I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  She’s fabulously wealthy and doesn’t actually need to work at all, except that her father (probably one of the most successful people you’ll ever meet, who just happened to become a billionaire making, of all things, shower-curtain rings) thinks it does her the world of good to have a focus in life. That, and the fact that he owns the corporation that owns the company that owns Tattle magazine. And as Charlene herself puts it, having a ‘career’ is a really good way to appreciate her shopping time all the more. It also gives her something to chat to her other trust-fund-babe friends about, over three-hour-long, boozy, girlie lunches.

  I, on the other hand, do not have a billionaire dad who bankrolls me; I need this job to pay my rent.

  ‘Charlene, I’m sensitive to your . . . ehh . . . torment, but unfortunately, I have to work. My deadline’s tomorrow and as usual I’ve left everything till the last available minute. Now go away, I’m trying to concentrate.’

  I’m in a bit of a panic by now, mainly because our editor, or the Dragon Lady, as we all call her behind her back, is forever giving me grief about being unprofessional and missing deadlines and what’s even worse, the old she-witch is obviously in a firing humour today.

  ‘Oh come on, Cassie, don’t you have any psychic feelings on what I should do next?’ she asks me, flicking through a copy of next week’s Tattle magazine that’s lying on my desk. ‘My life coach says sooner or later I’m going to have to commit to a career.’

  ‘Commit to a career? You can’t even commit to a nail-varnish colour.’

  ‘I know,’ she giggles. ‘And bear in mind that I don’t even think I’ll get a decent reference from here. The Dragon Lady says that I have the concentration span of a— Oh wow, look! Twenty per cent off all cashmere at House of Fraser until next Tuesday! Come on, what are we waiting for?’

  ‘Shh, gimme a sec, I just need to think,’ I said, turning the letter over and over in my hand, trying to pick something up. Charlene is still warbling on when, suddenly, I get a crystal-clear picture.

  ‘She’s going to be an academic,’ I say, out of nowhere.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The schoolgirl in my letter. Straight As all the way. She’s going to be offered a scholarship to study in the States. A boyfriend is going to be the last thing on her mind for a very long time to come.’

  ‘Ugh, adolescent hormonal problems,’ says Charlene, ‘what a snooze-fest. Just tell her there’s nothing like a blow dry and a pedicure to solve any problem in the world.’

  I frantically scribble down some notes before I forget and Charlene starts slagging off my photo from the top of last week’s magazine column.

  ‘We really have got to do something about your hair, sweetie. Don’t get me wrong, I love your look, jeans and shirts and, you know, city-chic. It looks great on all you jammy tall bitches—’

  ‘Charlene! Working here! Or at least, trying to.’

  She blithely ignores me. ‘But I’d love to make you, oh how do I put this, a bit less Charlize Theron and a bit more early Madonna. You should tone the blonde down and grow your hair out a bit too, longer hair would really suit you. Just look at me, sweetie, and learn by osmosis.’

  ‘May I remind you, you were the one who persuaded me to go this colour in the first place when I was a perfectly happy brunette. You assured me that blondes have more fun and consequently a higher hit rate with men, and guess what? Turns out they don’t.’

  ‘Don’t blame me, you’re the psychic. You should have known better.’

  ‘Not only that, but you took me to the most expensive salon in town where they subsequently charged me nearly two hundred euro—’

  ‘Oh yeah, and I ended up dating that guy who owns the place. I was so in love with him too, I really thought that was going to turn into something deep and committed . . . oh shit, what was his name again?’

  ‘So, basically, you met a man and I met my credit card limit.’

  I sigh deeply and go back to my notes as Charlene throws her magazine down, already bored, randomly picks another letter from my pile and reads it out loud.

  ‘Dear Cassandra,

  Hi. Long-time reader, first-time writer. I’d never in a million years dream of contacting anyone care of a magazine, only that I truly believe you have a rare and genuine gift, so if you could give me any help/useful psychic predictions about the emotional mini-drama series I find myself cast in, I would be for ever indebted to you.

  Like a lot of the problems I read on your page, it concerns, surprise, surprise, a guy. My boyfriend. My boyfriend who’s idea of long-term commitment is to ask me what DVD I’d like him to rent out for later on tonight.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I do care about this guy and I do want things to progress, but the trouble is I happen to know a few of his ex-girlfriends and they’ve all nicknamed him Pattern Man. (And not in the sewing sense, I hasten to add.) His behavioural pattern is as follows: for the first few months after he starts to date a new girlfriend, he’s the most ideal guy you could ever hope to be with. Champagne and roses, chocolates, eating out all the time in only the poshest, swishest restaurants: it almost feels like he’s showing you off to his mates. Then, after a few months, he starts slipping, getting bored, not returning calls or texts, all the classic signs that relationship fatigue has set in. Then all of his exes have found themselves in the unenviable position of having to give him the old “What’s the story, don’t you like me any more?” speech and he inevitably says, “Yeah, sorry, babe, relationship fizzle, sure you know yourself,” and then, within weeks and sometimes even days, he’s moved straight on to his next girlfriend. I honestly don’t think this guy has been single for longer than a fortnight in his entire life.

  Now, Cassandra, my friends all say this is a classic sign of a guy who loves the thrill of the chase but then gets tired and turned off after a few short months, when the dating honeymoon is over and reality sets in. After that, he starts seeing his girlfriend in her non-date comfy knickers (you know, when you figure, what the hell, I already have my fella, so no need to torture myself with the misery of G strings any more), unwaxed legs and highlights in need of retouching (although this has only happened to me once, cross my heart.)’

  Charlene reads on, but I’m actually only half listening to her. There’s another letter in the mound on my desk that’s, for some reason, drawing me to it. Blue notepaper. Scrawled handwriting. A strong feeling of urgency about it. Immediately, I get an overwhelming sense that whoever wrote this is a little older than those who normally write to me. A woman, I’m seeing, mid-sixties and white-haired, genuinely distressed, badly needing help and not knowing who else to turn to . . .

  Charlene is still reading aloud:

  ‘Anyway, to make a long story short, lately I’m beginning to feel that it’s my turn to get elbowed out of the way and here’s the killer sign. It was my thirtieth birthday last week and he gave me, wait for it, an exercise bike. And there was me dropping hints about how much I loved Boodles jewellery and how fab it would be to have a birthday gift I could love and cherish for ever. I think Pattern Man is living up to his name and that no sooner will he brush me aside than he’ll be seen around the town with some twenty-something hot babe.

  A newer and probably a younger model, the bastard.

  Any psychic advice you might have on the subject would be greatly appreciated.’

  ‘Cassie? Cassie, are you even listening to this? This is a good one. Although God alone knows why this one is even bothering to write to a psychic in the first place. Match dot com was practically invented for people like her.’

  But she’s lost me. I pick up the blue envelope and tear it open. A strong smell of lily-of-the-valley perfume hits me and immediately I get a sense that the lady who wrote this doesn’t live alone. There’s a man around her, older still, authoritarian, a bit of a bully. For some reason, I’m picking up a strong negative energy and I’m not quite sure why.

  Dear Cassandra,

  Even as I put pen to paper, I’
m aware of how hopeless and pathetic this must sound. Not only am I begging for your help, I’m also shameless enough to ask that you won’t actually print this letter. You have no idea how annoyed my husband would be if he thought I’d turned to a national publication in my sheer desperation. I can scarcely believe I’m doing it myself, but if you can’t help me, Cassandra, I honestly don’t know where else to turn. You’re busy, so I’ll be brief.

  The problem started three months ago, back in July, when we first moved into our new house. Our beautiful retirement home, which cost all of our savings and where I hoped we could see out the rest of our days in peace and serenity. Not to be.

  I don’t believe in ghosts or hauntings in the real world, Cassandra, but please believe me when I tell you that there’s just something about this house. I can’t put my finger on it and yet here I am, writing to you, praying that you’ll understand and be able to help me.

  ‘Ooh, haunted house?’ says Charlene, already bored with her own letter and now reading this over my shoulder. ‘Loving it, very Afterlife. So what are the symptoms? Or is that the word you use? Hard to know.’

  I read on, completely absorbed.

  Even though the heating is on most of the time, the house is permanently freezing, there are strong smells coming from one room in particular and, worst of all, things keep getting hurled around, heavy things too. On the rare occasions when we do have people to visit, they never seem to want to stay, nor can I say I blame them. No matter what I do, I can’t get rid of this awful, chilling atmosphere. It’s suffocating; almost as if the house is trying to drive us away and I don’t know why.

  I’m frightened, Cassandra, and I’m pleading with you to help me. I would gladly put this house on the market tomorrow, but my husband won’t hear of it. He gets very angry with me for even suggesting that there might be something wrong with the place so, for the sake of a quiet life, I put up with it and say nothing.

  But I can’t take much more. I’m giving you my home number and hope that I’ll hear from you. Call any time and if my husband answers the phone, don’t worry, I’ll think of some excuse to tell him.

  Thank you so much. Please understand I’m at my wits’ end and have no one else to turn to.

  Sincerely,

  Worried in Rathgar

  ‘Wow! How cool is that!’ says Charlene, kind of missing the point. She leans over and takes the letter from me. ‘Your very own personal ghost. Must be like permanently living at Hogwarts.’

  I take the letter back and hold it in both hands, turning it over and over, madly trying to tune her out so I can pick something up.

  It was late at night when this poor woman wrote to me and the sheer sense of terror I’m feeling around her is making my heart race . . .

  ‘You could always advise her to move.’ Charlene twitters on. ‘You know, like the time I sold the penthouse in Marbella after I saw a cockroach run across my parking space.’

  ‘Shh!’

  ‘Oops, sorry. Was I personalizing?’

  ‘I need to go there. I feel I need to visit this house,’ I say eventually.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . I dunno. I can’t make up my mind about this one.’

  ‘You think that’s bad? I still can’t make up my mind about where I stand on the Paul McCartney/Heather Mills split.’

  I’m not even sure I can put into words what’s worrying me. All I know is that I have the strongest instinct to go to this house and I’m a great believer in always, always following your gut instincts.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing scary or creepy, it’s just that . . .’ I look at her, weighing up whether or not I should tell her what’s forming at the back of my mind. I decide to go for it, on the basis that no matter how bizarre my job gets (and at times, you just wouldn’t believe some of the letters I’m sent) Charlene never ever makes disparaging comments or dismisses what I do for a living. That’s the absolute beauty of her. Yes, she’ll put down my hair/clothes/long-term single status without batting an eyelid, but I’m well able for that and will tease her right back, and we’ll end up having a laugh, like really good friends can, without anyone taking offence. It’s only when people slag off the supernatural and make me feel like a chancer/charlatan/con artist that I get a bit upset. You know, the type of people who, when I tell them what I do for a living, look at me as if I’m barely on nodding terms with reality. It happens, believe me.

  ‘I think I might need to do a clearing,’ I say simply. ‘There’s something in this house, someone trapped. Maybe a spirit that hasn’t passed, or rather, that’s passed on, but maybe just . . . doesn’t know it yet.’

  Now I have Charlene’s full attention. ‘Wow. Dead and doesn’t know it. Kinda spooky.’

  ‘Nothing spooky about it in the least. Happens all the time. Spirits are our next-door neighbours, honey, that’s all. We’ve nothing to fear from them; in fact, most of the time, they only want to help us.’

  ‘So you want to go there and do a sort of spiritual spring-cleaning?’

  ‘Ehh . . . yeah, kind of. If you want to put it like that.’

  ‘Right, well, I think I’ll come with you for moral support,’ says Charlene. ‘Over my drop-dead gorgeous body am I letting you face into that alone. Cassie, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times. You are so amazing at this stuff, why aren’t you doing this on television?’

  I’m silently blessing her for being such a trooper when she picks up another letter from the groaning pile on my desk and reads it out.

  ‘Dear Cassandra,

  I’ve been seeing a guy for almost two months now and I’m starting to think there’s something up. In all that time, he’s never as much as laid a finger on me. Not once. He keeps saying it’s because he respects me too much and that he’s much happier just chatting to me, but I’m a normal woman with normal needs and desires, if you know what I mean, and this is starting to become an issue. Oh, and just to anticipate what any of your readers may think, yes of course I am aware that there are “shag-dodgers” out there, I just didn’t think I’d end up going out with one, that’s all.

  Take my birthday last week, for instance. He came over, watched Brokeback Mountain on DVD, then gave me tickets for the two of us to go and see Cher in concert at the Point Depot. I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t even like Cher. I’d have far preferred to see U2. Then when I tried to kiss him as he was leaving, he gave me a Mediterranean peck on each cheek, told me my make-up was just a shade too dark for my skin tone, and was gone.

  It’s really starting to drive me mental, Cassandra. This guy can bring me down faster than a bad hair day. If you have any psychic feelings on the subject, I’d be most grateful.

  Concerned in Castlebar’

  ‘Well, there’s one you don’t have to be psychic for,’ says Charlene. ‘Gay and doesn’t know it yet. Gay as Christmas in Bloomingdale’s, if you ask me.’

  ‘Hold on, there’s a PS,’ I say, grabbing the letter from her. ‘“PS: I don’t know if this is any help to you or not, but for some reason, he always smells better than most women.” Yup, I’m afraid you’re one hundred per cent on the money with this one,’ I add, pitying the poor writer but somehow feeling that there is great happiness ahead for her with someone else. Someone foreign – French, I think. I’m seeing dark eyes and olive skin. And I think he could be Scorpio.

  ‘So, do you want me to predict your future?’ says Charlene, with the devil in her big saucery eyes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and I are going to leave the office right now and go for a lovely soothing glass of champagne in the Odessa bar.’

  I groan, staring at the towering pile of letters I haven’t even touched yet. (For some reason, every week I seem to get sent more and more. The Dragon Lady used only to publish about five each week but now it’s more like twenty-five and counting.) So much to do . . . but then a nice glass of champagne just sounds sooooo tempting . . .

  ‘Oh come ooooon,’ pleads Charlene, seeing me
wavering. ‘When do I ever ask you for anything?’

  ‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in “just the one”, is there? Sure I can always come back to work later, can’t I? Right then, here’s the deal,’ I say, assertively. ‘One quickie and I’ll be back at my desk in half an hour.’

  ‘That’s the girl. I’ve just lost my job and the way I feel right now, Bollinger is my only ally.’

  ‘I’m not actually drunk, I’m more . . . sedated from my misery. But I don’t want you to worry about me, ladies. Once I drink myself to sleep, I’ll be just fine.’

  Six hours later and I’m still plonked on the same big, comfy sofa I’ve been sprawled out on all evening, a bit pissed and surrounded by the gang, or as Charlene likes to call us, her little circle of love and dysfunction. We’re all listening to her best friend and personal trainer who’s making us all roar laughing, without intending to, telling us about his latest break-up.

  He’s chunky, dark, bulked-up, perma-tanned and although his name is Marc, everyone calls him ‘Marc with a C’. As well as being hysterically funny, he’s also incredibly good-looking, a straight-gay type, which leads to huge confusion in the gym he works at, where his clients include a long list of recent divorcees and newly separated women, all wanting a killer body and a good old self-esteem-boosting flirt at the same time. Marc with a C is always more than happy to oblige because, underneath that wall of muscle and the butch physique, he’s actually a sweet, sensitive soul, which kind of explains why his closest pals are all women. I’d nearly go for him if he were straight, and constantly have to remind myself that he’s unavailable to me and how much simpler life would be if only he were just a little less attractive and a lot more camp. In fact, not just camp, but shortbread-biscuit-tin-covered-in-whitepaper-doilies camp.