I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  I just sit there for a moment, stunned, the romantic part of my brain saying, My God, did he really just say that? Then the practical part of my brain (which, let’s face it, I don’t hear from all that often) kicks in. Don’t be ridiculous, cop yourself on, he’s talking professionally, not personally, you big roaring eejit.

  Right, in that case I need to be just as businesslike right back at him. Think. What would I normally do in this situation?

  Shit, shit, shit . . . how do I know? I’ve never been made an offer like this in my life before, bar the time Tattle magazine hired me and that was mainly because I hassled the Dragon Lady so much that she eventually did give me a shot, probably to get a bit of peace as much as anything else. And there’s something else slowly formulating at the back of my mind that’s worrying me, something an awful lot more serious . . . But I’ll put it aside till later, when I can think straight.

  OK, Cassie, this pause is starting to get awkward, you’re going to have to say something. Anything. Deep, soothing breath. Bright confident smile. ‘Emm . . . Jack, I’m really flattered by your offer, but you see . . . the thing is . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I . . . emm . . . can I get back to you?’

  Brilliant, Cassie, just wonderful, my, what a huge loss you were to the business world.

  ‘Sure. I’ll give you my card, on the condition that you call me any time.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m worried now I might have scared you off by being a bit over-zealous in my quest to win you over. I promise you, I’m not normally the type to go around twirling a moustache and tying blonde maidens to the train tracks, just to get my wicked way.’

  I’m laughing at him so much that some coffee actually dribbles down my chin. God, I must look so attractive.

  ‘But if I’ve failed to hypnotize you with my Svengali-like powers,’ he goes on, putting on a scary Vincent Price voice and making me laugh again, ‘then let me leave you with one thought.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ve just hit on the perfect pitch for all the press coverage which your slot cannot fail to generate.’

  Now he’s looking at me so persuasively I find myself wondering: has anyone said no to this man, ever? Once in his life? ‘And what’s that?’ I ask, trying to come across as very cool and, you know, not too glued to my seat with anticipation.

  ‘I want you to imagine the TV guide section of the paper,’ he says, spreading his hands expressively in front of him. ‘Now, imagine your picture, with you looking as amazing as you do, with your name in block capitals above. Now, imagine a tag line: “Live and exclusive. Only on the Breakfast Club. For those who believe, no explanation is necessary. For those who don’t, no explanation is possible.”’

  Bloody hell, this guy is good . . .

  OK. I have finally figured out what it is that’s been worrying me all day. It wasn’t easy, as I had a lot of distractions from the gang later this afternoon, which can be summarized pretty much as follows:

  CHARLENE (over the phone as I’m sitting at my desk actually trying to work and not just looking like I’m working while I’m actually surfing the net, as I normally do. This is the new, ultra-professional, post-stay-of-execution Cassandra, you understand): Now, Cassie, you just listen to me. I am starting to develop stress lines about this situation and, as we all know, those lines don’t go away. You have got to take up Jack’s offer and that’s all there is to it. You have to promise me faithfully, as your fabulous agent who has already done sooooo much for you. And you needn’t think this is like a wedding vow or something, this promise actually matters. I just don’t think I’ll be up to escorting you into the studio again as, let’s face it, it’s just too bloody early. All right, sweetie, I have to say cheery-bye for now, I’m so haggard-looking because I had to haul myself out of beddy-byes at the crack of dawn this morning that I’m off for a chemical peel. You know, one of those super-duper industrial-strength ones, where by the time I’m done, you’ll practically be able to see my kidneys. Oh, drama, drama, drama! Chat later! Love you, missing you already!

  JO (over lunch, a tad more sympathetically, but then Jo actually listens to what you’re saying, as opposed to monologuing at you like Charlene . . . Sorry, scrap that disloyal thought immediately. Of course I meant to say, ‘Like some people that I could mention’): Cassie, what exactly is the problem? I think it’s amazing that you’ve made such a successful living out of being psychic, so isn’t TV the next logical progression? OK, so you had a bit of a wobbly moment this morning, but it was more than likely down to nerves, that’s all. Give it a go. After all, what’s the worst that can happen? And for the record, it would be on my conscience if I didn’t say that our day-to-day problems here in the West are a trip to Disneyland compared with what’s happening in other parts of the world. Do you realize that the Australian government has just announced the harshest proposal for legislation I’ve ever had to fight, which, if it’s passed by parliament, means they’re going to start punishing asylum-seekers who arrive by boat? Honestly, Cassie, you think you have problems. Even our giving so much airtime to this is demeaning to what’s happening globally. I’m going to be up all night writing letters for our campaign . . .

  This, I have to tell you, acts as a major reality check and temporarily shuts me up. Well, until Marc with a C calls me later in the afternoon, that is.

  MARC WITH A C: Well, babe, how are you getting on with your oh-will-I-be-a-major-TV-star/household-name dilemma or will I spend the rest of my days basking in obscurity working for the bitch troll/Princess of Darkness/Dragon Lady or whatever it is you call her. I think Jack Hamilton has made you a fabulous offer and I take my Calvin Klein knickers off to you. Although I do have to say that I’m kind of getting bored with the way all I’m hearing about from you and Charlene is Jack this, Jack that, Jack the other. Not that I’m insecure or anything, but I just need reassurance that I’m better-looking than him, that’s all. Ooh, while we’re on the subject, may I share one piece of wisdom?

  ME: Please. The state of mind I’m in, all words of wisdom are gratefully received.

  MARC WITH A C: Right, wait for it. ‘Failure is never half as frightening as regret.’

  ME AGAIN: Oh honey, that’s such an amazing quote! Where did you come across it?

  MARC WITH A C: Promise you won’t guffaw? Inspirational toilet roll.

  OK, time for me to hit the nail on the head. Here’s what’s been gnawing away at me and making my tummy churn over with sheer worry all day. Yes, I have just been made a wonderful offer and yes, of course, technically I should be dancing on the tables with joy. But, here’s the biggie.

  This morning, I came closer than I ever have, ever, to having an on-air cardiac arrest. When I blanked out on TV, without exaggeration, it was probably the single most frightening thing that’s ever, ever happened to me. As if a safety net I’ve had comfortably under me my whole life, which I completely took for granted, was, suddenly and without warning, pulled out from underneath me. And it could happen again. Easily. I’m not out of the woods. Yes, I had a flash in the Dragon Lady’s office, but the whole time I was with Jack, nothing, nada, not a single thing. Which isn’t like me. Not at all, not by a long shot. It’s not like I have an average daily flash rate or anything, you know, every hour on the hour, like Sky News, but this is just plain weird.

  So could you just imagine if I go ahead and accept a big, glamorous TV contract and then dry? On air? Broadcasting live to the entire nation? Not to mention my mother’s living room?

  In this game (if you could call it that), the minute you lose your nerve, then your confidence is next out of the window and then, sorry, but you’re pretty much finished. I shudder again, just thinking about how dangerously close I am to that dole queue. OK, I really need to remain calm and positive here.

  Brainwave. Got it. I’ll ask for a sign from the Universe. One absolutely clear-cut signal that will leave me in no doubt that this is the right course of action f
or me to follow.

  Fab idea. Right then.

  I’m just about to get back to the mound of letters waiting for me on my desk, when some tiny, barely perceptible little voice inside me urges me to check my emails.

  Come on, Cassie, you know the golden rule: follow your instincts at all times.

  I bring up my inbox and there are, no kidding, twenty-seven new messages waiting for me. Bloody hell, I’ll be here all night.

  No, banish that negative thought, focus and regroup. I’m looking for a sign here.

  The first email I click on is from my mum, who got a computer for her birthday and has taken to the life of a silver surfer like a duck to water. I’m not joking, there’re days when I get six emails from her, not to mention all the rubbishy attachments she sends telling me about how I can save ten per cent on industrial-strength binliners if I buy online, you know the kind of thing.

  From: mothership@hotmail.com

  To: Cassandra@tattlemagazine.com

  Subject: So proud of you!

  Hello darling,

  Your father and I just wanted to let you know how thrilled we were to see our little princess on the telly this morning. Now, I always liked that nice Mary who presents the Breakfast Club but as for that other one, Maura, she’s a right piece of work. As contrary as a bag of weasels, your dad was just saying. Margaret from next door popped in to watch the show with us, and she reckoned Maura was mad jealous of you and that’s why she gave you such a hard time. Or maybe she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a spoon or something and that’s what had her so narky. Otherwise, it was absolutely great and you were a credit to us all, although you know I do prefer your hair a bit longer, love.

  Hope you and Jo will still come for Sunday lunch this weekend. Tell Jo I went to Iceland and bought nice veggie burgers especially for her. And of course Charlene is welcome too, although I know perfectly well she sniggers whenever I mention my friends from the amateur musical society and how we’re all getting on at rehearsals. (The Sound Of Music this year, darling, the last Saturday in October, don’t forget to put it in your diary.) And your father and I still remember last Christmas when she referred to my marzipan holy family as ‘überkitsch’, whatever that means. Oh yes, and will you be sure to tell Marc that we’d love to have him too. No ulterior motive or anything, but you remember Margaret’s youngest daughter is home from college for the holidays and the last time she met Marc, she thought he was very handsome. Just like a young Simon Cowell, she said. But you needn’t let on I’m matchmaking, love. I wouldn’t want to scare the poor fella away.

  Take care and don’t worry. Your dad taped the Breakfast Club for you and we can all watch it again on Sunday after lunch, please God.

  Mum xxx

  PS: Margaret just stuck her head round the garden door looking for a quick favour. She’s finally going into hospital to have her varicose veins done next week and she just wanted to ask you if you’d had any flashes about how she’d get on. She’s a bit nervous, God love her. You remember what she was like the time she had that ingrown toenail but this surgery is so much worse, whatever way you look at it. She says to tell you she’s Aquarius with Taurus rising, just in case that makes any difference.

  Don’t get me wrong; it’s great to hear from Mum, but this is hardly what you might call a clear-cut sign from above, now is it? Anyway, I’m just about to reply to her, when another email catches my eye. Well, not so much the email itself as what’s written in the subject box.

  From: tanyaod@eircom.net

  To: Cassandra@tattlemagazine.com

  Subject: If you only get around to answering one letter this week, then please, please, for the love of GOD, let it be this one

  Now, how could I ignore a message like that? I read on . . .

  Dear Cassandra,

  You may not remember, but I wrote to you last year looking for some career advice and you were absolutely 100% on the money then, as I hope you will be now. I’m a thirty-three-year-old professional and here’s my dilemma.

  Firstly, I have a fantastic job. I’m a finance lawyer in CarthySimpson and the only reason I’m even mentioning this is because when I applied to the firm, you were the one who encouraged me to go for it and who assured me that I’d get the job – and you were right. So now here I am: fabulous friends, a penthouse apartment in town and a six-figure annual salary. I’m up for partnership in a few months’ time and regularly put in one-hundred-hour weeks. Theoretically, life is good. I work hard, I play hard, I make big decisions all day long and then I come home. To my boyfriend. Who has taken a year off work to see if he can make it as an actor. An ACTOR. I know, it’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard, too. What’s especially irritating is that he did actually have a very successful career, with a terrific salary (he’s an investment banker) and has given all that up . . . for what?

  So far, he’s appeared in one detergent commercial (he’s the ‘before’ man wearing a filthy shirt just before his TV wife washes it in new Daz Ultra-Brite) and one incredibly boring play, in one of those God-awful black box studio spaces, where at one point (and I really wish I were joking here) most of the cast crawled around the stage pretending to be chickens, for which they were paid the princely sum of 140 euros a week. Cassandra, I don’t want to sound in any way unsupportive, but I really question anyone who considers clucking like a chicken in front of all their friends and family to be a valid career move. I wouldn’t mind, but I even took my parents to see the show, telling them it would be cutting edge, experimental and cool, and was left very red-faced afterwards.

  So now the state of play is this: I’m effectively supporting my boyfriend and yet, when I come home exhausted at the end of a fourteen-hour day, he’s done absolutely nothing around the flat. Whenever I ask (gently, in a non-nagging tone of voice, naturally) what exactly his contribution to the household has been, he tells me he spent the entire day doing voice exercises, which, as far as I can see, involve him going ‘ummmmmmm’ over and over again with Richard and Judy on in the background. Not a cup washed, not a shirt ironed, no groceries bought, NOTHING.

  I do love him, Cassandra, but my patience is wearing very thin. Do you see any future for him in showbiz? If he got cast in a major motion picture and became the next Colin Farrell, making vast seven-figure sums, then, maybe, MAYBE I could just about deal with this.

  I appreciate your time.

  With thanks,

  Tanya in Temple Bar

  It’s late afternoon and the office is buzzing and busy, but I do my level best to tune out all distractions and really, really concentrate . . .

  Yes! Brilliant! Success! I’m getting a very clear picture of the boyfriend Tanya’s on about: tall, fair, ruggedly good-looking, very posh accent.

  Oh bugger. It’s not a flash at all. I just remember seeing him in the Daz ad.

  OK, come on, I can do this. Correction: I have to do this.

  Just then, Sir Bob wafts past, clutching a copy of an evening paper. ‘I say, Cassie, old thing,’ he says, briefly pausing at my desk, ‘just wondered if you’d seen this? Thought it might be of interest. After all your adventures this morning, I mean.’ With that he plonks the paper in front of me and I almost fall over.

  It’s a front-page picture of Maura from the Breakfast Club, looking a bit the worse for wear, staggering out of a nightclub wrapped around a much older-looking man and bending upwards, as if to kiss him. The picture is grainy and God only knows when it was taken, but there’s no mistaking that it’s her. The headline reads: ‘BREAKFAST CLUB STAR’S MARRIED LOVER.’ Underneath: ‘TV STAR BRANDED HOMEWRECKER AS HER MARRIED BOYFRIEND’S WIFE SPEAKS OUT’.

  I stare at the paper in deep, total shock. I saw this. Only this morning. Word for word, clear as crystal.

  ‘All right, my dear?’ asks Sir Bob, looking at me, a tad concerned.

  ‘Oh . . . sorry, Bob, I’m just a bit . . . emm . . . distracted.’

  He nods and moves off, totally used to, shall we say, my odd litt
le ways. And then another flash hits like a ton of lead.

  It’s Tanya from Temple Bar’s boyfriend, the Daz-ad man himself, and he’s been cast in a soap opera. As a villain, one of those J.R. Ewing-type characters that audiences love to hate. I see big success for him, a regular job and a steady income, but as for Tanya . . . Oh God, this just gets better and better. I can see Tanya as clearly as if she’s standing right in front of me. She’s petite with dark bobbed hair and glasses. And . . . yes! She’s met someone new, someone so much more suited to her. I see her with this new man, hand-in-hand outside a neo-classical-looking building . . . I’m seeing pillars, stone columns, steps . . .

  The High Court. Yes, definitely the High Court. I’ve seen it on the six o’clock news loads of times. And the man she’s with is wearing a wig – oh, I’ve got it, he’s a barrister. A top one too, the type who takes on all the big, high-profile cases. And she’s happy. I’m certain of it. I feel a deep sense of peace and happiness and security emanating from all around her . . .

  YESSSSS!

  SUCCESSSSS!

  For the first time today, I feel like hopping up on my desk and dancing a jig. I can do this. I’m absolutely back in the game. Gift restored. All well.

  Jack gave me his business card with strict instructions that I call him the minute I come to a decision.