I punch him playfully and then thank Ian warmly too. If it hadn’t been for the intensive crash course he gave me in the past week, I’d never in a million years have been able to pull this one off.
‘Now, come on you,’ Steve says to me, ‘grab your bag, I’m taking you out for a late bite before you go home for your beauty sleep. It’s the least Radio Dublin can do after such a terrific debut.’
A yawning Ian understandably declines to join us, but I’m so buzzed up and pumping full of adrenaline, that there’s just no way on earth I’d ever be able to go home and sleep, so I do what I’m told. Half an hour later, Steve and I are sitting in the Eddie Rockets diner on South Anne Street, in a booth facing each other. He’s tucking into a hamburger while I’m having a hotdog with chilli fries on the side. What can I say? After a show, I need the carb-hit. It was ever thus, even after doing an episode of Jessie Would. And, yes, I know that boring through these tiny wormholes back to the past is akin to scratching at a scab then wondering why it’s not healing, so I’ll just make this one, small little comparison.
Back then, in a different life, after-show relaxation would usually involve duck liver pâté and foie gras washed down with enough bottles of Cristal to take a bath in. Plus all of my post-work conversations seemed to be about one of three things: Sam, Sam’s career or how much money Sam was raking in. Whereas now with Steve, it’s actually hard to get him to chat seriously about anything; somehow the conversation always seems to descend into messing and giggles. Always playful, always lightweight, never, ever serious or professional.
‘Anyone ever tell you that you eat far too much junk food?’ I ask him, pretending to smack his hand after he robs a fistful of my chilli fries. ‘And what I can’t get over is that you’re still so thin! Whenever you give me a lift on the back of your bike, I can actually feel your ribs sticking out. It’s not fair. If I ate the amount of junk you do, I’d be the size of…’ I was about to say the size of Maggie, but don’t because it’s a bit too mean.
‘Hey, you’re speaking to a loyalty-card-carrying member of the Smiley Burger rewards club, I’ll have you know,’ he teases, wolfing back the chips two at a time. ‘What can I say? Apart from a big mammy Sunday dinner at my mum’s house, crap food is pretty much my staple diet. But if it’s my health you’re wondering about though, don’t worry. I draw the line at deep-fried Mars Bars.’
Now there’s a single guy statement if I ever heard one, but I say nothing, just smile and let it pass. Who knows what the story is with him and that swishy-haired one at Hannah’s party the other night?
Anyway, we chat some more, with me trying to get him to open up about himself and how he came to manage a radio station in the first place, but as ever with him, even serious chats somehow revert back to joking and messing. So then we talk about The Midnight Hour, where I can go with it and what more I can do. Funny, but now I’ve one show safely under my belt and my confidence is slowly starting to come back, I feel like a racehorse whose gate has finally opened.
Steve’s full of apologies about the lateness of the slot, saying the audience is largely made up of late-night truckers and people staggering in from bars, but does make the point that if there’s any particular item I’d like to do or try out, that I’m more than welcome to. ‘As long as it’s not nude juggling on the radio that is,’ he grins, shoving a plate away from him and lazily stretching out, like he could stay here all night.
‘What?’ I nearly choke on one of my chilli fries.
‘Your predecessor chanced that one time. Course being a complete eejit, I hadn’t realised the date. April the first. I was a laughing stock in the office for weeks afterwards, I can tell you.’
‘I promise, The Midnight Hour will be a nude-juggling-free zone,’ I smile back. But my mind starts to race. Because I really want to bring something else to the show, to put my own stamp on it. Who knows? Maybe after the holy show I made of myself back at Channel Six, it’s my small way of proving to the world that I’m not a completely useless gobshite after all.
It takes a while, but my body clock is slowly beginning to adjust to the new working hours too. Most of the time I can’t get to sleep until well after 4 a.m., then stay in bed until midday, kind of like being a teenager all over again. Right down to Joan hammering on the bedroom door and screeching at me to get my lazy arse out of bed. I’m not officially meant to be at Radio Dublin until 9 p.m., but lately I’ve been heading into work hours earlier, mainly because Sharon’s been out with Matt more often than not and I’ve no intentions of spending my evenings stuck beside Maggie on the sofa, thanks very much.
At this stage, Matt’s called to the house a fair few times to collect Sharon, so I’ve had a proper chance to observe the two of them up close and personal, without the distraction of a christening party and a lot of drunken rowdiness going on in the background. From what I can see of the relationship dynamic, it’s like this: the more offhand and dismissive she is of him, the more he seems to like it. The highest form of affection she shows for him could best be described as a sort of irritated fondness. Whereas, he seems to be getting in deeper and deeper with her on a daily basis. She’s actually being a complete and utter Rules Girl without even realising it; doing all the things you’re supposed to do to keep a fella on his toes. You know, like never calling him, rarely returning his calls and treating him with a combination of mild annoyance and as a sort of emotional punch bag if she has something to give out about. And he seems to be loving every minute of it. It’s as if every time she tells him to feck off, he gets turned on. Weird. To think that I started out as Sharon’s dating guru and now it looks like I’m the one who should be taking tips from her.
Anyway, it’s about 7 p.m. on a warm, sunny evening about a week later, when I skip into the Radio Dublin offices. My head’s buzzing with ideas for tonight’s show and I’m still not sure which one to go with. By the time I get upstairs to the main office, it’s surprisingly busy with the drivetime show still on air and being broadcast live. I make my way to the tiny kitchen to grab a quick coffee before mapping out tonight’s play list then filling in the blanks between. I’m absentmindedly pouring out the coffee with my mind in fifth gear when, out of nowhere, something catches my eye. I drift over to the noticeboard just beside the fridge and take a closer look. No. I wasn’t seeing things. There it is, in black and white. The possible answer to all our prayers.
I read it again, just to be certain. It’s a flyer, buried at the back of about a dozen other flyers with ads for things like second-hand Fiat Puntos for sale and holiday cottages in Ballynahinch to let at recessionary rates. Without thinking twice, I do a lightning quick over-the-shoulder check to make sure there’s no one hovering behind me, then rip it off the wall and stuff it into my jeans pocket.
Because this one calls for extreme diplomacy and tact. In other words, this is something Sharon and only Sharon can handle.
It’s coming up to 10 p.m., getting close to show time and the office is by now almost deserted. I’ve been at my desk all this while, surrounded by scraps of paper with my ideas jotted out on them, utterly absorbed. Next thing, Ian drifts past my desk, looking tired and a bit hung over. But then he’s one of those guys with the permanently ghostly pallor of the night dweller. Like he’s allergic to daylight.
‘Hey Jessie, another great show last night, well done you,’ he says in a husky just-got-out-of-bed voice. ‘By the way, the boss wants to see you.’
I head into Steve’s office, which is a complete shambles with mountains of newspapers on the desk in front of him and an electric guitar propped up against the doorframe. I can’t help smiling as I look at him; you just couldn’t meet anyone less boss-like. He’s sitting on the desk, long legs stretched out, wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt that I’m guessing has never been introduced to an iron in its entire existence.
‘There’s our rising star!’ he beams, jumping up to peck me on the cheek as I come in. ‘Get a load of this,’ he says, shoving a copy of
the Daily Herald at me. ‘Then you’ll appreciate why I’m sitting here basking in reflected glory.’
I turn to the page he’s pointing at to see what he’s on about. Not a news item at all, just the smallest little column buried in a corner of page eight, tucked up in between the weather report and today’s horoscopes. There’s a passport-sized photo of me taken when my hair was still blonde, with the caption: COMEBACK KID.
Fair play to Radio Dublin who’ve taken a chance on the previously unhireable Jessie Woods and have now allocated her their Midnight Hour show. We’ll be listening with great interest to see how she fares in this particular presenting medium, but in the meantime, we’d like to wish her every success and a warm welcome back to doing what she does best. Jessie, it’s been too long.
I can’t talk for a second, just look at Steve, gobsmacked. I’ve been on a self-imposed media blackout for ages now, petrified I’d only read something that would take a shovel to my self-confidence, so to see something kind appearing about me in the print media is…well, it’s lovely actually.
‘You deserve it,’ he grins, shoving the floppy hair out of his eyes. ‘And hey, I’m going down in history as the guy who got you back on the air again…’
‘It’s OK, you can finish that sentence. When no one else would,’ I laugh, sitting down on the empty seat opposite him.
He laughs, then stabs a biro at the pile beside him. ‘Quick idea for tonight’s show. These are all first editions of tomorrow morning’s papers; how would you feel about doing a short piece about what’s in them during your show? Nothing too heavy, just the lighter, more showbizzy stuff. And all distilled into your trademark style, of course.’
‘Terrific idea. Do you mind if I have a quick scan through all these?’ I ask, grabbing a newspaper and flicking through it.
‘Not at all, that’s what they’re here for. Here, I’ll even give you a hand.’
Pretty soon, the two of us are poring over the huge mound of papers on Steve’s desk, me with a highlighter pen in my hand, ready to mark anything that might just work. I stumble on a feature about Emma, an At Home piece, with a gorgeous photo taken in her state of the art kitchen, where she looks as groomed and flawlessly perfect as ever. All to plug her new TV chat show, which goes to air later this month. She’s been up to her tonsils with work lately, as have I, so it’s been a while since we’ve had a decent natter, but still, I make a mental note to call her and wish her all the luck in the world.
Then something else catches my eye. ‘When you said lighter stuff, does this count?’ I ask Steve, pointing to page fourteen of the Star.
‘Gimme the gist of it,’ he says without looking up from the News of the World.
‘OK, how’s this for a crap first date? A woman met a guy for dinner, but while she was in the bathroom, he filched the keys from out of her handbag and stole her car.’
‘You are so making that up.’
‘Cross my heart, it’s right here. There you go, real life trumps any fiction you could come up with yet again.’
‘Cool. Maybe chat a bit about rubbishy first dates and then you could segue into—’ He breaks off abruptly, tossing away the paper he was reading. I’m so engrossed in the stolen car story that I mightn’t even have noticed, only he made the fatal error of tagging on, ‘Ehh…no, no nothing at all in that paper, just ignore it.’
I look up at him.
‘But that’s the News of the World. Usually that’s the best for this kind of thing.’
‘Don’t worry about it, just leave it.’
Of course now my antennae are well and truly up, so I stroll faux casually over to where he flung the paper, then snatch it up to see whatever it is that he doesn’t want me to. Nosy bitch that I am.
‘Jessie, don’t, really, there’s no need…’
‘Ha, ha, too late,’ I laugh at him, scanning through it at speed.
Oh holy fuck.
I do not believe this. There it is, on the inside, page three. Sam. On the way to the launch of his new book, If Business is the New Rock & Roll, then I’m Elvis Presley. Held in the Mansion House this evening. And probably only getting into full swing right about now. Considering it’s only a book launch, they’ve printed a massive two-page colour spread; I’m only surprised they didn’t print a special pull-out-and-keep supplement to go with it, like they did with the moon landings.
Vintage Sam, his PR people had the press all lined up and ready to snap him and his celeb pals on their way in, nicely in time to make the early edition of all tomorrow morning’s papers. I know I shouldn’t read on but I can’t help myself. La douleur exquise and all that. Reading through the guest list is like a roll call of every single person who wouldn’t return my calls in the last few months. All present and correct, may it piss rain on the whole shower of them. Sam included. I mean, why can’t he just recoil from the public like a normal billionaire anyway?
Next thing I feel a warm, comforting arm around my shoulder. ‘Jessie, I’m so sorry,’ says Steve. ‘I didn’t mean for you to see this. I had no idea it was in the paper. I never would have suggested you read through them if I’d known…’
‘It’s fine. Really.’ I shrug his arm away. Because that’s how absolutely OK I am with this.
‘It’s completely understandable that you’re still cut up about it. These things take time. Sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes. Honestly. Stop worrying. I’m a big girl.’ Who’s starting to speak in jagged sentences, I’m suddenly aware.
‘You know what we say in showbiz,’ he says gently. ‘Today’s papers are nothing more than tomorrow’s glorified cat box liners.’
I smile, appreciating that he went for a gag.
‘Tell you something though, Jessie, when I saw that Sam Hughes on the documentary they made about you, I just felt like punching the git right in his smug, self-satisfied over-privileged gob.’
I look up at him and suddenly the biggest surge of deep gratitude comes over me. Now why weren’t you around when I was going through the break up? You’re the perfect combination of brotherliness and violence.
Show time and if I say so myself, I’m on fire. Got a lot to prove. Plus every time I think of Sam and his posh launch party in the Mansion House with his even posher friends and all their rarefied, over-moneyed lives, a huge wave of ‘I’ll show you’ energy surges up through me like a volcano.
‘So here’s one for all you listeners out there; why not phone me at The Midnight Hour with tips about…break-up behaviour? What is it that you like to indulge yourself in to help get you over someone? The phone lines are open, on 1850…’
It’s incredible. I could never have seen this coming. The phone never stops once for the entire duration of the two-hour show. In fact, I could stay on air until 4 a.m. and still not get through everyone. Men and women all calling in to describe how they cope or don’t cope in that nightmarish situation when you’re the dumpee in a relationship which you never wanted to end in the first place.
‘My top tip,’ one female caller rings in, ‘is to destroy all photos of you as a couple, where he looks hot and you look happy. It could set the whole recovery process back months if you happen to stumble on it at a weak moment. And of course, certain parts of the city are just out of bounds. Places you went together, bars where you know he hangs out…’
I barely have time to answer her when another line lights up. Joe from Irishtown rings in to say that the crucial element in recovering from a break-up is to constantly play on a loop in your head everything you hated about your ex. Over and over again, he insists, until you’re actually delighted NOT to be still dating them.
‘Get out more,’ says Gemma from Sandymount. ‘A lot more. Worst thing you can do is hole up in your house, like Anne Frank.’ Lizzy from Clontarf rings in to agree, with the added caveat that you must never, under any circumstances ever leave the house un-beautiful, on the grounds that the day you do saunter out in a manky tracksuit with three-day-old hair and no make-up, is the very
day you’re guaranteed to bump into him.
Then Tara from Temple Bar calls to say it helps to make out an iTunes list of the best break-up songs of all time. ‘Any suggestions?’ I ask tentatively. ‘I’m Not in Love’ by 10CC is her personal favourite, which by a miracle, Ian in the production box manages to root out of the library and we play it to take us out, as the show wraps.
Never in my whole life have two hours gone by in such a blink.
Steve is still there when I get out and offers me a ride home on the back of his motorbike, which I gladly accept.
‘I don’t know how you did it, Jessie,’ he says as we leave the deserted building together. ‘But it’s like you’ve tapped into something big here. Sure, I knew there were a lot of lonely hearts out there, listening in at this hour of the night, but what’s amazing is that they’re all fully prepared to ring in and talk about the most intimate, personal details of their break-ups.’
‘I know, I thought I’d never get that last caller to shut up about her ex. If she’d had a guitar, she’d have written a ballad about him.’
He snorts laughing.
‘Please tell me I’m not that bad,’ I say suddenly.
‘Jessie, no one is that bad.’
We speed through the near empty streets and he drops me right to my front door. I hop off the bike, hand back the helmet and hug him warmly.
‘Now I know we work you hard at Radio Dublin, so into bed and get your beauty sleep,’ he smiles. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come in for a coffee?’ I ask, feeling I should but kind of half hoping he’ll say no.
‘Another time. But tell Sharon I said hi, won’t you? And that she and that fella of hers are invited to my gig this Sunday night. You’re coming too, but then you don’t have a choice, even if it is your one and only night off. All Radio Dublin employees are required to attend the boss’s band sessions. It’s compulsory.’
Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother Page 25
