I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  You get the picture. So, feeling completely and utterly fed up, I was just about to confront him with all of this, when, suddenly, I got a flash.

  He had not one, not two but three other girlfriends on the go, all at the same time. So, that was the end of that, natch, but I’ll always remember Jo’s final pearl of wisdom on the subject, brilliant dating wing woman that she is. ‘Cassie, if you set the bar low enough, only a louse can crawl underneath.’

  Anyway, it was fine and I was fine. I never fancied him anyway and only hope none of the other three girlfriends did either. Like I say, we all have the power to choose between fate and destiny and on all of those occasions, I chose to go down the heartache-avoidance route.

  But after what I saw so clearly last night, this time I may not have any choice.

  Where Jo and I live is close to the city centre, only a brisk twenty minutes from Tattle magazine’s office on Fleet Street, and as it’s a lovely, sunny October morning, I’m racing into work, cursing myself for being so disorganized and leaving my column to the very last minute.

  Well, when I say ‘morning’, mid-morning would actually be more accurate; needless to say, my plan of having Prussian discipline and getting up at dawn came to nought.

  With me, this is a regular occurrence; if you want star charts done, astrological compatibility grids, aura reading, dream interpretation or any kind of space/energy clearing, I’m your girl, but ask me to do a tax return, or stick to a set-in-stone deadline or . . . well, you know, be all organized and grown-up, then I’m beyond useless. None of this is helped (a) by the minging hangover I’m still nursing from last night and (b) worse, the fact that I’m frantically willing my mobile not to ring, when, on the principle that if you dread something enough, you’ll attract it, of course, it does. Shit. Shit, shit shit . . .

  I don’t even have to look at the number to know who it is; more importantly, why she’s calling; and, worst of all, what I’ll then have to tell her.

  If she asks, that is. Which, with a bit of luck, she mightn’t . . .

  Charlene: ‘So, he’s called Jack Hamilton and to save you the bother of asking . . . yes! I’m in lurrvve,’ she says, sounding as hungover as a dog. ‘He’s a total hottie McHot from the Planet Hotland. You know, the kind of guy who knows how to make a girl feel like a woman. And then a woman feel like a big dirty slapper.’

  She roars laughing and, immediately, the knot of tension that’s been in the pit of my stomach worsens. Whenever Charlene really likes a guy, she goes to the bother of memorizing his last name, almost like she’s practising to see what her Christian name will sound like with it.

  ‘That’s great, honey,’ I say, trying as hard as I can to keep the nervous sense of foreboding out of my voice. Lucky for me, though, oversensitivity towards others has never been any failing of Charlene’s.

  ‘And I stayed over! Now, the only tiny blight on the horizon is that he’s one of those perfect gentlemen types, who insisted on giving me his room while he crashed out on the sofa, but you know me, darling, baby steps. Oh sweetie, you should just see his apartment. I think the theme is “James Bond just won the Lotto, but failed to acquire taste”. No kidding, it’s got more boytoys than you can imagine, a giant plasma-screen TV, which, as we all know, is just sooooo last year, and a full-size snooker table, which I think he probably eats off. Or else he just eats out all the time. Never in my whole life have I seen anywhere so badly in need of gay-spray. Anyway, you just couldn’t keep me from doing a mental redecoration and I honestly think the best thing all round is if he moves in with me.’

  ‘Charlene! You only just met the guy! What about “baby steps”?’

  ‘Will you relax? Obviously I don’t mean straight away. I’m prepared to wait a month or so, if that’s what it’ll take. Don’t judge me, Cassie, can I help it if I’m goal-driven? I have exactly one year and eleven months to “I do” so there’s no time for arsing about.’

  ‘OK, whatever you say, fruit of the loon.’

  ‘Have you been paying any attention to my life of late? Next month I have to go through the public humiliation of attending Anna Regan’s engagement party. Up until last night, all I had was a plan and a dress. Now I have a plan and a man and a dress and if that’s not making progress, I don’t know what is. Whereabouts are you now?’

  ‘On my way into work. Remember work? Remember the Dragon Lady?’ Oh God, just the very thought of her makes me quicken my pace a bit.

  ‘Ha bloody ha. I really need to talk to you, honey, can you meet me for a lightning quick coffee? Pleeeeease?’

  ‘You mean you’re not ringing me from bed? Don’t tell me you’re up and about at this ungodly hour of the morning?’

  ‘I’m just doing the walk of shame from his apartment, which is in Temple Bar, and, crippled as I am in these shoes, I think I might just be about able to hobble as far as Café en Seine. I’m urgently in need of an espresso the size of a soccer ball.’

  OK. Now, I know I’ve a mountain of work to get through and I know I should have been at my desk hours and hours ago, but then, a quickie coffee just sounds sooooo tempting. Sure I’ll only be twenty minutes, and if I run into the Dragon Lady on my way in, well . . . well . . . I can just cross that bridge if/when I come to it, can’t I? Great plan. Love it.

  Besides, I always work miles better with a shot of caffeine inside me, so in a way, this is actually kind of productive and not just plain old-fashioned skiving off.

  If you think about it.

  ‘OK, you’re on. Anything to help me through the morning. I’m not joking, my hangover’s so bad, you could practically grate cheese on my tongue.’

  ‘Cool, see you there in five, baby. Big, big news, I couldn’t possibly tell you over the phone so don’t even attempt to guess because I want to tell you myself. So BFN, bye for now.’

  Right, that’s it then. Charlene’s my friend and if she asks me what I’m dreading she’s going to ask, I’ll just have to tell her straight out, honestly and directly. Simple as that. Oh God, this is the part about being a psychic that I really, really hate . . .

  The one thing I have going in my favour, I think as I head down Dawson Street, is that Charlene never, ever asks me about her actual future with any of her boyfriends, on the grounds that she’s superstitious and believes it brings dating bad luck.

  This very happy arrangement dates back to her last serious romance (i.e., one that lasted longer than a boozy weekend) when she begged/cajoled/emotionally guilted me into working out her relationship compatibility with the guy in question. I was reluctant to, because I’d already seen the outcome and knew she’d be upset if I told her and there’s nothing worse than having to give bad news, but what can I say, she insisted. So, one his ’n’ hers astrological star chart later (both Western and Chinese – well, in my business you have to be thorough), I told her what was on the cards.

  The conversation went something along these lines:

  CHARLENE: So will I marry him?

  ME (hesitating): Well, if you remember that you’re Aquarius and he’s Virgo, so that’s an air sign and an earth sign which isn’t really . . .

  HER (with rising impatience): Cassie, just tell me straight out, is this guy my future husband?

  ME (humming and hawing): Then there’s the Chinese element to consider. You’re an earth goat and he’s a metal monkey and really earth and fire aren’t exactly the most suited . . .

  HER: Not hearing a straight answer here!

  ME (playing for time): Charlene, listen to me. I want you to be happy with the right man. Now, if this guy isn’t for you . . .

  HER (narky): A simple yes or no will suffice, thank you very much.

  ME (mortified; I hate being the bearer of bad news): Well . . . umm, on a scale of one to ten, I’d have to give it a . . .

  HER (hysterical): A WHAT?!

  ME (thinking, Oh, what the hell, the game’s up): OK, don’t shoot the messenger, but a minus four. Honey, you’ve about as much chance of marrying Po
pe Benedict the Sixteenth. Now, remember, that’s not to say that things won’t change . . .

  HER (wailing): So you’re effectively telling me my crush is actually a crash? (then screeching) You’ve ruined my life, you insensitive cow, etc., etc., etc.

  ME (silently to myself): Never, never again . . .

  So, on the plus side, at least she’s unlikely to ask about her future with him. But that’s not what’s worrying me . . .

  When I eventually do get to Café en Seine, Charlene is right at the very back of the café, where it’s shadowy and dark, wearing her ‘sitting alone’ armour, i.e., her Jackie O face-covering, limo-tinted sunglasses, with her mobile phone clamped to her ear, chatting to one of her trustafarian pals and (I’m not making this up) a copy of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment on the table in front of her. She keeps this in her handbag at all times, I should explain, so casual passers-by will think that she’s really brainy and that this is her actual reading material. The irony is, in trying to be inconspicuous, she might as well be standing under a hot spotlight doing the cancan. You couldn’t miss her, particularly as she was still wearing what she had on last night, a stunning Versace little red number with a matching red velvet coat.

  ‘Hey, sweetie,’ she says, hanging up the phone as she sees me, ‘sorry for picking a table in such a crap part of the café, but look . . . eeeeek!’ She tips up her glasses for a second, to flash the fact that she’s not wearing any make-up. (Just to put this into perspective: for Charlene to venture out without make-up is akin to the rest of us going for a mountain hike without footwear.) ‘Meet the new me,’ she says dramatically. ‘I’ve just made not one, but two life-alteringly huge decisions, one of which directly affects you, my darling.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask as the waiter bounds over. Charlene hurriedly flips the shades back over her bloodshot eyes as we order a double espresso with hot soya milk on the side for her (and if you think she’s fussy about ordering in a café, you want to see her inside a shoe shop) plus a plain, old-fashioned, big mug of black coffee for me.

  ‘Number one, I have decided that from now on, disposable is for cameras and not for relationships. I’m officially taking my Rules book and flinging it out the window. No more reading faddish self-help books that advise me to sit back and wait for the guy to call or make the first move. Been there, done that and all with zero per cent success. So, meet the new, proactive me.’

  OK, I think, she just wants to talk about her management skills. This is good. In fact, this is better than good. This, I can handle.

  ‘Charlene, let’s not rewrite history here,’ I say, slightly teasing her, but then she’s a good sport and takes a slagging. ‘You were a Rules girl for about twenty minutes, two boyfriends ago, then you had a few too many in the Ice Bar one drunken weekend and rang the poor guy so many times he ended up changing his phone number and, if memory serves me right, sending you a solicitor’s letter.’

  I don’t like to remind her, but she was also a vegetarian for about twenty minutes (under Jo’s influence) and smoked for about three-quarters of an hour. Charlene is more fun than anyone else you’ll ever meet, but staying power isn’t exactly her strong point.

  ‘Ugh, thanks for the remind,’ she groans. ‘I rue the sad day I ever laid lips on that guy. Do you realize that he is now engaged? If that oddball can find a life-partner, so can I. Now you know how I haven’t really been truly, madly, deeply in love since, oh, since, like, Riverdance played Broadway, but now I’m finally ready to lay to rest the ghost of relationships past. And let me tell you, there’ll be no more sitting on my gorgeous ass waiting on the phone to ring. If I feel like calling Jack, then I will. Which I have done. Three times already since I left his flat this morning.’

  ‘Emm, that’s great.’

  ‘So, aren’t you just dying to know where you come in to all this?’

  Oh God, here we go. Please don’t let her ask, please, please, please.

  ‘Your order, ladies,’ says the waiter, sliding a linen-covered tray on to the table in front of us.

  Phew, saved by the bell, I’m thinking as we bicker over whose turn it is to pay.

  ‘No, I asked you, I’m getting this,’ says Charlene, handing over a fifty and telling the stunned waiter to keep the change.

  Now, as I always say, being psychic isn’t something that’s on tap, twenty-four hours a day, which is a right shame because I’d have loved some kind of early warning signal for what was coming next. (Charlene tends to talk stream of consciousness whenever she’s a bit overexcited, so you’ll just have to bear with me.)

  ‘So anyway Jack is this, like, bigshot television producer on that morning TV show – oh, what the hell is it called? – oh yeah, the Breakfast Club, that’s it, well, you know how absolutely everyone says it’s really good but of course I’ve never seen it – you know me, sweetie, I’m never out of bed for it – so naturellement, I lied through my teeth and told Jack that it was right up there with Desperate Housewives on my list of absolute must-see television, and then I got to telling him about how I’d just lost my job which led us on to Tattle magazine which led us on to you and the way you just, like, see things and how amazing it is when you do it and how you’re always, I mean always, right and he was just sooooo interested, we talked about you for, like, ages and then he asked did you have representation and I didn’t have, like, the first clue what he meant and I was about to say no she’s never been in a beauty pageant that I know of, but it turned out it meant did you have an agent and right there and then I got this incredibly sudden rush of inspiration and I decided on the spot, yes, she bloody does . . . get this . . . and it’s me! So do you need me to moon at you, Cassie? ’Cos you should be kissing my ass right now.’

  ‘Sorry, what did you just say?’ My head is spinning just from the effort of trying to keep up with her. It’s hard enough at the best of times, but throw in a hangover . . .

  ‘So meet your new agent. Moi. Yesterday I got fired, but then I took my personal pain and channelled it to joy, just like Oprah is always telling us to do. So aren’t you proud of me?’

  ‘Charlene, are you kidding me? It’s a really sweet offer, but please understand, I don’t want an agent, I don’t need an agent—’

  ‘If you want a television career, you do.’

  ‘I don’t want a television career.’

  ‘You do now that I’m representing you.’

  ‘Charlene!’

  ‘Just ride the wave, honey, will you? The wonderful news for you is that I’m making you my brand-new pet project. I’m going to make it the focus of my remaining years to expand your brand and turn you into a global name. Would anyone have ever heard of U2 if Paul McGuinness hadn’t been such a shit-hot manager? No, they’d probably be the resident wedding band now at some Holiday Inn beside Heathrow Airport.’

  ‘Honey, don’t get me wrong, I’m very flattered that you’d want to devote time to my career—’

  ‘And your image, honey.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my image?’

  ‘Nothing, if you want people to think you’ve got some boring office job.’

  ‘These trousers are Joseph! You made me buy them at a discount sale and you told me they’d practically pay for themselves.’

  ‘Oh darling, don’t be cross with me when I’ve got such a filthy hangover. All I meant is that I want to get you out of all the city-chic gear and hippy-dippy you up a bit. You know, a bit less glamourella and a bit more Mystic Meg. Esoteric. We might even put you in a headscarf and start calling you Madame Cassandra.’

  ‘Thanks so much. Why don’t you just drop a safe on my head while you’re at it?’

  ‘You’re so pretty, darling, but I want to make you into a TV personality.’

  ‘Why can’t I help feeling that all your compliments are in fact thinly disguised blows to my self-esteem?’

  ‘Oh, come on, I’ve been thinking about nothing else but the grand makeover – or should I say make-under? – I’m going to g
ive you all morning. So you see? Unemployment pays.’ Then her mobile rings. Marc with a C, dying to know what became of her after they parted company in Odessa the previous night.

  ‘Do you mind if I take this, sweetie?’ she coos at me. ‘I need to feign gratitude to Marc with a C for disappearing as soon as I got chatting to my darling Jack, although, no kidding, I only had to invoke our dating code word about eighteen times just to get rid of him. What can I say? You know what he’s like when he’s a bit . . . well, you know, gin-discreet, and I didn’t want him telling Jack any home truths about me at this early and highly critical stage— Hello? Marc with a C! How are you, my angel? How are you not working for the United Nations, you left so tactfully last night?’

  I glance at my watch and realize that if I don’t want to completely miss my deadline/lose my job, I’d better leg it at full speed to the Tattle magazine office.

  This is not cowardice, you understand, this is not a case of me doing anything to avoid the conversation I’m going to have to have with Charlene at some point, this is just a case of I need my job, I love my job and I really, really don’t want to get fired.

  I make my excuses and leave, scarcely able to believe that I didn’t have to tell her. Correction. That I didn’t have to tell her yet.

  ‘Spill it all out, right from the very start and omit no detail, however minute.’

  Jo’s so cool. Honest to God, I don’t know what I’d do without her. We’re both home much later that night, sharing a lovely bottle of Chianti and chatting about our respective days. It’s one of those wild and windy autumny nights when you’re just delighted not to be going out; i.e., lashing rain and freezing cold outside, but great TV on, the fire lit and our little sitting room all snug and cosy and smelling of the delicious incense that Jo brought back from her last trip to India.

  ‘Oh Jo, this just seems so trivial compared with what you’ve been working on.’

  ‘I don’t care. Go for it, I could use the distraction.’