job back. With a ten per cent pay rise. I’ll have a brand new contract in a few days’ time. As soon as that’s signed, I’ll be back on full salary. Jessie Would could be back on the air in as little as two months’ time.

  Through the cloud of shock that’s come over me, I have to keep reminding myself that this is very, very, very good news. This is the answer to my prayers. So why am I not dancing down the streets singing ‘Hallelujah’? And then it hits me. It’s not numbness or astonishment at all, is it? No, it’s guilt, pure and simple. Because now I have to tell Steve that I’m leaving Radio Dublin.

  Amazingly, considering The Midnight Hour is such a late-night, low-budget gig, Liz was fully aware that I was presenting it and even went as far as congratulating me on its success. But there’s just no way that I’d be able to combine working those late hours with the full-on pressure of hosting Jessie Would, so it was unspoken but glaringly obvious between us that I’d have to quit Radio Dublin. When I’d barely even started. And when Steve was so good to take a chance on me in the first place. But some little voice in my head told me to stand firm with Liz, even though she’s famously tough in negotiations.

  So I did. I told her in no uncertain terms that the manager of Radio Dublin was a close, personal friend who’d helped me out at a time when friends were thin on the ground for me. And that the very least I could do was to stay on and work for him, until a replacement could be found.

  ‘But Radio Dublin is only a small local station! This is national television I’m talking about here,’ was her dumbfounded reply.

  ‘And I’m more than happy to go back to work for you. But I’m not leaving them high and dry at Radio Dublin. It’s not fair. It wouldn’t be right.’

  Liz smiled wryly, I think a bit unused to loyalty. So the deal we made was this: a contract gets sent to my agent ASAP, and on signature, I’m straight back on the Channel Six payroll, like nothing ever happened. Meanwhile I put in a few hours pre-production each afternoon on Jessie Would, which is just about all I’d be able to manage, given my night-time radio commitments. Then, as soon as I’m replaced on The Midnight Hour, I go back to full-time work at Channel Six.

  It’s a dream gig and she’s handing it to me on a plate. Liz is even offering to put out a press release later in the month, when any fuss about Emma’s leaving will have died down, to say that ‘After careful consideration and in light of new information, it’s been decided that the termination of Jessie Woods’s contract was deeply regrettable.’ She actually drafted the bones of the press release on a paper napkin right in front of me, wafting it under my nose for approval.

  And in return for everything I’m being offered, my instructions are clear. Under no circumstances am I to discuss this with the press and if asked, all I’m authorised to say is, ‘After weighing up all my options, I’m now absolutely delighted to be back on air with a new series of Jessie Would.’

  You get it. Plug the show at all costs and brush all unpleasantness under the carpet.

  So now all I have to do is tell Steve.

  I call his mobile from my park bench in the Green and he says he’s just about to go into a meeting, but that he’ll call me right back. Then, sensitive as ever, he asks if everything’s OK and I tell him I need to talk. Urgently. Outside of work though, if he has time for a quick coffee.

  So we agree to meet in an hour’s time in Bewley’s café on Grafton Street. I think the wait is the longest hour of my life.

  He bounces in, all tall and blond and scraggy and, it’s sweet, his face actually lights up a bit when he spots me in a quiet corner table, pale and still rattled by all that’s happened. Funny, but now that I’m about to hand in my notice, all the awkwardness that was between us has now evaporated.

  I fill him in on everything that’s happened with Liz Walsh and he’s utterly amazing about the whole thing. So much so, that it actually magnifies the guilt I’m riddled with.

  ‘Look,’ he smiles gently, ‘to be honest, it was a coup for us to get someone with your experience to do a graveyard slot for us in the first, so hey, you’re the one who’s done me the favour. And it’s decent of you, offering to stay on until I find someone to replace you. You don’t have to do that. Not many people would have.’

  ‘Hey, you rescued me from a lifetime of burger flipping, remember? You gave me a break when no one else would and the very least I can do is help you out until you find a new presenter.’

  ‘So,’ he says looking intently at me. ‘You must be on top of the world right now. Everything you ever wanted, handed right back to you? I’d be cracking open the champagne in your shoes.’

  I can’t answer, so I just bang a spoon off my coffee mug instead.

  ‘Jessie, is everything OK?’

  And that’s when the truth hits me, sharper than a chilli finger poked into my eye. What they call in TV the ta-daa moment. This doesn’t feel right, it just doesn’t. Yes, I’m thrilled to go back to Channel Six, of course I am, but the thing is … the gig at Radio Dublin saved my life. Do I really want to walk away from it just like that? I loved chatting to the listeners and really felt like, even in a small way, I’d made some kind of difference after each show. Then another back-up thought: Channel Six were so terrifyingly quick to dump me once before, who’s to say they won’t do it again if I messed up for a second time?

  ‘Steve …’ I say, sitting forward and meeting his blue gaze, ‘I’ve something to ask, something big and I’m going to fumble it, so you have to listen. Call me a greedy cow who wants to have her cake and eat it but the thing is … Liz Walsh wants me to leave Radio Dublin … and I don’t. I love working there. I love working with you. And I know it’s impossible for me to do The Midnight Hour and work for Channel Six.’

  Suddenly he’s sitting forward, all animated. ‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be a problem,’ he says, thinking on his feet. ‘Of course it’s out of the question your doing The Midnight Hour six nights a week any more, but how’s this for a suggestion? You still work for us, except now we call the programme Woods at the Weekend,’ he says, buzzing with excitement now, running his fingers through his hair. ‘And it goes out one night a week, on a Sunday, when you’re not shooting for Channel Six. It would be the same basic show, maybe slightly longer, but still with the original format: listeners call in with dating horror stories and you interact with them. What do you say?’

  ‘It’s … I mean … that would be … It’s completely perfect.’

  So perfect that for a second, all I want to do is hug him. But I don’t, I just look at him, smiling and teary at the same time. Not trusting myself to believe just how well things have worked out. We both get up to leave as he’s another meeting later on and needs to go.

  Then he stops for a second and gently takes my arm, suddenly looking … I don’t know, confused? Conflicted? God, if there’s another woman out there worse at reading men than me, I’d really like to meet her.

  ‘Look, Jessie,’ he says,
tenderly. ‘About the other night—’

  ‘No, no, no need to say a thing, it was all my fault—’

  ‘No, what I wanted to say was that, well … I know that you’re still getting over a bad break-up and I know how hard that can be.’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘Just in case you wondered why I’d stepped back a bit …’

  ‘No, not at all …’

  Great, now we’re back to the fragmented sentences again.

  ‘So I’ll see you at the Comedy Cellar for Maggie’s gig this Sunday then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I smile. ‘Definitely.’

  For a split second, I think he’s about to lean down and kiss me – and half of me wouldn’t mind it if he did – then next thing, my mobile rings. Roger Davenport, my agent. ‘Oh shit, I have to take this,’ I stammer, nearly dropping the phone.

  He just nods, tweaks my chin and winks down at me. And then he’s gone.

  By that evening, Roger has a contract from Channel Six, pay rise included, signed, sealed and delivered. Just like that. With a night off on Sunday, so I can continue to work at Radio Dublin too. It’s the best of all worlds, and it’s mine for the taking. But what’s completely weird is that I still don’t feel euphoric or even remotely like celebrating.

  Because there’s still someone else I have to talk to and I’m looking forward to it as much as root canal.

  Sharon.

  By the time I get home, she’s on her own in the kitchen, reading Hot Stars magazine and eating a pizza, while Maggie practises her routine in the TV room. Perfect time to get her, right after food. I fill her in on all the developments then, drawing a deep breath up from the floor, go for the one sentence I’ve dreaded having to tell her.

  ‘The thing is, Sharon …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, I mean, now that I’ve got my old job back and everything, well … it’s probably time I thought about … you know …’