I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  There’s a long pause, then, thank God, right on cue comes the unmistakable sound of something metallic hitting off a stone pathway.

  Knew it. I just knew it.

  ‘It’s here! It’s really here! I have it in my hand! Oh Cassandra, you have saved my life, you really have. Not to mention my marriage!’

  ‘Be a bit more careful next time, Nuala,’ says Mary, all motherly. ‘Get the ring sized if you can, there’s a good woman. That’s what I’d do after an awful fright like that.’

  I barely have time to breathe easy and relax before another call comes through. A man’s voice, which is kind of unusual.

  ‘Cassandra?’ he says and instantly I can see him.

  He has pale skin and is in his late forties, the type of man who gives off an image of being stand-offish and brusque but who actually has a lot of very deep sadness in his aura . . .

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘Look, in a million years I’d never have phoned in to a show like this, but as I just said to your researcher, I couldn’t believe the things you were seeing for those other two callers. I’m impressed. And I’m rarely impressed.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ I ask as gently as I can, trying to keep him on the phone as much as anything. I have a strong feeling this guy could just hang up at any second.

  ‘The trouble is it’s almost ten a.m. and I’m sitting at home watching breakfast television, that’s the trouble. I was made redundant from my last job and I can’t get anything else. Nothing. Not unless I go abroad and I really don’t want to do that for, well, for personal reasons.’

  A flash.

  He has an elderly mother, wheelchair bound, that he’s taking care of. They live together and he’s devoted to her. An only child too, I’m getting . . .

  And another one.

  His hands. Odd. Why am I seeing hands?

  I go for it. ‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind me asking you, but—’

  ‘Ask what you like. Why do you think I phoned in?’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but, well, first of all I’m sensing a lot of unhappiness around where you used to work. An office job?’

  ‘Computers. Boring as hell. Then, without warning, the company shut down and relocated to India. Two hundred staff laid off, just like that. And at my age it’s hard to just walk into another job.’

  The image of hands again, only this time with a strong feeling of deep peace and serenity . . .

  ‘Are you some kind of painter? Or do you work with wood? As a hobby, I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, bit of carpentry in my spare time. Why?’

  ‘Ever think about doing it full-time?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Because that’s the way forward for you, I’m absolutely certain. You’ll go into business on your own and be very successful. I’m sure of it.’

  There’s a stunned silence. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. All you need do is trust yourself. Take the leap of faith. You can do it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ is all he says. ‘I . . . never would have considered that . . . you know, as a career option, but, yeah, I’ll certainly give it some thought. I’m glad I called you.’

  I’m about to wish him the best of luck in the future, when Mary cuts in.

  ‘Well, this is really turning into something very special, isn’t it? The bad news is, ladies and gentlemen, that we’ll have to wrap it up there for the morning— Oh sorry, what was that?’ she says, tapping her earpiece. ‘OK, one last and final caller on line four. Hello? You’re through to Cassandra. Go ahead, please, but if you wouldn’t mind keeping it short? We’re almost out of time. I hope you don’t mind taking this one last call?’ she asks me.

  Mind, I feel like saying, why would I mind? Amazingly, this is turning out to be fun!

  A woman’s voice comes through, about my own age. ‘Cassandra?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Oh thank God. I was ages trying to get through but the switchboard was jammers. You have got to help me. I’m getting married this Saturday coming and—

  A flash.

  She’s blonde and a bit ditzy and has an S in her name . . . I can definitely see an S . . .

  ‘Congratulations. What’s your name?’

  ‘Sabrina.’

  Knew it. Ooh, this feels good.

  ‘The thing is, Cassandra, I’m having serious cold feet and I need, like, mega psychic advice here. Now, I love my fiancé, don’t get me wrong, and if you’re watching, Hi baby! Don’t forget to pick up the rings! I’m just panicking because my mother’s driving me nuts with all this crap about centrepieces having to exactly tone in with the bridal colours and I’m wondering, well, basically, my worry is, are Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward the only couple alive who can make marriage work?’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Charlene, who’s just tiptoed into studio hanging on to . . . oh shit and double shit. It’s him. It has to be.

  Jack Hamilton. No mistake.

  It’s dark and shadowy where they’re standing side by side at a monitor, watching me watching them. He’s even better looking in the flesh. Tall, but with his head bent slightly forward as if he’s embarrassed by his height and stoops to compensate. He’s looking directly at me now and I swear I can feel myself blushing to the roots like some hormonal teenybopper.

  Come on, Cassie, concentrate, focus. You’re doing OK and you’re nearly home and dry . . .

  ‘We haven’t even been seeing each other all that long,’ Sabrina is chirping on, her voice filling the studio. ‘We got engaged after, like, two months and no one could believe it. But then he’s an actor and he always says dating an actor is kind of like dog years, you know? So really, two months is really seven times that, but . . . hey! Don’t ask me to do sums.’

  She giggles and I’m desperately trying to tune into her and her problem, but I’m breaking out into a sticky cold sweat and it’s awful and worst of all – oh shit – I can’t see anything. Nothing. Nada. Not one single bloody thing.

  ‘I didn’t even want to get engaged,’ Sabrina’s saying, although the whooshing noise in my ears is almost drowning her out, ‘but he insisted. Said relationships either move forwards or backwards and he didn’t particularly want to go backwards.’

  Come on, Cassie. Get it together. Try and see something. Anything.

  ‘So basically, what should I do?’ asks Sabrina, sounding cool as a breeze, which is a million miles from how I’m feeling. ‘And if I do call it off, can I still get to keep all the presents?’

  A pause and I’m aware of everyone looking at me. Mary, Maura, the crew, cameramen, Lisa, Charlene and worst of all . . . Jack Hamilton.

  Not a thing. Not a single sausage. Not even a sense of anything . . . Another pause and I swear I want to just rip off my radio mike and run out of there. My mouth must be opening and closing like a goldfish. This is awful, this is just so awful . . . it feels like a classic panic attack. Shortness of breath, dizziness, the works.

  ‘Well,’ says Maura, unable to keep the note of triumph out of her voice. ‘On that note, we’ll have to sign off for another morning. Bad luck, Cassandra, but then, I suppose you can’t win them all, can you?’

  I can’t answer; I’m too busy trying to compose myself because now the theme music is blaring and everyone’s moving briskly off in all directions, anxious to get out of there. I’m gutted, completely and utterly knocked for six.

  Maura disappears; Mary shakes me by the hand and tells me not to worry, that up until then the piece was going great, which only makes me feel, if possible, even worse.

  Then Charlene’s over, squealing and hugging me tight. ‘Oh babes, I am so jazzed just to be your friend! You were a-mazing! How good an agent am I?’

  ‘Charlene, I couldn’t see a thing. I completely blanked out.’

  ‘Oh sweetie, are you kidding? After this, the sky is the limit for you! We could get you on Big Brother, get your picture in Heat magazine, you could start dating a footba
ller; the world is your Bacardi Breezer!’

  ‘Charlene, listen to me. That last caller, I should have been able to see something, but I couldn’t pick up a thing. One minute, I’m getting flashes all over the place, then nothing. Like turning off a tap. It was scary. It was terrifying. It’s never happened to me before. Never.’

  She’s not paying even the slightest bit of attention. ‘And what about that bitch Maura? Boy, she was harsh and so was the lighting. I’m going to have a serious word with Jack about her manner.’

  Before I even have time to react, he’s over.

  ‘What can I say?’ he says, shaking my hand warmly, firmly and making direct eye contact with me. ‘A star is born.’

  I’m still so shaken by the last, excruciating few minutes of my life that all I can do is stand there and smile, trying desperately to stay cool and calm and not come across like a dribbling eejit. He’s unavailable, I remind myself sternly. The sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, yes, but unavailable.

  It’s out of the question, so stop ogling him.

  Shit, I better say something first though, or else it’ll look rude.

  ‘Ehh . . . hi. It’s . . . emm . . . nice to meet you.’ OK, not exactly the Gettysburg address, but duty done and I can skedaddle. Now. Fast.

  ‘I’ve been exec producing this show for a year now,’ he says, smiling down at me, warm and friendly and kind of shyly, which only makes him even cuter. If that were possible. ‘And I can’t remember ever getting a response quite like this before. You have an amazing gift, Cassandra, or can I call you Cassie, like your friends do?’

  ‘Ehh . . . yeah. Yes, I mean . . . umm . . .’

  OK, here comes a comforting thought. Now that we’ve actually physically met, I’ve done my duty as a friend to Charlene, so after today I can avoid him like the Black Death, can’t I?

  Course I can.

  Yes, love it, fantastic plan.

  ‘The thing is, Cassie, if you were interested, I’d really like to offer you a permanent slot on the show.’

  Oh shit.

  Chapter Four

  THE TAROT DECK

  THE STAR CARD

  A RARE CARD, signifying great success. At long last, the Universe is conspiring to place you on your true path in life. A time of great abundance and joy, of finding and carving out your own personal niche. Believe it or not, you are actually being guided in the right direction. Finally, at long last, your time has come.

  It’s all about you, baby.

  It just mightn’t feel that way, that’s all . . .

  ‘AT THE RISK of having a Dawson’s Creek moment, I have to tell you, Cassie, you were so stupendously, awesomely stunning on that show that I feel like having a T-shirt printed saying, “My best friend just happens to be a super-cool mega TV star.”’

  ‘You’re lying, but bless you anyway,’ I say, mobile clamped to my ear. ‘They should hurry up and perfect the cloning process just so that everyone can have a Jo in their life.’ And I truly mean it from the bottom of my heart. It’s times like this that really make me realize what a rare diamond she is. Unjudgemental, supportive and just . . . well, just my Jo.

  I’ve raced out of Channel Seven, practically leaving a cloud of dust in my wake, I’m so anxious to put as much distance between me and Jack Hamilton/Charlene/ the whole bloody, icky situation as fast as possible. No kidding, I legged it out of there like a sprinter on steroids, jumped straight into a cab and am now en route into town and the Tattle office.

  ‘So what did you say when he offered you the gig? Were you thrilled? I mean, come on, Cassie, talk about a major vote of confidence!’

  ‘I was so shocked, I think my exact words might have been, “Eerrrhhh . . . umm . . . weeelll . . . eeeeehhhhh . . . sheeeeezzz,” but I could be mistaken. It mightn’t have been anything quite so logical or coherent.’

  ‘Stop messing.’

  ‘You think I could mess at a time like this? Jo, I must have sounded like I had all the intelligence, wit and vivacity of a Thermos flask.’

  ‘Where is he now? Did you leave him and the Tipsy Queen back at the studio?’

  ‘If memory serves, and believe me, the last twenty minutes have pretty much been one big blur, he invited both of us for brekkie, Charlene said something like, “What do you mean, eat? What, like, food?”, and I made my escape while the going was good. Jo, I really need for you to tell me honestly. As my bestest pal, the one who gets to say all the hard stuff that I don’t necessarily want to hear . . . on a scale of one to ten, how noticeable was it when I blanked out? When I couldn’t see anything? Because I can tell you right now, I have never been so terrified in my entire life.’

  She pauses to weigh up her answer and I know I won’t necessarily like what’s coming, but I’m actually pleased. Jo has never told an untruth in her entire life and, good or bad, I know she won’t start now. For God’s sake, this is the woman who told me, to my face, that my last haircut was less Cameron Diaz and more Myra Hindley. Ouch.

  ‘OK, Cassie, you asked. I knew there was something up as soon as that last caller rang in. There was just this really weird look that came across your face.’

  ‘Raw panic?’

  ‘No, more like—’

  ‘Like someone who mixes medications?’

  ‘Will you let me answer? You looked like you’d had an epiphany, if that doesn’t sound like something a television evangelist would come out with. Frightened, yes, rabbit-in-the-headlights, yes, but there was something else . . .’

  For a second, I can’t talk. Because she’s hit the nail on the head. That’s exactly what it felt like when I first locked eyes with Jack Hamilton. As if I’d just met something I’d been unconsciously searching for.

  Oh hell, Jo’s right. It does sound like the verbal equivalent of one of those John Hinde postcards; you know, the ones with donkeys carrying bales of turf on them and girls with red curly hair.

  ‘Of course, that’s if you happen to believe in predestined romance and all that malarkey, which, as you know, I don’t,’ she adds, bringing both of us right back down to earth with a big, unsubtle bang. ‘It’s utterly demeaning to presuppose that we’re not rational beings with free will who make our own life choices, instead of being at the mercy of a random cosmos.’

  ‘Well, it could have been worse, I suppose,’ I say, desperately trying to see something positive about the situation. ‘For a minute there, I thought you were going to tell me I looked like I had a dose of quadruple diarrhoea and that the nearest loo was in Kazakhstan.’

  ‘Hmm, now I may not be psychic, but—’

  ‘I may not be either after this morning. I’m so afraid I’m losing it, Jo. What will I do if I can’t see things any more? I’ll lose my column, I’ll be unemployed, I won’t be able to pay our rent—’

  ‘Oh, come on, you had one tiny blip, you stage-panicked yourself into a spin and now you’ve put two and two together and come up with forty million. Honestly, we should nickname you Hector Projector. In another minute you’ll be visualizing yourself on the side of the road in a cardboard box living off parish relief. Who do you think you are, Heather Mills?’

  ‘Sorry, hon. That’s what panic attacks do to me. Oh Jo, I wish I knew what happened to me back there. Why couldn’t I see anything? Why?’

  ‘That, I cannot say. However, I’m sensing we need to discuss this further. Meet me for lunch?’

  ‘Defo.’

  ‘Usual place?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Should I bring valium/alcohol/max-strength rhinoceros tranquillizers?’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny.’

  ‘Keep the head. Stay cool and I’ll see you later!’

  She’s probably right. It was only one blip. One small, barely noticeable, teeny-weeny blip. Perceptible only to the select few who know me intimately. Hopefully. With a bit of luck.

  I’m sure it was just my nerves playing up and that I’ll be back to normal and getting my usual hit rate of flashes in no time. And no, I
won’t end up jobless, unemployed and sleeping rough under a bridge with a cardboard sign saying, ‘I used to be psychic but mysteriously lost it all, please give generously.’

  Come on, Cassie, pull it together. If you imagine the worst, then that’s what you’ll create.

  Right. Nice, deep, soothing breath.

  I hang up the phone and turn to the taxi driver. Brainwave. I’ll get him talking and see if I can see anything about his life. Dublin taxi drivers are well known for loving the chat, aren’t they? I mean, I’ve had times when a ten-minute taxi ride ends up taking half an hour because I’d get into such a deep conversation with the driver; they end up telling me their innermost secrets and I get flashes to beat the band. And the last time I got into a big conversation with one, I accurately predicted that he’d get five numbers on the Lotto that Saturday night. He even sent me a bunch of flowers care of the magazine as a thank you and I was only raging that I didn’t think of asking him what the numbers actually were, so I could have made a few extra quid on the side myself.

  ‘Ehh, sorry about that. Had to take that call,’ I say, smiling encouragingly at him and sitting forward, all set for a good chin-wag.

  ‘No worries, love.’

  ‘So. How are things with you then?’

  ‘Grand.’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you married then? With . . . emm . . . kids, maybe?’

  ‘Ehh . . . no.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  A pause.

  ‘So, no holidays planned or anything?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  OK, now he’s looking at me through the rear-view mirror as if I’m some sort of pathetic saddo that’s desperately trying to pick him up. We drive the rest of the way in total silence.

  Shit, shit, shit. Just my luck to land the only non-talkative taxi driver in the whole of the greater Dublin area.

  When I finally get to the office, I grab the lift, jump out at the fifth floor, Arts and Features (yes, I know a psychic column doesn’t strictly fall into either category, but that’s just where my desk happens to be), and – you won’t believe this – get a big round of applause from everyone who’s there.