‘For how long now?’
‘Since I first started doing freelance bits of reporting for Channel Six. Then I got a tiny little feature-ette on what used to be her talk show…’
‘Oldest motivation in the book. She was jealous of your popularity and in one fell swoop this got rid of you in such a way that it would almost be impossible for you ever to come back.’
‘It has to be a mistake. I just can’t believe it of her…’
‘Like in all conspiracy theories, the first question you have to ask yourself is, who stood to benefit? Answer: Emma Sheridan. Look at what she’s gained; not only has she got you out of her hair, she’s even got her own talk show.’
‘But why would she do something so daft as to leave an incriminating email lying around the office? Suppose someone had found it?’
‘She slipped up. Look at the date on the email; the day before your very last show. Sounds to me like she saw her opportunity and grabbed it, but was up against the clock. Which didn’t exactly leave her much time to cover all of her tracks, did it? Maybe she meant to delete the email but printed it off accidentally because she was in such a blind panic. Maybe, I dunno, maybe someone in the office interrupted her, so she shoved it somewhere, fully intending to shred it later on when she had more privacy. But the point is, no one did find the email, did they? Even you only stumbled on it by chance.’
‘Oh my God, I just thought of something else!’ I interrupt him, suddenly sitting bolt upright.
‘The runner who dropped all my stuff from the office around here? Her name is Amy and I called her to say thank you. But now I remember…She said something that struck me as really odd…’
‘Namely?’
‘That right after that awful last show…’ My voice is actually breaking now.
‘Come on, Jessie, deep breaths.’
I do what he tells me. In for two and out for four. In for two and out for four…‘After I was fired and everything,’ I go on, a bit calmer now, ‘Amy said she went to the production office and found Emma already there, shredding stuff. Which I thought was beyond weird. Why shred documents? It didn’t make sense.’
‘Well it does now. It’s classic,’ says Steve, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry to have to say this, but it seems to me that all along, Emma was nothing more than a smiling assassin.’
‘A smiling assassin,’ I repeat dully. Knowing deep down in my heart that he’s right. Other things start coming back to me too. The day she helped me clear out all my good clothes and I ended up bringing the wrong bags to the second-hand store. Joan said she’d distinctly told her that the labelled bags were hers, destined for Oxfam, but there was still a mix-up. I thought nothing of it when Joan told me this, figuring it was just one of those unfortunate things that was no one’s fault. And I know it’s nothing I can ever prove, but now I’m thinking, could it have been deliberate? Pure malice? To keep me down and out and broke and in my place?
Then something else hits me. ‘She didn’t want me to take the radio gig either.’
‘Now why does that not surprise me? Of course she didn’t. Last thing she’d want is you back in the public eye again. Hard to hear, Jessie, I know, but it’s true.’
There’s a silence while I try to digest this. But I can’t get away from the facts that are staring me in the face. And now there’s something else bothering me.
‘The guy from Mercedes Ireland, this Joe de Courcey fella,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘Here’s what I don’t get. Given the momentous coverage my sacking got in all the papers, wouldn’t he have come forward to tell the truth about what happened? That he offered Emma the car first, but she turned him down and suggested me to him instead? Why would he stay as silent as the grave and watch me hang?’
‘I’m sorry to have to say this,’ says Steve gently, ‘but welcome to the world of big business, Jessie. The question is, why would he even need to come forward? What did he want out of all this anyway?’
‘Well…publicity.’
‘Yeah, now work from there. Not only did he get about two hundred times more press than Mercedes could ever have hoped for, but it didn’t even cost him the price of a new car either. That de Courcey guy is in a win-win situation and don’t you forget it. It’s in his interests to keep his mouth shut.’
I slump back on the bed, utterly stunned.
‘Are you OK?’ Steve asks, warm and concerned.
‘It’s just an awful lot to take in. I mean, look at me. I’ve just found out that I was betrayed by the one person from my old life who I actually thought was a decent, honourable human being.’
‘Caesar liked Brutus and look where that got him.’
Suddenly I’m up on my feet. Because I can’t just hang around here any more, I have to do something.
‘Steve, I need a favour.’
‘Name it.’
‘Will you give me a lift on your bike? There’s somewhere I need to be. And it can’t wait.’
‘Sure, but where do you want to go?’ ‘Channel Six. Right now.’
Chapter Seventeen
The conversation between myself and Steve on his bike goes a bit like this:
Him: ‘Jessie, are you absolutely sure that this is a good idea?’
Me: ‘Doesn’t this fecking yoke go any faster?’ ‘Seriously,’ he says, turning to me when we’re stopped at traffic lights. ‘Why not just call Emma?’
‘Because…because I want to show her the email printout, don’t I? I want her to know that these aren’t just false accusations, I have proof of what she did to me.’
‘You do have the printout safely on you, don’t you?’
‘Yup, shoved down my bra for extra protection.’
Then a fresh worry. ‘Steve, just tell me that there’s no room for misinterpretation here. We didn’t read it wrongly, did we? I mean, it’s not going to be something she can explain her way out of, is it?’
‘Hard one for her to wriggle her way out of. The facts are there, in black and white. All I’m asking you is, are you quite sure this is the right time and place to do this?’
‘Never been more certain of anything in my entire life. I want to wave the email in front of her, then watch her face turn funny colours. I want to hear what she has to say for herself.’
Although the truth is a bit more complex. As we zoom on, I’m rehearsing loads of great sentences to hurl at her in my head, but what I really want more than anything is to look Emma in the whites of her eyes and confront her directly, face to face. Where she can’t dodge me or try to brush me off. I want to point my finger at her and say ‘J’accuse.’ I want to say that, for months now I’ve had this one thought pressing on me: that I was the architect of my own downfall, when all along I was nothing more than a puppet on a string. Most of all though, I want this shagging motorbike to go faster.
‘Why do you want us to go to Channel Six anyway?’ Steve yells back at me, shouting to be heard over the wind. ‘What I mean is, how do you even know she’ll be there?’
‘She’ll be there, trust me!’ I shout back. Because I know the way the station works like the back of my hand. Emma’s new show is scheduled to go out live next week, so the Saturday night before the show gets aired is always what they call ‘dry run night’. Kind of like a dress rehearsal. With a studio audience, a full camera crew, the whole works. And that’s where I’ll nab her. Privately in her dressing room before she goes on, with any luck.
I’m going over and over the whole thing in my mind and the part that really stabs like a knife to the heart is that I honestly thought that Emma was my friend. That she was on my side. The one person who stood by me in the dark days. But Steve’s on the money; the only reason she even bothered doing that was to make herself feel better. To ease her own survivor guilt and nothing more.
After what feels like a bloody age we eventually whiz through the gates of the industrial estate where Channel Six is. Funny, but up until today, I would have been all maudlin and nostalgic coming back here, seeing the s
ame building where I worked for so many happy years, seeing my old parking space, now most likely reallocated to Emma.
But not now. I’m not even trembling. There’s not a nerve in my body; I’m like ice. Nor will there be any emotional bungee jumping on my part this evening. No regrets, no wondering if I called this wrong and above all no letting Emma wangle her way out of it. I’ve been picking lumps of humiliation out of my teeth for far too long and now it’s payback time. Bring on the fight.
‘Do you want me to come in there with you?’ Steve asks when we pull up at the main reception door.
‘No need.’
‘I’m coming anyway.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
He squeezes my hand, we whip off our helmets and in we go.
First hurdle: getting past security. As we burst through the main reception doors, I’m silently praying that it’s some nice security guard who recognises me and who’ll let us through without a fuss. Trouble is that you need either a security tag or a visitor’s pass to get through and we have neither. There’s a TV monitor on the wall behind the security desk with a live feed coming directly from the studio floor, but the dry run hasn’t begun yet; all you can see are technicians fiddling with lights and the set decoration people busy doing their thing. So in other words, this couldn’t be a more perfect time for me to strike.
But I’m out of luck. The security guard on duty is a guy I’ve never set eyes on before, wiry, small and so thorough in his questioning that in the Cold War, he’d have done brilliantly working for the Stasi. ‘And you’re here to see who exactly?’ He glares at me.
‘Well, we’re actually here on kind of…emm…personal business, you see…’
Stasi guy folds his arms and I’m just waiting on him to tell us he’ll escort us off the premises if we don’t leave, when next thing I feel Steve’s arm slip around my waist.
‘What she’s trying to say is that we’re here for the show tonight, aren’t we, love?’ he grins cheekily. ‘We won two audience tickets and I can tell you this is the highlight of our week. Neither of us have ever been in a TV studio before, have we, honey?’
Now why didn’t I think of that?
‘May I see the tickets please, sir?’
‘Yeeeeeeeah, that’s the problem,’ says Steve, cool as you like. ‘You see, I thought all along that my girlfriend here had them, and she thought that I had them, but the thing is that neither of us do. In fact, they’re probably sitting on the kitchen table at home right now, aren’t they, sweetheart? Which is kind of funny, when you think about it.’
But Stasi guy looks unconvinced. So I pull out all the stops and join in the improv.
‘Please, you’ve no idea how much this means to us,’ I beg him. ‘We had a terrible fight on the way here about whose fault it was leaving the tickets at home and we’ve just come all the way from…’
‘Kerry,’ Steve finishes my sentence for me. ‘And it’s our anniversary. And being here for the show tonight is just so exciting for us. You’ve no idea.’
There’s a long, scary pause while Stasi guy looks at us, weighing up whether we’re two whack jobs on the loose or an actual, genuine case. But outright lying seems to do the trick because next thing he’s flourishing a biro at us and shoving the visitor’s book under our noses.
‘Sign here, please.’
We do as we’re told, both of us trying to conceal our triumph. Then we’re both issued with visitor’s passes and waved in the direction of the main door.
So far, so good.
‘It’s worse than bloody Fort Knox in here,’ Steve whispers to me as we pass through the door, then find ourselves in the long, narrow corridor that leads directly to the studio.
‘This way,’ I say, steering him down yet another tiny corridor which then leads on to the make-up and dressing rooms.
‘Good line-up for tonight,’ says Steve, noticing a few names on the dressing room doors. I take a quick glance too and it is pretty impressive, for a late summer talk show when a lot of A-listers would be on holiday. The Deputy Prime Minister for one, a boy band member who’s just announced his engagement is another; there’s even a bona fide Irish movie star, who’s been based in LA for years but must be in town to promote a new film. It has all the makings of a terrific programme. Shame about the presenter, is all I can think as we race down to the end of the corridor.
Next thing, a familiar face steps out of one of the dressing rooms and instantly spots me.
‘Jessie? Jessie Woods? Is that you under all that red hair? My God, it is you! Come here and give me a hug!’
I can’t believe my luck. It’s Amy, the lovely runner.
‘Oh my God, you’ve no idea how good it is to see you!’ I say, hugging her so tight I might break her.
‘Right back at you, babe. You’ve been sorely missed, I can tell you. I never remember there being any diva fits when you were working here.’ She shoots a significant look at the dressing room she’s just come out of and it’s then I notice the nameplate on the door. Ms Emma Sheridan. ‘Hey, introduce me to your friend, will you?’ Amy says, spotting Steve and immediately going to shake hands with him.
‘Oh, Amy, this is my good friend Steve. Steve, Amy.’
‘So what brings the pair of you here? Have you come to wish Emma luck for the dry run?’
I look at her for a split second, weighing up whether or not to confess all. But time is of the essence here, best to leave all explanations until later, I figure. On the other hand though, feigning that we’ve come all this way to wish Emma luck would at least guarantee that we get in to see her…But Steve steps in for me.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he grins winningly. ‘I’m a huge fan of Emma’s and have wanted to meet her for so long.’ God, he’s good. I almost believe him myself. ‘But then Jessie here suggested we pop in to see her before the show, just to let her know we’re all rooting for her. If it’s OK with you, that is?’
Between all his fair-haired, blue-eyed sincerity and the innocent lack of guile that Steve’s able to project, I can practically see Amy being completely won over.
‘Ordinarily I’d have said no problem,’ she says, dropping her voice a bit, ‘but the mood madam’s in tonight! You’ve no idea, she’s been on my case all afternoon with the stupidest demands you ever heard…’
With that, the dressing room door opens and out comes the woman herself. Emma. Dressed in a very expensive-looking cocktail dress and fully made up, with the most stunning jewellery I’ve ever seen. Looking like she always does: groomed, glossy and it chokes me to say it, but gorgeous.
‘Amy, I asked you for sparkling water five minutes ago and I’m still waiting for it—’ She breaks off, suddenly spotting me.
For a nano second, I detect a sliver of dread in her. Which she instantly covers. Covers so beautifully that I almost doubt myself and wonder if I was just imagining things.
‘Jessie! Oh sweetheart, it’s so lovely to see you! How are you?’
My God, what an actress is all I can think as she lunges into air kissing me. Sincere as you like, warm and friendly. As if she’s genuinely over the moon to see me.
I introduce Steve and she’s equally charming to him too.
‘So what brings you here, babe?’ she beams brightly at me.
‘Actually Emma,’ I say as firmly as I can, ‘I need a private word with you, if that’s OK?’
‘Can it wait? As you’ve probably noticed, I’m kind of in the middle of a show here.’
‘I’ll only take two minutes of your time, Emma, but I’m afraid that no, it can’t wait. This is important.’
‘Hey, so’s my new show, Jessie! You know how it is on a dry run night, all go. Tell you what, why don’t you and I meet up for a coffee really soon and we can have a chat then? But in the meantime, it’s lovely as always to see you. You take care now!’
I do not believe this.
She walks off, calmly as you like, as if I’m some minor annoyance that can be swept under the carpet an
d dealt with at a later date. Well, I’m sorry, I think, as a massive surge of rage bubbles up from my toes. Emma wouldn’t have a fecking show to do tonight had she not shafted me in the first place.
So I follow her. ‘Emma, I said NO. This is not something that can be brushed aside. I said I need to talk to you right now. And believe me, what I have to say will be far less embarrassing for you to hear in private.’
OK, now she’s ignoring me. Actually blanking me, as if I’m not even here. It’s bizarre, we’re all trailing in her wake down the narrow corridor which leads to studio one, but the only person she’s addressing is Amy, making some ludicrous, bossy demand about the preferred kind of mineral water she wants beside her during the show. She’s striding faster and faster and I’m almost running just to keep pace with her. Then, just as we’re at the door of the studio, I nab her. This is one problem that she’s not going to turn her back on.
‘Emma, if you’d rather I spoke to you in public, then that’s your call,’ I say right to the back of her head. She turns round to me, all smiles and lip gloss.
‘You know, Jessie, if you’d like studio audience seats, I’m sure Amy here can organise them for you and your friend. But I’m afraid that this is where I say goodbye.’
Christ alive, she’s treating us like fans, like we’re her obsessive admirers.
She’s right inside the studio door now, just behind all the steps where the audience are already seated and having a good laugh at the warm-up act. Then a make-up girl who I know well comes over to touch her up, before she goes on camera.
‘No powder, Cheryl,’ Emma orders her curtly. ‘You know how powder ages me.’
‘Oh, not this again,’ says Cheryl in exasperation. ‘Come on, you know perfectly well that you can’t go on camera without powder…’ And that’s when she spots me. Lurking in the background like the ghost of TV shows past. Just waiting to pick my moment. ‘Oh my GOD, Jessie Woods…it is you! I hardly recognised you! Oh it’s such a treat to see you.’ She instinctively comes over to hug me but Emma stops her in her tracks.
Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother Page 28
